Page 55 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“Mom!” I shout, and Betty gives me a confused look but doesn’t correct me, still caught up in a conspiratorial snicker. My head swivels to Olivia. She doesn’t look nearly as entertained as Betty, her eyes focused on the road. The navigation on her phone dings and gives directions.

“Olivia. What the hell is going on?” I demand as I unbuckle and climb halfway over the seat to help Betty get out from under her blanket.

“Laura’s taking me to Ike’s,” Betty says, lying on her side, her arms too weak to push herself up.

“Ike’s? In Janesville? Olivia. What are you thinking?” I scold, frustration weighing heavily on my frame. “Pull over. Now.”

“Mom, I can explain,” she says defensively as she guides the car to a gravel shoulder.

“Yeah, you sure better.” I leap out, swing open the back door, and help Betty sit up before buckling her seat belt. I notice her new-looking pink dress and low black heels.

I’m out of breath when I get back to my spot beside Olivia. Sitting up seems to have energized Betty, and she’s chirping requests from the back seat. “Let’s roll down the windows and listen to the radio. Get the wind in our hair.”

I reach across Olivia to activate the child safety lock on the windows and then flick on the radio, scanning through the stations until I land on an oldies station. “Your Song” is playing, which seems to satisfy Betty.

“Turn around. We’re taking her back,” I say to Olivia once Betty is settled.

Olivia taps her thumbs against the steering wheel. “Let me explain,” she repeats, as though there’s anything she could say that would make this caper seem logical.

“Explain. Now. Quickly.” The road isn’t busy, but I know if we stay here too long, someone will call the police or stop to see if we need help—this is the Midwest after all.

“I went to visit her this morning since I’m leaving tomorrow.

I got her a new outfit from Lucca and some new lipstick, and I wanted to give them to her before I left.

You didn’t seem up to it,” she says, shrugging in a way that stirs up feelings of failure and shame.

“And she kept going on about wanting to go to lunch and she was so happy, you know? I think she thought I was you or Laura or whatever she calls you. Nurse Mitchell said I could take her on a little walk by the lake since she doesn’t like the courtyard, and I have experience with this kind of thing. ”

The memory of the incident in the courtyard flashes in my mind. Betty’s nails dragging against her thin skin till blood flooded down her arms and wrist. Yes, I can understand why Betty would avoid that place, even if she can’t remember why.

“But when I got her outside, she went to the first car she could find and grabbed the handle, saying we were going to Ike’s.

That one was locked, but the second one wasn’t, and she tried to get in.

I don’t know—I panicked. So I took her to our car and put Janesville in the GPS hoping I could get her to settle down.

“At first, I thought I’d drive her around town, but when we saw you, she hid under her shawl and laughed about surprising you.

I thought it might be an adventure for the three of us.

I thought it might cheer you up and fix things with you and Grandma a little.

I’m sorry,” Olivia says, her eyes filling with tears.

“I . . . I got carried away. Not only with this but with everything. I shouldn’t have come. ”

“Oh, honey. I know you meant well. It’s just—this is adult stuff.

You shouldn’t have to deal with it.” I never was a “my daughter is my best friend” kind of mom.

That always seemed like a conflict of interest. A kid needs a mom far more than a best friend.

I may not have been the best mom, but I didn’t dump my emotional baggage on my child for her to carry, and that has to count for something.

“I’m nineteen, Mom. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I know, but you should be allowed to focus on your life, school, and friends and all that. When I was your age, I had so much on my plate . . .”

“I know. When you were my age, you were on your own. But I’m not on my own. This is my family, too.”

“It is, and no matter what happens with Ian and your grandparents, we’ll always be a family,” I reassure her, quoting all the things I’d learned in the “broken family” divorce books I’d read when she was little.

“Don’t give me that BS. Dad isn’t your family anymore. He’s my family. Please, Mom. Please let me in.”

I know this experience of knocking on a sealed door that has no doorknob, as I’ve experienced it while trying to connect with my dad.

Now, here’s my own child, begging to be let into my inner world.

I want to welcome Olivia in; I want to be a different kind of parent than my mom and dad were.

However, understanding how to open up in a healthy and safe way is complicated.

My dad is right—there are things I don’t want my daughter to know.

Ever. But why? I tell myself it’s to protect her, but is it really?

Or am I trying to shield myself from those feelings all over again?

“What . . .” I cough and glance at Betty, who is nervously straightening her skirt over and over again. “What do you want to know?”

Olivia’s flushed cheeks lose color, and she licks her lips before asking, “Are you and Ian going to break up?”

I knew she was going to ask me that. I flinch and reply honestly, “I don’t know.”

“He told me about the messages.”

“What?”

“He told me about the messages on Instagram, and I understand why you’re upset.”

My list of reasons for being mad at my husband is growing longer by the minute. “He shouldn’t have told you that . . .”

“Well, he did. And I’m glad, because if you can’t forgive him, at least I know why. I . . . I understand if you can’t trust him anymore. It doesn’t seem like you’ve had a lot of people you can trust in your life.”

She’s talking about my parents, I think. I glance back at Betty to see if she’s listening. She’s conversing with her reflection in the glass as if she’s made a new friend. I take a deep breath and tuck Olivia’s hair behind her ear.

“My parents’ house, the way it is, uh . .

. that’s how it was when I was a kid. You know that, but I don’t really talk about the rest. I, um, well .

. . I went into foster care when I was fifteen, and my dad promised .

. .” I choke up, remembering the sincerity in my father’s eyes when he came to see me for visitation.

