Page 35 of Good Days Bad Days
Charlie
Present Day
“That was built in the thirties. Big names performed there in the upstairs hall, like Eartha Kitt and Frank Sinatra. Mail is delivered by boat during the summer to all the lake houses. And that’s the public beach.
” I point to the large octagonal brick boathouse, the Riviera, and the strip of sandy beach to the right of it, digging into the part of my brain that holds all the bits of information I learned in my years of school trips and history reports.
Olivia asked if we could take the long way through town as we drive over to the paused worksite, where Ian is meeting us and Olivia will meet her grandfather for the first time.
My eyes are scratchy from too little sleep after a long night of catching up, and I’m taking my time with the tour, avoiding what comes next.
“And that’s the store,” I say on our final loop through town before heading to the house. I point to the two-story red building a block off Main Street. “My parents bought it before I was born.”
“Was it always an antique store?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, turning around in the parking lot. “The previous owners also ran it as an antique shop. It was once just a house, I think.”
I try to run through the very few memories of my father’s business.
The two-story house is one of the handful of antique shops in town, my father acquiring pieces through estate sales, auctions, and private sales all over the Midwest. It always seemed like he brought in more supply than the demand of our small town, but now that I’ve been in the home renovation circuit for some time, I know better.
Lake Geneva is not only a summer playground for middle-class Midwesterners, but also flush with well-to-do families who own the hundreds of mansions that line the shore of the lake.
Not to mention the other nearby communities with residents who have money to spend on a piece of furniture with a story behind it.
With wealthy clients, once money isn’t a concern, it’s the uniqueness of an item that gives it appeal, and my father sells rare, unique treasures.
“And that was my elementary school.” I point to a brick building surrounded by fenced fields. “It was so close to the store, I’d sometimes walk there during lunch and eat my peanut butter sandwich at my dad’s desk.”
Olivia leans against the window, taking in the novelty, unaware of how many difficult memories these buildings evoke.
Dad’s shop, though cluttered in its own way, was a haven for both me and my dad.
I’d do my homework in the upstairs storage room on a velvet chaise lounge my father always intended to have reupholstered.
Even with the springs poking at my bony legs through the thin fabric, it was more comfortable than my own room, which by third grade my mother had started to fill with boxes.
When I was removed from my parents’ house, I imagined my dad moving us into his shop, me and him, clearing a few of the rooms so we could have a place to sleep.
It seemed so easy to me, choosing to keep me instead of my mom and her belongings.
And no matter how many books, photographs, or name tags I find in my mother’s hoard, I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand his perspective.
“I can’t believe you grew up here. It’s so . . . sweet.”
“It’s a beautiful town,” I acknowledge wistfully, attempting to view it all through my daughter’s sheltered eyes, which grows more difficult the closer we get to the house on Lake Shore Drive.
When we finally arrive, Ian is standing in the driveway, holding two large disposable coffee cups, wearing the same coat and jeans combo as last night but with a different-colored flannel and a stocking hat instead of the baseball cap.
It’s no wonder this man is on television.
He’s so ruggedly handsome, even with his somewhat obvious spray tan and bleached white teeth, that it’s hard to blame the women in his Ian’s Angels fan club.
But I notice one difference between today’s Ian and TV Ian—this Ian looks like he hasn’t slept in a month, and his shoulders slump like they’re carrying a crushing burden.
“Hey,” I say to Ian when Olivia and I join him on the salted cement driveway. He holds out the drinks.
“Americano with oat milk and two pumps of hazelnut. And for you—a chai tea latte.” I take his offering in my gloved hands. I still haven’t put my ring back on.
“This looks like a”—he assesses the scene before him—“big project.”
“That’s an understatement. We’ve already removed six dumpsters full of junk.”
“Six?” Olivia chokes slightly on her chai.
“And we still have the main floor and the basement to go. Not to mention the yard.”
“Wow,” Ian says, though it seems like what he’s really saying is You’re bonkers to take this on.
“Can we go inside?” Olivia asks, rising on her toes like she’s trying to see through one of the many blocked windows.
“I don’t know. It’s a little sketchy in there.
