Page 27 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“And she wrote a book,” I tell Olivia through the phone’s screen, holding up the blue-and-white hardcover.

The Classy Homemaker is in playful lettering across the front, with drawings of a perfect-looking housewife in a tidy skirt and low heels doing various chores by each line of the title.

“Tina, Dino’s wife, she found it in a pile of books and, God bless her, remembered that I’d asked her to set aside items with Betty’s name on them. ”

It was basically a miracle she saved anything coming out of the house at this point. The upstairs is nearly cleared, and after a weekend off, the crew will start on the main floor, pending an inspection from the city.

“My God, that’s wild,” Olivia says, squinting at the cover.

It’s good to see her face and listen to her voice at the same time.

It’s been a month since I got here, and though I’ve seen the boys on FaceTime, with Ian looming in the background, I’ve had inconsistent communication with Olivia since our disagreement.

To keep the questions about my relationship with Ian at bay, I’ve been sharing little tidbits about my mother and the enigma of her past. Only a picture or detail here or there until tonight. We’ve been on the phone for two hours already, catching up.

“I know, right?”

“I can’t believe she had her own show, too. Does that mean I have to take up the family business? I’m not really up for being any kind of on-screen guru.”

“You don’t choose the guru life, Livy, it chooses you,” I say, taking a sip out of my wineglass, more settled than I have been in weeks, maybe even years.

“From what I can tell, it was this Holly Homemaker kind of a show. Like, how to be a perfect housewife kind of a thing. And the book looks like it’s about that same old misogynistic stuff like ‘Do your hair before your husband comes home’ and ‘Never, ever show any emotion other than joy at cleaning toilets and changing diapers,’ and that’s just the first two chapters. ”

“Written by your mom—who is a hoarder. That’s crazy,” Olivia says and then immediately covers her mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to call her crazy. I know it’s more nuanced than that . . .”

I swallow the last bite of my dinner and smile into the phone so she knows I’m not upset.

Olivia’s had her own struggles with anxiety that she manages with medication and therapy, so I know she meant no harm.

I’m far more worried about how she’s handling all of this on top of her first year of college.

“It’s OK, honey,” I say and then check the clock on the microwave.

It’s nearly 10:00 p.m. As much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I know I’ve kept her too long.

It’s the night before spring break and she told me two hours ago about an impending deadline.

“I should probably let you go, though. You said you had your project due tonight, right?”

“I almost forgot. It has to be in by midnight. Shit. Sorry. Shoot,” Olivia says, checking her watch and then slapping her bedspread.

“You’re fine!” I chuckle at her attempts to hide her cursing, though it doesn’t really bother me at all.

“Oh, God. I feel like an idiot. I’m gonna go.”

I reach for the phone, ready to sign off, when Olivia stops me. “Wait, Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for sharing all that stuff with me. It’s super interesting. You never really talk about your past or anything. It’s always felt, like, off limits or something.”

Her comment strikes me in a strange way, like it smacked my funny bone. Olivia wants to know about my history as urgently as I’d like to know about my mother’s. I’ve vowed to be nothing like my mother, yet I continue to discover more ways we are alike.

“You’re . . . you’re welcome,” I say, taking a deep, wine-flavored breath in before adding, “I can keep you updated.”

“I’d like that,” she says, her eyes the same blue as her grandmother’s.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, waving at the screen. “Now, get to work, young lady. That’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says with a little salute, then, breaking from her act, adds, “Love you, Mom.”

We used to say it all the time when she was little, easily, no effort.

Every night when she went to bed, in the morning before school, sometimes even randomly while hanging around the house.

But during her teen years it became more and more rare, and even then it sounded forced, hesitant, insincere.

But not tonight. Tonight, it sounds like she means it.

“Love you, too, honey.”

I drop the phone and click on the TV, refilling my glass and settling into the leather couch with my mom’s book next to me. I flip through the stations, pausing at a few late-night-show monologues.

I keep flipping till I speed past HFN, where I see a familiar face.

Dino. I click backward, sipping on my freshly poured glass as Dino’s warm southern drawl fills the room.

He’s helping a family of four who have triplets on the way maximize storage options in their small three-bedroom ranch-style home.

I turn down the volume until I can’t make out each word he’s saying but still get the calming benefits of his self-assured tone.

I pick up The Classy Homemaker and open it to the next chapter, bookmarked with a photograph of the view of the lake from the land where our house now stands, my father and mother holding a shovel between them.

My father has a large grin on his face, and my mother wears a formfitting top and bell-bottomed jeans that accentuate her waist.

I put the photo on the armrest and start to read.