Page 12 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“Thumbs tonight at eight. You promise?” Lacey, my childhood BFF, asks through the car’s speaker as I wind my way through a back street on my way to the memory center.

Lacey and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Perkowski, visited me once a month when I went into foster care.

Her mom bought my prom dress, and her dad gave me flowers when I graduated from high school.

They moved to Florida a few months after Lacey married and have lived there ever since. We drifted apart over time, but Ian and I had dinner with the Perkowskis a few years ago while working on a house in Hollywood, Florida. Lacey and I catch up through occasional texts.

But today, I get to see her in person, along with friends from Badger High School who still live in the area.

Thumbs Up is a popular local bar I’ve never been in because I was too young when I lived in town.

But even back then, it was always a busy place.

Not as busy as Sugar Shack, the co-ed strip club a few miles west of town, but that’s still a little outside my comfort zone even at forty-seven.

“Yes, yes. I promise. I could use a drink.”

“I’m sure. How are things going with the cleanup?”

“Slow. Insanely slow. It took a harsh inspection and threats from the city to get Dad to let any of the junk places give us a quote. Then he thought the quote was too expensive, didn’t want to let me help pay, and then insisted we could do it ourselves, which—we can’t.

But he’s on the verge of losing guardianship of my mom, so he’s starting to listen to some options. ”

I park my car in a spot right in front of the center that I’ve claimed as my own.

I’ve been here three times in the past seven days.

Dad came with me the first time I returned.

He and Betty held hands like teenagers dating.

Mom hasn’t recognized me even once, which I’m not complaining about, though Nurse Mitchell looks brokenhearted for me every time Betty calls me Laura.

I’m too ashamed to admit that I prefer it.

“No. You certainly can’t do it yourself.

Finn had to go in there a year or two ago because of a burst pipe.

He said it was . . . intense.” Lacey’s husband, Finn, is a plumber.

She’s already told me this embarrassing story twice, so I shift away from it before she can get to the part where my mom chased him out of the house, accusing him of theft.

“Well, I’ve got a crew coming next week whether my dad likes it or not.

” I grab a cardboard box of my mom’s belongings from the car’s front seat, balancing the phone as I head into the memory center.

“We’ve made plenty of progress in the bedroom, but even after a week’s worth of work, it’s barely a dent. Oh, shit.”

I curse as I fish my foot out of an icy puddle. I still haven’t gotten decent boots, but I hope an early spring thaw is around the corner. The freezing gray water soaks into my socks immediately.

“You good?” Lacey asks.

“Yeah. Just trying to balance too many things.” I shake my booted foot to drain as much water as possible. “I better get inside. I’ll see you tonight, though. OK?”

“Yeah, for sure. Get inside. It’s cold as balls out there. And don’t you dare try to cancel again. I need this.”

“Believe me. I need it too,” I say, rearranging the box to grab the phone off my shoulder.

“All right. And if you don’t show up, we’re gonna hunt you down.”

“I know. I know. I’ll be there. I promise.”

“Yay! See you tonight. Bye!”

“Bye.”

We end our call as I step onto the plastic mat in the foyer of Shore Path Memory Center.

The faux fire is lit in the fireplace, and the room smells of pine and bleach.

No one is behind the counter, so I sit in one of the armchairs facing the red-and-orange LED flames and remove a layer of outerwear.

All of my social interactions from the past week have taken place here. I’ve been dodging spending time with Lacey and a few other friends from the good old days, but at this point, I think I need peer interaction. My dad is a quiet man, and Nurse Mitchell is all business all the time.

I still haven’t picked up any of Ian’s calls, and the boys have very little to say about their days. Olivia has been distant since our last call. I’ve been researching all-inclusive vacation packages, hoping we can reconnect over a few oceanside sunsets.

Strangely, my closest friend right now is my mom.

Sure, she thinks my name is Laura and wants to talk about boys and fashion while playing cards or working on her puzzle, but I don’t mind. Betty and I are buds; she makes me laugh and feel important.

Walking into my mom’s room at the center is like walking into a time machine.

I don’t know anything about Betty Laramie outside of her easy-to-spark temper during my teen years and her obsession with our home’s belongings.

I never met grandparents, aunts, or uncles.