“He promised they’d fix the house, and I could go home, but . . .”

“They didn’t?”

I shake my head. “And my mom,” I say, looking at Betty and biting my lip, “blamed me for everything. She hates me.”

“Really?” Olivia’s brow wrinkles. She’s only met Betty, her confused but sweet grandmother.

“Yeah, hon. Well, maybe not hate, but when she remembers who I am, she’s pretty pissed.”

Olivia seems stunned. “And you came back anyway?”

I roll my eyes at myself.

“I was running away from the Ian stuff. Then, when I visited Betty, she opened this window to the woman she must’ve been before me.

” I flash back to those first days, the “bad days,” when she didn’t know my name but also didn’t bristle with rage at the sight of me.

I think about the woman in the films and pictures, what it felt like to hold her past in my hands.

“I thought if I knew what happened to her, what triggered this disorder, it wouldn’t be my fault anymore. ”

“See, I get that. Coming here, seeing where you grew up—it wasn’t just about you and Ian. I needed this, too. Like you did with your mom.”

Defensiveness coils inside me. “I’m glad you got something out of this trip, but this is different than what happened with my mom. I’ve always been there for you.”

Her lower lip trembles. “OK. It’s not exactly the same, but I barely saw you for like five years other than at some school things, crazy busy vacations, and a few weeks in the summer.”

I open my mouth to argue, wanting to tell her that we made the best of what we had and that she was the one who wanted to move in with her dad, but I stop myself.

My daughter thinks I abandoned her. Though the details of our stories are different, some of the main themes are heartbreakingly the same.

And despite all that, she came here to help, to fix things for me, and as a bid for connection.

I calm my stirred-up guilt and regret, and instead of explaining her pain away, I say what I’d love for my parents to tell me.

“I’m sorry, Olivia. I’m so sorry I’ve made you feel like that.”

“I should’ve said something sooner,” Olivia says, trying to take on the blame. I correct her, thinking of my conversation with my father a few days ago.

“No, no. You were a kid. I was so wrapped up in my own life that I let myself believe you knew exactly what you wanted.”

“I had a good childhood. I know I shouldn’t complain, but I just—I don’t know—I’ve missed you.

And it used to make me so mad at you, like all teen angsty, you know?

You’ve always been so freaking strong and independent and successful, like .

. .” She searches for a comparison, then blurts, “It’s like you’re this goddess, and I’m your mortal offspring.

But now, with the Ian situation, and things with Grandma and Grandpa, I’ve seen the human part of you. ”

Human. I’m no longer a mythical creature, the immortal, infallible creature called “mother”—I’m real.

I discovered that dissonant truth about my own mother and father at a far younger age, but the revelation wasn’t like this.

It was more like finding out at the end of a movie that the villain was the hero’s best friend.

“I’m definitely not mythical,” I agree, rubbing her arm, wishing I could go back and fix the parenting mistakes I’ve made, when another hand is laid on mine. The nails are painted pink, the skin translucent and spotted, the joints swollen. It’s my mother’s hand joining me in comforting Olivia.

As I’ve gotten to know Betty, I’ve come to see my own mother’s humanity as well. Seeing my hand sandwiched between Betty’s and Olivia’s, I feel a bit more accepting of my mother’s flaws.

“I love you,” I say to Olivia and maybe a little bit to Betty. “I will do better. I promise.”

“And I’ll stop acting like a character in a Disney movie,” Olivia says, smiling tearfully.

“We’re a little too screwed up for Disney.”

“Hey,” Betty says from the back seat, patting my hand. Olivia and I wait, assuming she’ll add her own I love you and put a heartwarming cap on our multigenerational bonding. Instead, she asks, “Are we going to Ike’s?”

Olivia and I break into laughter at Betty’s one-track mind. I hold my mom’s hand and encourage her to sit back in her seat so the belt doesn’t lock up. I finally understand what came over Olivia in the parking lot of Shore Path. It’s our last day together, us three.

Tomorrow, Betty might not remember a trip to Janesville or a lunch at Ike’s, but we will.

My dad might be furious, but you know what—screw him.

He never had to deal with my rebellious phase.

Anyway, he’s been tiptoeing through life, tiptoeing around my mother.

If the day turns toward reality for my mother and she remembers my name and her house—if she stops loving me—it is what it is. At least we had today.

“Hey, switch places with me,” I tell Olivia with a conspiratorial tone. She raises her eyebrows at me but trades spots without asking for more information. Once we’re all buckled, I roll down the windows, turn up the radio, put the car in drive, and pull onto the empty highway.

“Faster!” Betty calls from the back seat. I press on the gas until the engine revs and the wind slaps the ends of my hair against my cheeks.

“Faster! Faster!” Betty, Olivia, or both chant. I push the gas pedal to the floor, and Olivia whoops from the passenger seat as I slide into the westbound lane toward Janesville.

The smooth road, newly plowed fields, and cheerful baby-blue sky make for a pleasant ride, and Betty dozes quietly for most of it, the bunched-up blanket wedged beneath her head and the window.

I turn down the music to allow her to rest, and Olivia takes the opportunity to dig deeper into our freshly exposed issues.

The miles fly by and it’s a relief to leave Lake Geneva behind me for a bit.

My father made it clear this morning—my days there are limited.

I need to get used to the idea of leaving it behind, closing this unfinished chapter, moving forward with my unwritten ones.

My parents’ house and story are for a different book than mine—it will be told whether I share in the telling of it.