Page 53 of Good Days Bad Days

“Alex bypassed you on this one. Hadley will host it if you won’t play ball. We can still patch you in, but we had to get started,” Jordan responds coolly, like he’s trying to manage me.

Dino jumps in. “We’re not trying to take this over, Charlie. It’s a special project and you should be in charge, but we’ve been sitting around for a day already, so we had to get something going.”

“I’m not blaming you, Dino, but I don’t care what Alex said—this isn’t right. I didn’t sign off on this. My parents didn’t sign off on this.”

The crowd below has started to disperse, murmuring among themselves. A single camera continues filming as Dino, Tina, and I form a tight circle. I call for my dad to join us, and Mike tries to follow with his camera.

“Don’t you dare. Now turn that thing off.” I cover the lens with my hand.

“Charlie, you can’t touch the cameras. Mike, keep rolling,” Jordan directs the camera operator, who gives me an apologetic look.

My fight isn’t with the cast and crew—it’s with Karen at World Window, and HFN’s legal department, Alex McNamara and my own freaking husband. I reluctantly remove my hand.

“Fine, but this isn’t consent.”

“Noted,” Jordan says, clearly irritated.

My dad joins the circle, looking stunned and ashen.

“Is everything all right?” he asks like he has no idea why I’m losing my shit.

“No, it’s not all right. Are you OK with this?” I gesture to Jordan and then to Mike and his camera.

“Well, I don’t know. I suppose so,” he replies in his wishy-washy way, like my explosive response is irrational.

“Dad,” I say, not caring that everyone here used to believe my parents were dead. “Did Ian make you sign something?”

“Ian? No, hon. No one made me sign anything.”

Jordan interjects, “Who do you think we are, Charlie? My God. You need to take a minute and get your head on straight. Alex and Karen presented Greg with a very—and I mean very—nice offer. Being a man of vision, he recognized the benefits of the deal. I got the signature, not Ian, who is also AWOL, by the way. I assumed he was with you.”

“He’s not with me,” I say matter-of-factly, not believing Ian has nothing to do with this circus in my parents’ yard. I turn back to my dad, sure he’s been manipulated in some way. “Even if you signed something, you don’t have to do this.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true . . .” Jordan interrupts.

“Shut the hell up, Kelp,” I blurt, glaring at him.

“Lottie,” my dad says in a calm, almost patronizing tone. “They’re gonna do the whole house for free, hon. I trust Dino and Tina to do it right. I can use the money to help pay for Mom’s care.”

“Dad, I told you—I can help you with that.”

“Honey. You’re busy. This way, you won’t have to put in so much of your time, and I know you’ve been using your own money for everything. Now, I can pay you back. It’s time. You’ve already been here for a month. I know you can’t stay in Lake Geneva forever.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and grazes my cheekbone with his thumb, as if he’s telling his little girl the truth about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, as though he’s signaling that the fantasy of the past few months is over. I have to leave—again.

“Plus,” he adds, “your mom needs some stability. All this has been hard on her.”

I back away from his touch as if it’s covered in razor blades, the dark camera lens following me, the boom mic positioned low enough to catch my dad’s words.

I know he meant to comfort me, but it feels like rejection.

He wants me gone because of my mom. The coffee in my stomach turns as a gust of wind brings up the dusty, mildewy smell of my parents’ belongings from the piles down below.

My head spins, and I grip the railing to keep from tipping over.

“Whoa, there. Whoa. OK. Emma,” Jordan calls to a production assistant, “get me a chair. No, not that one. That one. Yes.” He shouts orders, holding me by my upper arm.

An old folding chair is dragged out of one of the piles and opened beside me.

“Sit down. Head between your legs,” he tells me, guiding me into the seat, whispering urgently to the PA, “Get medical over here.”

“No, no. I’m fine,” I say, sitting up and regaining my equilibrium, an arch of faces leaning over me in concern, the constantly aware camera just behind them. “I need a little air.”

In near unison, they all shuffle back, letting in a breeze.

“Let’s all take five,” Jordan shouts to the cluster of people on the porch, the declaration repeated via walkie-talkies through the yard like a game of telephone. The cast and crew disperse in different directions, leaving only Jordan and my dad with me on the porch.

“You know we want you and Ian in on this, right? Hadley is nothing compared to you two. I know Alex is willing to talk some big numbers if you are interested. Think about it,” he says, leaving me to take his own five-minute break.

I should be furious at the pressure and the wads of cash dangled in front of me and my dad like a carrot before a starving horse.

But my father’s reasoning for accepting the deal eliminates any protective instinct I might have had.

This is my parents’ house, their mess, their relationship.

I haven’t been a factor in their decisions in a long time.

How can I expect anything different now?

When it seems like everyone has lost interest in my panic attack, I sneak out the same way I came in, leaving them to deal with everything on their own.

Out of breath, I stop at the tiny public library on Main Street but find neither Olivia nor my car.

After running away from Jordan and the whole film crew, my daughter is the only thing on my mind.

She goes home tomorrow, and now I’m sure I’ll follow her soon thereafter, leaving my whole life and career in flux.

Olivia gave up her first college spring break, and I’ve done nothing but push her away the whole time she’s been here.

I have one last day before everything falls apart. I’d like to spend it with her.

Charlie: Where are you?

I text as I walk east down the main drag. Likely, Olivia is at home, wondering where I am after spending yesterday in bed.

A response comes through almost immediately.

Olivia: I’m in front of you.

I stop abruptly on the sidewalk. A young mom, dressed in Lululemon head to toe and pushing a designer stroller, nearly crashes into me.

“Sorry,” I mutter, gazing past the disgruntled woman as I look for Olivia. Suddenly, a car horn sounds kitty-corner to my location, making me jump. My car is stopped at the intersection, Olivia behind the wheel.

I jaywalk, running toward her. She pulls over and rolls down the window.

“Get in!” she calls.

I grab the passenger-side handle and slide in, slamming the door behind me. Olivia rolls up the window and slams on the gas.

“Olivia!” I gasp, bracing myself on the dashboard with one hand and buckling my seat belt with the other. “What is going on?”

“We’re going out to lunch,” she replies, the needle on the speedometer flying above the speed limit.

“Where? Canada? Did you rob a bank or something?”

“Eh, kinda,” Olivia says with a grimace-like smile as we pass out of Lake Geneva into Como.

A shuffle and a sound like a giggle come from behind me, and a familiar scent fills the car.

Guerlain Shalimar—my mom’s favorite. Turning so quickly that the belt locks and digs into my side, I check the back seat.

There, lying on her side with her favorite blanket pulled up to her neck, is my mother.