She had no friends or visitors. She didn’t go to church or belong to any clubs or organizations.

It’s like she married Dad, had me, moved into our house, and then disappeared like a hermit crab retreating into its safe shell.

Dad and I have thrown out fifty-six bags of papers, garbage, and broken items from my parents’ room, and this box holds the most exciting discoveries thus far.

The first items I found were a set of keys to a Corvette with an Eiffel Tower key chain, her driver’s license from ’67 with her maiden name, a formal bridal photograph of her in a delicate lace veil, the strange ribbon with her name on it, and an ID badge from WQRX.

Every item in this brown box filled me with a massive dose of curiosity when I uncovered it in their bedroom.

I learned a long time ago not to ask Dad too many questions.

He answers them but with brief, generic responses.

But when the social worker assigned to my parents’ case mentioned it might be good for my mom to get some physical reminders of her past, I brought them to Betty.

Some items she looked at blankly, but others elicited a story or reaction.

She thought the picture of her wedding was from a magazine, told me the keys were to her first car and the ID badge was from her favorite job, and she fumbled with the pin on the back of the black ribbon, trying to fasten it to the hem of her shirt, thanking me for bringing it.

Once we got it in place, she picked up her ID and lingered on the blurry picture of young Betty.

Her hair was long and blond, her face smooth and her smiling red lips beguiling.

I instantly knew this was the Betty I’d been talking to, who I brought treasures to and who I snuck caramels to from KC’s Sweets.

“I didn’t know you lived in Janesville,” I said during that visit, looking at the address on the small, tattered white rectangle when I first showed her the badge. “I thought you grew up in Madison.”

She handed the card back to me and shook her head.

“I met my husband in Janesville. We worked together,” she said. She didn’t sound like she was lingering on the memory of a shimmering romance. She sounded sad.

“Dad worked in Janesville?” I asked and realized my mistake when I noticed the confused look on her face. “I mean, what did you do there at WQRX?”

“Oh, goodness. Let me see. What didn’t I do there?” she said, fussing with some puzzle pieces in front of her. I could tell she was getting confused by too many questions. “Mama doesn’t think I should go to college. Says I should settle down and make a home.”

Suddenly, she was talking about a grandmother I’d never heard of. I sat in awe as she spoke of her childhood bedroom and its tragic lack of curtains. We didn’t get back to talking about Janesville, the TV studio, or how she met my dad. I left that day wanting to know more.

Sitting in the lobby, the feeling in my toes returning, I take out one of the black-and-white pictures from the box.

The photo on top is the one of a woman holding me as a baby with the name Laura written on it.

I’ve stared at it for way too long trying to figure out why my mom could possibly confuse us.

The real Laura looks nothing like me. She’s a tall, thin woman with long black hair parted down the middle, dark eyes, and tan skin.

There must be something more to their connection that I haven’t stumbled on yet.

“Hey, lady! Here to see your mom?” Kelsey, the bubbly receptionist, calls to me from behind the counter.

We’re now best friends though I’ve seen her only two of my three visits.

It’s all right—people think they know me because of the show, our TV appearances, and social media.

Olivia finds it annoying, but I take it as part of my job.

That was until one of those strangers slid into my husband’s DMs and ruined my marriage, but I’m guessing Kelsey isn’t nearly so nefarious.

“Yeah. Thought I’d show her a few more things from the house.”

“Oh, that’s fun. I’ll buzz you through. You know the way, right?”

“Sure do.” I collect my belongings and stand at the locked door, waiting for the signal to sound.

“Well, have a nice time!” She pushes the button and the door opens slowly. As I thank her and walk through to the residential area, she adds, “I heard she’s having a good day today.”

I stumble and nearly drop the cardboard box as the door swings closed behind me.

A good day.

Is it a day when my friend Betty is happily sitting in her room doing puzzles, lost in time, and unable to recognize her own daughter? Or does it mean she’s back to the mom I grew up with, the one who found fault easily, who chose her house of garbage over me?

A small, panicked voice inside tells me to leave and return another day—but Nurse Mitchell approaches and I don’t have a choice. I follow her and nod and answer her friendly questions, but under my calm exterior, my nerves are fraying, my mind racing a million miles a minute.