Page 88 of Good Days Bad Days
It takes both Olivia and me to help Betty out of the low back seat, but her physical limitations don’t dampen her excitement. If she could run, she’d sprint to the diner’s door. It’s like this is the first thing that’s made sense to her confused mind in a long time. At the curb, we have to remind her to lift her feet one at a time to climb up the edge.
Initially I thought the hour-long drive would be the biggest obstacle, but the walk from the car to the restaurant is proving far more challenging. It takes a full fifteen minutes to get to the chrome-and-glass entry of Ike’s Diner.
Inside, the establishment’s age is apparent: cracked floor tiles, booths with taped vinyl seats, and one topless stool with a handwrittencardboard sign saying “Broken” in wobbly black letters. A flat-screen TV in the corner over the counter displays a local news station. The neon lights that run around the perimeter of the diner are mostly intact, although the line nearest the painted crimson kitchen doors flickers as if it’s on its last leg. The smell of chicken soup mixes with the sour scent of old fryer oil, making me both hungry and nauseous.
The diner was far more magical in my imagination, like the soda shop scene fromBack to the Future. A middle-aged waitress shouts to us from behind the counter to take any seat as she collects plastic menus from the side of the gray cash register. I scan the tables. They’re all open.
Olivia excuses herself to use the bathroom.
“Where would you like to sit?” I ask Betty, checking her reaction to the underwhelming scene. I expected disappointment, but instead, she lets go of my arm and takes several solo steps, holding up her finger like she’s counting.
“This is Ike’s?” she asks.
“Yeah, it is.”
She looks first at the entrance, then the booths and the counter, and then finally lands on a booth in the back corner. She lets out a little breath and smiles.
“Over here,” she says, walking in the direction she’s pointing, folding into a clumsy crouch when she reaches the table. I sprint across the room to catch her before she lands on the floor.
“Whoa, there, missy. You almost missed.” The waitress, whose name tag reads “Taylor,” swoops in to offer help. She’s dressed in blue jeans, an oversized white T-shirt, and a red apron with “IKE’S” printed in white lettering. She tucks a pen behind her ear and tosses the menus onto the table.
“Thank you. I think we’re all right,” I say, helping Betty move away from the edge of the vinyl bench seat to avoid any further risk of falling.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Betty mutters, and I sit next to her as a human guardrail. Back from the restroom, Olivia settles across the table, claiming one of the plastic-coated menus for herself.
“I’ll grab you all some water and utensils, give you some time to look at the options.”
“I don’t need it,” Betty says, shoving her menu away. “I’ll have a number two with coffee instead of a Coke and a baked potato instead of fries.” The order spills out of her like a line from a script, and Olivia looks at me with raised eyebrows.
“A number two is ...” Olivia says, projecting her voice as she reviews the interior of her open menu, “country fried chicken steak. Does that sound right?”
Betty’s nose crumples, making it clear that’s not the number two she remembers. “No, no. It’s a turkey on rye, and I’ll have the soup of the day, please. They have the best soup here.”
“It’s chicken and wild rice today, if that’s all right.”
“Oh, yes. One of my favorites.”
“Sounds like you’ve been here before,” Taylor says to Betty with a patient grin that I appreciate. I glance at the menu, my nerves masking my appetite.
“I have.”
“She’s been asking to visit every day for a week. She used to work around here. We thought it’d be a nice girls’ day,” Olivia explains.
“Oh, yeah? Where did you work?” Taylor asks Betty, but Betty is distracted by straightening the fabric of her skirt.
“I have a new dress.” Betty smooths her long baby-pink skirt over her legs. Taylor tells her how nice she looks, and I answer her question.
“A small television studio. It was in the old bank down the street.”
“WQRX?” Taylor spouts the call letters like it’s nothing, and the fact-finding part of my mind lights up.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Of course I have. It was on in here nonstop when I was a kid.” She pats her chest, making her name tag wobble. “My grandpa is Ike. I think the studio was bought out in the eighties and moved to Madison or something. Some of the crew over there were regulars. That’s how my mom met my stepdad, actually.”
“Your stepdad also worked at WQRX?” I ask, putting down my menu.
“Yeah. Back in the seventies. My stepdad, Mark, opened a car wash in ’81, but we used to have some of their autographed pictures on our wall. But I ...” She hesitates and then admits, looking a bit bashful, “I took them down when he passed and Mom moved to Tampa with my sister.”
