Page 2 of Good Days Bad Days
Dad said it’s the best facility in the area.
It looks like one of the old mansions that skirt the lakeshore, carefully restored to transform it into a functional care facility.
Still, I can tell this is new construction.
The grand cathedral ceiling in the foyer has a more modern look, for one.
The halls on either side of the desk lead to a key-card-controlled entry with low ceilings, closer to eight feet, which would’ve been unfashionable for an aristocratic family from the nineteenth century.
The floors appear to be distressed oak, but it only takes two echoey steps to discover that it’s tile.
New construction, for sure. It’s similar to some of our city remodels with modern architecture—more Ian’s thing than mine. I like the old stuff with a story behind it, wood that’s been distressed by feet and time rather than in a factory or with a hammer and dark stain in a workshop.
“Hello, Lottie.” Greg Laramie’s voice pulls me out of my “work mind,” and I suddenly find myself on my feet.
“Hey, Dad. How are you?” I ask as though we see each other regularly on holidays and birthdays like most normal families. Those normal families would hug now, but I don’t want to embrace this stranger who vaguely resembles my dad.
“I’m fine. I’m glad you made it. I was afraid you might have problems with the roads after the storm.
” He makes small talk. I chat back with simple details of my trip, noting everything that’s the same and everything different about him.
His hair is gray and thinning, and the skin under his eyes sags.
He’s tall as before, well over six feet, but his shoulders are stooped, making him appear shorter.
He’s skinny everywhere except for a slight paunch that protrudes above his belt.
He looks tired and old, a visual reminder of how many years have passed.
We get to an awkward pause in our conversation when we run out of weather- and transportation-related questions. I could ask about my mom, but I wish he’d ask about his grandkids, my husband, or my real life in any way.
He speaks again, starting and stopping a few times out of apparent nerves.
“You l-look just . . . like . . .”
I’m dying to know what comparison popped into his mind. Do I look just like I did on my first day of school? The last time he saw me? My mom when she was younger?
“. . . you do on your show,” he finally mumbles, and my hope drops a touch.
It’s meaningful to me that he watches Second Chance Renovation, but I’m far more interested in knowing where I came from, how he remembers me.
Betty and Greg Laramie are the memory keepers of my early life.
Since our estrangement, I’ve always felt like there are gaps in my childhood I can’t fully understand without their input.
“Oh, you watch?” I continue the small talk.
“I’ve caught a few episodes here or there.” I can tell by the shuffle in his stance that it was more than an accidental channel switch that brought him to my show.
“And Mom?” I ask, finally finding the courage to mention the reason we’re both here.
He shakes his head and stares at the floor. It hurts but it’s not a surprise. Betty Laramie, the caring mother who loved her daughter more than anything and then slowly turned into a woman who protected her belongings over all else, blames me for the school’s call to CPS thirty-one years ago.
I know hoarding disorder is a real, complex, and difficult-to-treat mental health condition.
I know her urge to collect, save, and protect her belongings is a compulsion linked to OCD and possibly PTSD that has nothing to do with her love for me.
I know that for her, the cocoon of belongings feels safe, and the thought of losing them, panic inducing.
I know all these things, but I still can’t understand how she essentially gave away her one and only child without a fight and then ended up mad at me.
“Are you positive she wants to see me, Dad? I mean, it’s been a long time . . .”
“She does love you, you know,” Dad says, offering an olive branch.
I want to say, I don’t think she knows what love is or I’m a mother and I could never imagine choosing junk over my child, but I’m not here to confront my parents.
I’m here for closure, distraction, and maybe to get answers to questions about my past. I stop my bitter response and take a breath instead.
A tall, middle-aged woman in green scrubs with a name tag reading “Mitchell” pinned to her left breast approaches us, and my heartbeat travels to my ears.
This must be the nurse who’ll take us to my cold, judgmental, distant mom, who somehow thinks it’s my fault she’s not in my life after all she’s done.
“Hello, Mr. Laramie. Is this the daughter I’ve heard so much about?”
“Yes. This is our daughter, Charlotte.”
My God, it’s been forever since anyone called me that. I have to pull back on the reins of my emotions as I shake Nurse Mitchell’s hand.
“Wonderful to meet you. Your parents have told me all about you.”
I smile and thank her, though I can’t imagine what they’ve told the staff here. It’s likely a mix of truth and imaginings about my life.
She continues, “So, Betty is ready for your visit, but I must warn you—she’s having a bit of a bad day today.
Your dad has probably told you—with RPD, rapidly progressive dementia, or really any major neurocognitive disorder, there are good days and bad days.
It’s what we call fluctuating cognition.
Sometimes it can make our residents feel a little unstuck in time.
So, don’t be discouraged if she’s confused today and doesn’t remember what year it is.
She might not recognize you or your dad at times.
It’s to be expected but not exactly predictable, right, Greg? ”
My dad gives a polite chuckle, and I nod as if I know what they’re talking about.
“A few tips. We suggest on these harder days to let your mom have the reality she’s in at the moment.
Arguing is not really productive and can actually prolong or exacerbate the situation.
Distraction is great. Your dad’s found that playing cards or working on a puzzle helps focus your mom.
Music, too. I’ll give you a printout with some tips, but it’s understandable if you end up feeling overwhelmed and need to step away. This isn’t easy for anyone.”
“Sounds good,” I agree.
We go through a locked door Nurse Mitchell opens with a key card and then pass a living room–like area where a few residents are watching a blaring morning show while another pair seems to be playing a game of checkers in the corner.
It’s a happy place, or so it seems. The elderly men and women look engaged and well tended.
I’m sure my mother is in better condition here than when she lived at home, and even with all the hurt from my childhood, I’m glad she’s being cared for.
When we reach room 184, I see my mom’s name written on a nameplate under the room number. She has a sun sticker on one side of her name and a bright pink flower on the other, which seems awfully cheerful for the Betty Laramie I know.
“You ready?” Nurse Mitchell asks. I nod and my dad gives my shoulder an unexpected squeeze. I flash back to my childhood, how he’d say goodbye with a loving pat each day as he headed out to open our family store. It’s strange how memories can be both exquisite and excruciating at the same time.
Nurse Mitchell gives a double knock on the partially open door and then steps inside, gesturing for me to follow her.
It’s been thirty-one years, five months, two weeks, and three days since they took me out of my parents’ home. Thirty-one years since I was taken out of my school and the town that was helping to raise me. Thirty-one years since my mom and I exchanged our last words.
Our last words—until today.