Page 24 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“Charlie! So good to see you,” Nurse Mitchell in her pink scrubs greets me from a desk down the hall. “Just in time for dessert.”

I wave back but don’t linger for a chat, and she doesn’t try to stop me. I basically just got off the phone with her. I dialed the memory center when I pulled onto Main Street, hoping to assess my mom’s mental state before seeing her.

“She’s a little lost today,” the nurse said over the phone, with a note of compassion. “But she’s in a good mood overall. Made bracelets for half the memory care unit at arts and crafts. I know she’d like to see you.”

I tried not to snort at the idea of my mom wanting to see me. Either she remembers me and hates me, or she’s forgotten me and loves me. Kind of a messed-up dynamic, that’s for sure. I thanked Nurse Mitchell and told her I’d be there soon.

The memory care halls are decorated with pastel eggs for Easter, and none of the employees try to stop me now that I’m a fairly common face around Shore Path.

I haven’t been asked for a selfie or an autograph in two weeks, which usually means the novelty of having a television personality walk around their place of work has worn off.

I take a right and a left and then another right, and when I’m only a few doors away from Betty’s room, the sound of Abbey Road trickles down the hall, and the tension in my shoulders releases. She won’t remember me today. Today, I’ll listen to records and have dessert with Betty instead of my mom.

I knock on the door. It’s ajar, so I push it open slowly. I didn’t bring the whole box of items from the house today, only the headshot and a few pictures. Also, I brought a new pack of cards from Dollar General as a peace offering.

Inside, Betty stands in the center of the room, shuffling her feet in a circular motion with her eyes closed.

She holds a long, translucent scarf that flutters around her like it’s dancing, too.

Her hair is styled into a chic white-platinum poof that frames her face, and her eyeliner is smudged up the side of her right eye.

Her cobalt-blue eyeshadow, the same color she used to buy from the makeup counter at Waals Department Store in Walworth, is slathered on her eyelids all the way up to her eyebrows.

She wears a soft pink dress with a sash around her middle and slippers on her feet.

“Oh, you’re finally here!” she says, opening her eyes when I walk past her to place the items I brought onto her puzzle table. Betty is glad I’m here, even if she doesn’t remember I’m her daughter—or more likely because she doesn’t remember.

“Sorry I’ve been gone a bit. Work got busy,” I say, turning the headshot face down so I can share it when the timing seems right.

“Oh, my goodness, yes.” She drops the scarf and it falls into a lifeless pool on the ground. “I have to get to work. I forgot.” She looks down at her dress and then presses her face close to the mirror mounted on the wall above the sink. “I can’t go like this. My boss will kill me.”

She reaches for a bar of amber-colored Neutrogena soap and a damp washcloth. Her panic reminds me of my stress dreams about being back in school and suddenly realizing I have a test but haven’t studied.

“You look lovely,” I reassure Betty, crossing to the sink. Steam rises from the faucet, the hot water turned on full blast. I imagine her thin, fragile skin assaulted by the heated stream pouring out of the spout and move quickly to turn the temperature down.

“Here, let me help,” I say, rubbing the soap against the washcloth until suds appear.

Betty closes her eyes and tilts her face to me.

It’s the same face from those photographs, but now it looks like the image has been distorted, melted, or altered with a filter.

Wrinkles, yes, at her eyes, around her mouth, across her forehead, and at her neck.

I trace them all with the cloth, wiping off the black liner, blue shadow, orange-tinted base, and electric pink blush until her skin is fresh and pink.

“There—all clean.” I pass her a dry towel, and she drapes it over her face.

“Peekaboo,” she says, yanking it off like we’re playing a game, her urgent need to get to work on time forgotten.

Her age-bleached eyes are a silvery blue, nearly as gray as her black-and-white headshot.

They twinkle with mischief, and I remember when I was little, we’d go to the blueberry patch in Woodstock, just over the border in Illinois.

My mom used to make preserves to sell at the shop, and I’d help her pick whatever fruit was in season.

Blueberries were my favorite, the bushes low enough to the ground for me to reach.

I loved the plunk, plunk, plunk of the juicy blue globes as they hit the bottom of the bucket my mom tied around my waist. When she filled her own bucket, she’d take aim, and I’d hold perfectly still while she tossed a few perfectly ripe berries into my collection.

We were a team. We’d laugh when she’d miss or when she’d catch me gobbling down a secret snack.

“What happened to you?” I whisper to myself as Betty once again applies the towel to her face and pulls it off playfully. She must hear me because she stops her little game and raises her nearly invisible eyebrows.

“What do you mean? Is there something wrong with me?” She touches her face, her neck, leans over to check the mirror again, gasping. “My makeup. It’s gone . . .”

“Oh, shhh. It’s OK. I can do it for you.” I beckon her to the green chair by the window. As I gather the scattered beauty supplies from her nightstand, I remember the headshot. “I have something for you.”