” A familiar anxiety scratches at my throat, the same sort I felt as a kid when one of my friends would ask to come over.
I don’t want Olivia to see the house this way, to get a close-up of what my mother’s dysfunction looks like, what my childhood looked like.
Not yet at least. “I’ve been promised the inspector will be here by Monday morning, first thing.
Then Dino will be back to help with the next phase. ”
I leave out Alex’s offer for the crossover episode. I still need to check in with Ian about Alex’s proposal and make sure we’re both giving a firm no.
“And your dad, he still sleeps in there?” Ian asks, bewildered. “If it’s that bad—no one should live here.”
“He won’t leave,” I explain, making a tsking sound. I try every single day to convince my father to leave the house, spend a night in my spare bedroom, or let me check him into one of the hundreds of available hotel rooms in town, but he refuses every offer.
“I’m fine right here. I don’t need much,” he insists.
“I think he’s afraid that if he leaves even for one night that we won’t let him back in again.” It’s like he’s a sentinel sworn to stand guard over my mother’s belongings, the ones she remembers and even the ones she doesn’t.
The screen door hinges squeak, announcing my father’s arrival.
“Is that him?” Olivia bounces on her toes again in nervous excitement. I never intended to introduce my parents to anyone in my family, and the only reason it’s happening now is because of Olivia’s insistence and Ian’s assistance. I’m annoyed but resigned.
“Hi, Dad,” I say as he reaches the driveway. He looks anxious, picking at a loose thread on his denim belt loop. He’s wearing one of his threadbare flannel shirts with an off-white T-shirt showing through the V of his unbuttoned collar.
“Hello, hello,” he says, nodding in my direction and then acknowledging Ian, who I know he’s seen by my side on TV. Ian shakes his hand, and I introduce them to one another using the terms husband and father even though neither feel completely accurate.
“And this is Olivia,” I say, gesturing to his granddaughter but leaving out the unearned moniker this time.
Olivia greets him graciously but doesn’t reach out for any physical connection, which comes as a relief for some reason.
He asks her a few general small-talk questions, and she answers warmly.
Ian and I flank her on each side, and when their conversation comes to an end, Ian breaks the uncomfortable lull with an unexpected offer.
“Greg, would you mind if I came in and took a look at the house? I’d like to get your input on a few details so we can start drawing up plans for after the cleanup.”
We. The word is so misleading. It makes it sound like I’ve agreed to his participation in the project, though I never asked for his help. I take a burning gulp from my coffee, and my dad looks at me for my guidance.
This is a massive undertaking, one I can’t do alone. I brought on Dino and Tina and their whole crew, but the house needs more than cleaning. It needs restoration, and no one does that better than Ian. It’d be selfish to reject his offer out of spite.
“Ian’s the best at what he does,” I say plainly and honestly.
“If Lottie trusts you, I trust you.” Greg claps and the dull-gold band on his left hand glints in the morning light.
“Sounds great. Should we get started now?” Ian asks, rubbing his hands together and finally meeting my eyes.
Unease fills my midsection. Ian will see the house.
He’ll see part of me that very few people have witnessed firsthand.
Ian already knows so many parts of me intimately—he knows about the birthmark on my ribs, hidden by my right breast; he knows how to nibble at my ear as we make love to make me gasp; he knows how to tangle his fingers up into the hair at the base of my skull to calm my anxiety.
That closeness used to make me feel safe, but now it makes me feel vulnerable.
“Will you girls be joining us?” Greg asks timidly, like he’s also reluctant to let Olivia inside the house in its present state.
“Probably not. I’m thinking of taking Olivia to lunch at Lake Aire’s.”
“That’s your mother’s favorite,” he reminds me, resurfacing memories of when I was younger and my mother would dress up and go out with us for dinner, her lipliner perfect, shoes nicely polished, looking like one of the rich housewives summering on the lake.
I loved those dinners where we looked like a normal family.
“We could bring her lunch,” Olivia suggests, and before I can rescind the offer, my father piles on.
“I think she’d love that. I can call the nurses’ station and let them know, if you like.”
“Well, I don’t know—” I start to say, but Olivia overrides my protest.
“Great!”
