Page 60 of Good Days Bad Days

“Don’t forget,” he shouts as he walks out the sliding glass doors. Everyone looks, including the police officer posted at the door, whose hand reflexively goes to the spot next to his firearm. “You still haven’t accepted my friend request. I’m waiting . . .”

His voice fades away as the doors shut behind him, and his absence is palpable immediately, especially when I catch Ian grouse, “Funny.”

The hairs on my neck prickle and stand on end as I realize he’s beside me.

“Hello, Charlie,” he says. I wait for him to ask why Cam was here and what his intentions were, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You ready to talk?”

I fill my lungs and consider all the ways I could respond—all the daggers of truth and criticism I could hurl in his direction. But getting a glimpse at my father, weary eyed, hand shaking as he signs paperwork fastened to a clipboard, I hold back my words.

I nod, pulling my sweatshirt tighter around my body.

“Good,” Ian replies, following my gaze to my dad, who is talking to an official-looking woman in a suit jacket and dark slacks. “Because I’m not the only one with questions.”

My dad joins us and says “Your mother is unwell” for the millionth time in my life.

I want to say, No shit, Sherlock. Damn it, I’m so tired of hearing those words.

“I know, Dad, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to cause any harm.”

“Yeah, Grandpa, it was my fault,” Olivia chimes in from behind us, taking full responsibility, which is wrong.

“It wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I drove us to Ike’s and I made Mom upset. She seemed so happy to be there again, so awake, you know?”

Greg unfolds the handkerchief from his front right pocket, wipes his nose, then folds it to dab his eyes before returning it to its place.

“I know you girls didn’t mean it,” he says, agitated but still soft spoken. “But, Lottie, I told you to leave her be. I told you it was painful for her.”

I scowl. Yes, he warned me, but he’s been asking me to tiptoe around my mom’s fragility since I started walking.

“I told you, Dad. I just want to know the truth. You invited cameras into your house, signed papers, but you won’t tell your own daughter some basic facts about you and Mom.”

“It’s better to leave some things in the past,” my dad says, which I’ve always known is his mantra. It’s probably what he expected me to do—leave things in the past like Mom’s neglect, Dad’s abandonment, and their absence from my life all these years.

“I tried, Dad. I tried to leave you and Mom in the past, but then you called and asked me to come home. You needed me. You know where you’d be if I hadn’t come?

The social worker said you’re about to lose guardianship of Mom.

If it weren’t for the work I’ve facilitated on the house, you’d lose that, too.

You’re willing to use me to help Mom, but when I want a few answers—it’s too much.

Damn you, Greg. Mom isn’t the only one with trauma, OK?

I have trauma, too. I was in goddamned foster care.

I lost both my parents, but they didn’t die, they chose not to be with me. ”

My voice is loud, and the nurse sitting at the reception desk is definitely listening.

If I were anyone other than Charlie McFadden losing my shit in a hospital waiting room, I’d likely be asked to leave.

Ian, who’s been withdrawn and irritable since finding me with Cam, is beside me now, his arm around me.

I lean into him, melting against his solid chest, wishing it could be this easy.

Inside the shelter of Ian’s embrace, I wait, hoping my father will apologize like I did with Olivia.

At the very least, I wish he would offer an explanation to fill in the missing pieces of our family’s story, which feels like a chaotic Mad Libs version of our lives.

However, he doesn’t get the chance. A middle-aged doctor, nearly as tall as my father, approaches, his scrubs top carelessly tucked into one side of his drawstring pants beneath his white coat, and calls out my mother’s name.

“Betty Laramie. Is Betty Laramie’s family here?”

As messed up as we all are, the label seems to fit. Ian signals to the doctor.

“How is she?” Olivia asks, her toes bouncing against the waxed tile floor.

“Hello. Yes. Uh, Betty Laramie. You’re her . . .”

“Granddaughter,” I jump in for Olivia. “And I’m her daughter, this is my husband, and my dad.” Ian’s embrace tightens when I call him my husband, and I can’t deny it—saying it feels better than I expected.

“Ah, I see. Well, she’s stable now. Obviously, there are some complications because of her mental state, but her injuries are mostly superficial.” Olivia and I let out a sigh of relief at the same time.

“Thank God,” I say, grateful not only because I put Betty in this situation and allowed Olivia to be a part of it, but also because as hard as I’ve tried not to, I care about my mom.

“That being said,” the doctor continues, adjusting his glasses and flipping through the chart, “your mother has an untreated bacterial infection in her urinary tract that I’m fairly certain she’s had for a while.

” He must sense our increased concern because he quickly follows up.

“It’s a simple infection. We started her on antibiotics and should see some improvement shortly. ”

“Well, that’s good,” Greg says, his fists in his pockets. “Can we see her?”

“Soon, but here’s the thing with bacterial infections and patients with your wife’s medical history: Even a minor UTI can cause increased delirium for those already struggling with dementia. Have you noticed a rise in erratic behaviors, mood swings and such?”

I think of the recent outbursts, both in the courtyard and Ike’s, and the way she tried to run into the cars in the parking lot with Olivia. I nod, and my dad adds some additional insights, asking a few more questions as if he’s dealt with this complication before.

“We’ve got her on IV antibiotics. While not all of her erratic behavior over the past few days can be linked to this infection, some of it could be. Time will tell.”

As the diagnosis sinks in, I realize there is a possibility that with treatment, we might start seeing more of “good day” Mom instead of “Betty” Mom.

I sink into one of the maroon chairs. I might not get to see Betty again, say I’m sorry, say goodbye. If I visit her before leaving town, Betty might be my mom—the mom who abandoned me, the mom who hates me.