I place the print in front of her, hoping for another distraction, moving the smaller, plastic visitor’s chair into position so I can reapply her makeup. Betty picks up the image and stares at it, the photo paper trembling in her creased fingers.

“Who is this?” she asks.

“It’s you,” I say, arranging the tubes of makeup on the tray.

“Me?” She checks the picture again. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. It’s you. Betty Laramie.”

“Oh, yes. Yes,” she says like a thought is coming back to her. “I’m supposed to sign them, I think.” Then, looking confused, she lets the picture fall into her lap. “I think I’ll do it later.”

Bare faced and anxious, she seems overwhelmed at her fictional work demands. A ripple of compassion rolls through my conscience. I set the headshot aside and pick up the liquid concealer.

“Hey, Betty? Let’s not worry about that now. We’ve got more important things to think about. Still want me to fix your makeup?” She looks up at me with trust I’ve never received from my mother.

“Oh, yes. Please. I can’t show up like this.

Less liner this time,” she says as if I’m her makeup artist. She closes her eyes while I apply the concealer and pat it into an even coat under her eyes.

Her breath is steady and calming as I apply a light-colored foundation with a fresh sponge wedge, placing dots of makeup across her crepey skin and blending them into a uniform base.

I work silently, my mom’s record player still running in the background.

Asking questions now wouldn’t do any good.

Besides, this is different than any of my other fact-finding missions.

I thought this kind of synchronicity with my mother was beyond my reach.

But isn’t this how it’s supposed to be? A mother sharing with her daughter, and the daughter caring for her mother?

The service she is allowing me to provide fills some of the battery inside of me that’s been out of energy for so long.

My mother can’t love me, but it’s possible Betty can.

“Did you want one? A headshot, I mean?” Betty asks out of nowhere when I finish lining her right eye.

“I . . . I’d love one,” I start the second line of black eye makeup, surprised that she’s returned to the previous topic of conversation without my interference.

“I’ll make sure my producer gets you one before you leave.”

Producer? I hesitate as I reach for the blush compact. It’s a job title I’m familiar with in my profession. She must have been on-air talent. I wasn’t going to push for more, but if she’s initiating, I’d be a fool to pass on the opportunity.

“What kind of a producer?” I ask, acting casual, fluffing a dusting of pink on her high, defined cheekbones.

“Stop messing around with silly questions,” she scolds, opening her eyes. “We can talk shop later at Ike’s.”

“Ike? Is that your boss?” I apply mascara to her translucent lashes.

“Is that a joke?” Betty asks, blinking rapidly, the lines between her brows deepening. “You know Ike’s Diner. Jeez Louise. Call is in five minutes. Pass the red lipstick, please, hon.” I snag the silver tube and place it in her waiting palm, taking note of the information.

She applies the color with three deft swipes, her muscle memory more precise than her mind. She presses her lips together to distribute the creamy red tint and smiles at her reflection. She looks confident and beautiful.

Why didn’t I grow up with this version of my mother?

Tears tingle at the corners of my eyes and I snap up a tissue, turning my face to dry them without giving myself away to Betty.

“Do you have a pen handy?” Betty asks as I keep my back to her. “Never mind. I found one.”

When I regain my composure enough to look at her again, Betty’s holding a pen above her headshot. She scribbles a message that I can’t read from where I stand and adds a swirling signature underneath before handing it over.

I thank her and slip the photograph into my bag, about to ask another question, when a knock sounds at the door. A nursing assistant pushing a meal cart rumbles in with sugar-free cake and fresh raspberries.

“Dessert!” he calls. At the mention of sweets, Betty forgets her call time, Ike’s Diner, and her mysterious producer, and I let go of the questions on the tip of my tongue.

We dine on artificially sweetened vanilla pound cake and play cards until the night nurse brings Betty her evening medications.

I say good night to my mom, as well as the other residents, nurses, and staff as I leave.

Outside, the night air is nearly freezing, and while I let my car warm up, I turn on the dome light to retrieve my mother’s headshot.

My breath clouds around me like the exhaust pouring out from the rear pipe as I examine the barely legible writing on the black-and-white glossy paper.

The yellow light isn’t bright enough, so I turn on the flashlight function on my phone and hold it up, following the lines of writing with the intense beam.

Thanks for watching!

Love, Betty

Thanks for watching? Thanks for watching—what?

That’s when I notice—below her signature there’s another line.

The black ink is nearly invisible against the image of Betty’s black off-the-shoulder dress.

I struggle to decipher my mother’s handwriting, shaky and jagged like my nerves every time I walk into her room.

I blink, and finally I make the words out.

The Classy Homemaker

I read the whole message again.

Love, Betty

The Classy Homemaker

My mom—the hoarder, the recluse, the woman who gave me up for her house full of junk—was formerly known as the Classy Homemaker?

What the actual fuck?