I don’t want to fight, not in front of my dad, not in the same spot my mom and I had our last argument before our family fell apart, so I let him step away to make the call.
Olivia holds out a trembling hand for the car keys. “I’m going to wait in the car. I’m freezing.”
“Of course. Warm up the car. I’ll be there in a second.” I pass her the keys and she hugs Ian, waving to her new grandfather cheerfully. Olivia is a friendly girl, but she’s never been this friendly. I’m watching her navigate down the slippery driveway with suspicion when Ian steps close.
“Hey there,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly in that sexy morning way I’ve always found irresistible. I clutch my coffee to my chest as though it can protect me from his innate charm.
“Hi.”
“You OK with this?” I think he means am I OK with him going in the house, but I take the opportunity to share my thoughts about the whole surprise-visit situation.
“I really wish you’d given me a heads-up.”
“I know but . . .” He shrugs and runs a hand over his beard. “Olivia thought you’d shut the whole thing down.”
“And I probably would’ve. Since when do we let the monkeys run the circus?
” We always laugh about how our life is like a three-ring circus with too many sideshows to count.
Come see the incredible joined-at-the-hip couple who juggle meals, chores, TV shoots, and their relationship seamlessly; watch breathlessly as they traverse the dangerous tightrope of work, life, and family over a pit of sharks.
But what happens when the woman on the flying trapeze loses her grip and falls with no net?
“I know, but—” His Adam’s apple bounces up and down, and I pick at the lid of my drink. “I wanted to see you, too,” he says as he grips my forearm, turning me gently.
“I told you. I’m not ready.” My eyelids quiver and I breathe in the scent of my coffee in an effort to keep calm.
“I’ll do anything to make it better. What can I do? Please . . .”
The anguish in his voice infuriated me the night I discovered the messages, but something has changed, because now it doesn’t seem like manipulation.
I let my gaze rise to meet his. The dark circles under his eyes are intensified by the redness of his lower lids, and I think about the last time he looked this way, when I had a devastating ectopic pregnancy in our first year of marriage, our one and only attempt at having a child together, something we’d wanted desperately.
But that tragedy wasn’t something either of us chose or made happen out of sneakiness or ego or lust.
“That’s the problem, Ian. I don’t know if you can make it better.”
He takes in a long, unsteady breath. He’s mad. Ian rarely loses his temper, but I know his tells. Who is he mad at? Me for not forgiving him instantly or himself for putting us in this situation? I don’t know and I’m not up for asking. I want what I came to Lake Geneva to get—space.
I change the subject.
“Thanks for offering to help my dad. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
He lets out a long breath like he’s reluctant to drop the topic of possible reconciliation and then looks over his shoulder at the house. My dad is making his way back to where we’re standing.
Ian presses his lips together till they turn white from the pressure. “I’ll do my best.”
“I talked with Nurse Mitchell, and you’re cleared for a visit,” my dad interjects, pushing his blocky phone into his shirt pocket, a big smile on his face like the cold and the stress of the ongoing renovations don’t affect him.
“I’ll stay here, then, and go through a few things with Greg, if that’s all right,” Ian says as though I’d invited him to meet my mother, which I definitely had not.
“Yeah, that sounds like a plan,” I say, not wanting to call him out in front of my dad, who is beaming now.
“Your mother will be so pleased to see you and Olivia.”
I try to muster a sincere smile. I should be happy, my parents are finally meeting my daughter, my dad is proud of me, proud of her, interested in my life, but I’m numb to it right now.
Just like the way Ian’s love and apologies come off as hollow, so does this.
Or maybe I’m the one who is hollow, empty, unwilling to accept anyone’s fallible love.
I join Olivia in the car, elbowing her out of the driver’s seat where she’d pointed all of the heating vents when she started the engine.
My dad shouts one last thing, but it’s muffled by the car’s engine revving.
I pull out and point the car toward Shore Path Memory Center and ask Olivia if she understood what he said.
“I don’t know,” she says, readjusting the vents. “It sounded something like ‘She’s having a good day.’”
A good day. It’s the phrase I’ve come to dread, the one that tells me my mom, the firing squad, the critic, the hoarder, is back. And we’re on our way to see her.
Great.