I suppose I deserve this. I’ve been playing around with a sick elderly woman’s mental state for far too long—I should’ve known it would eventually catch up with me.

“I’d like to let her rest for a bit, but I’ll have one of the nurses take you up to her floor and we’ll call you back when she’s awake.”

He leaves, and Ian makes a pizza order through an app on his phone. I consider whether to sit around in a waiting room with my dad or help Ian. I quickly stand up when the elevator doors open and leap inside.

“Whoa. Hi,” he says as the elevator closes again. He hits the LL button for the lobby.

“I need a breather,” I explain, crossing my arms and leaning against the elevator wall.

“And you thought helping me was a better option than hanging out with your estranged dad? Thank you?”

“You should take that as a compliment.”

“As someone who has been trying to get you to talk to me for days, I’m not going to complain.” His tone is teasing, but he has a point.

“As someone who has been the victim of your selfish choices, you probably shouldn’t,” I reply in a singsong voice.

“Victim? Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously, Ian. I mean, how dare you act like I’m overreacting?”

“How dare I? Damn it, Charlie. I’ve been trying to fix things, and you keep cutting me off and then flirting with other men.”

“Men, plural?” I scoff, disgusted at the accusation.

“Fine. Other man. Is that better?”

“I told you Cam is a friend.”

“Yeah, you sure did.” The doors open and neither of us get out, even though it’s our floor. They close again, and Ian pushes the highest number on the button panel. I don’t stop him since it’s probably our best option at privacy right now.

“This isn’t even about Cam or the stuff on Instagram. I’m willing to . . .” I grit my teeth and say what I’d decided before seeing the messages from Alex on Ian’s phone at Ristorantè Brissago. “I’m willing to try and work through that in therapy.”

Ian’s jaw clenches. I thought he’d have a bigger reaction—a hug or a “thank God”—but he just looks at me expectantly.

“What is it about then if it’s not about the stuff on Instagram and Cam?” he asks finally.

“The texts from Alex. Obviously. What do you think?” The doors open on the fourth floor, and a hospital employee walks in and we go silent. She gets off on the next floor, and Ian spits out his response.

“I’m not a part of that. I told him no, Charlie. Just like you did.”

“I don’t believe you. They were at the house this morning, filming with Jordan Kelp.”

“Yeah. With Jordan—not me. I spent the morning on the phone with Carol, Phil, and our attorneys, trying to find a workaround. I was on a Zoom call when your dad called me. I tried getting through to you, but you weren’t exactly answering your phone.

Olivia filled me in, which, by the way, I don’t love that our daughter has to be the messenger between us. ”

“You’re the one who dragged her into our stuff,” I say, my head spinning as we reach the top floor.

A couple gets on the elevator; the dad is carrying their new baby in a car seat, while the mom is in a wheelchair, accompanied by a nurse in colorful scrubs.

By the time we make it back to the lobby, the husband recognizes Ian and asks for a quick selfie.

We take a few pictures and congratulate the new parents.

When we get back into our mobile fighting room, we’ve both cooled down and I’m buzzing from the interaction.

Ian and I are good together. I want his promises to be real. I want to make this work.

After the doors close and we start moving in whatever direction it decides, Ian pulls me close.

“How many times do I have to tell you—I’m on your side.”

“It’s not about telling me. It’s about showing me.”

“How can I show you when you keep closing your eyes?” he asks, staring down at me as if he wants to kiss me.

“My parents gave up on me, Ian. And then Ricky did the same. At some point it’s easier to . . .”

“Run away?” he suggests.

“Leave first. It hurts less. I just don’t want to hurt all the time anymore.”

“I don’t want that either. I promise,” he replies. I raise my eyebrows at another promise, and he corrects himself. “I’ll show you, I mean.”

“And I’ll try to keep my eyes open this time.”

“Deal,” he says. We shake on it, and Ian yanks me in for a kiss that lasts until we finally arrive back in the lobby where our pizza driver is pulling up.

It’s frightening to say yes to a second chance.

It’s like I’m standing still while someone takes aim, but I know how to escape if I need to.

I’ve done it plenty of times. I might as well give staying a try.

By the time we get to the third floor, where Olivia and my father are waiting, we have a large pizza, cans of soda, and a bag of overpriced snacks purchased from the gift shop.

“My God, did you buy all the food that’s ever existed?” Olivia asks, laughing, glancing between us, catching on to the change in our vibes.

“I’m sorry, I’m hungry,” Ian replies.

“Wait, where’s your grandfather?” I ask, noticing Olivia is alone.

“Grandma’s awake. He went back, like, fifteen minutes ago. She was asking for you.”

“Me or Laura?” I ask as Olivia opens the pizza box and snags a triangle.

“You,” she says, talking while chewing. “She asked for you. Grandpa said to send you in when you got back.”

The nurse seems to pick up on our conversation and chimes in.

“You’re the daughter? She’s waiting for you. Room 312. I can buzz you through.” A deep zzz emanates from the wall dividing us from the patient rooms.

“You OK, Mom?” Olivia asks, wiping a splotch of sauce from the corner of her mouth.

Mom. What a funny word. It seems so natural coming out of my daughter’s mouth, yet it’s so awkward to say as a daughter myself.

Which mom will I see when I walk through that door—the one who raised me, loved me sometimes, and bit me like a coiled snake at other times?

That mother is the one who blames me for our estrangement and is the same person who chose her hoard over me, the one who kept her secrets buried not inside her house, but deep within her mind.

She resembles a sweet woman named Betty—a person I could have had as my mother if life had treated us both differently.

“I hope so,” I say, diving through the door to the other side before I think better of it all.