Page 62 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“I heard you were here,” Betty Laramie says as soon as I step into her hospital room. She’s attached to beeping machines and long tubes, with bruises starting to form on one of her cheeks and bandages wrapped around both of her hands. A jolt of remorse fills my chest.

My father, who is sitting in a chair at Betty’s bedside, chimes in. “Lottie’s been here for a month now, Bets. She’s a real help. Her girl, Olivia, is here, too. A smart kid. She did your nails, I think.”

“I don’t remember any Olivia,” Betty says, glaring at me. “You haven’t let them in the house, have you? You know how I feel about that. If Charlotte wants something, she can come ask me herself, but no one else can go inside.”

“I know, dear,” he says, working to calm her with a pat.

She’ll forget her house and belongings soon—my father knows it and I know it.

It’s strangely easier this way. If her memory were intact, we’d have to fight her tooth and nail to clear out the house.

In fact, if her memory were intact, I don’t think I’d be here at all.

Nurse Mitchell says some people turn from sweet to bitter with dementia, while others turn into a more amiable version of themselves.

Then there are those, like my mother, who swing back and forth between both extremes.

“When are we going home, Greg? I want to go home.” She sounds different when she talks to him—sweet, as if she remembers that he’s her husband and that she loves him.

You know what, good for him. He’s invested more into Betty Laramie than any other person or endeavor in this world, so he deserves the bursts of kindness when they come.

“You had an accident, dear. You need to stay in the hospital for a bit. They need to help you get better.” He speaks slowly and clearly.

Even though she’s only a few hours into her antibiotics, I swear I can see a slight difference.

She’s confused about time and struggles with recent memory recall, but she seems to have access to some more well-established neural pathways.

“Is the baby all right? I had her in the car seat,” she says, and I wonder which baby she’s referring to.

“It wasn’t that kind of accident. Everyone’s safe. You just need some medicine and some rest,” my dad reassures her.

“Well, you don’t seem all right,” she says, noticing my bandages. I haven’t said a word since I walked in the room, but she’s completely focused on me.

“It’s nothing,” I say, attempting to deflect her attention. She scowls at me as if I’m annoying her.

“Don’t lie to me, Charlotte,” she says, using my real name. Anxiety spikes inside me so high I’m sure it’s affecting my blood pressure. A little woozy, I search for a chair and end up settling for the rolling stool on the other side of my mom, usually reserved for the doctor or nurse.

“See? You’re not fine. You’re hurt. Come on, get over here,” she orders, urging me closer.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve been repeatedly told not to argue with a person who has dementia.

I’ve been taught to placate and then change the subject if necessary and encouraged to remember that they’re not truly themselves because of the disease.

But in this case, I’m worried that she is indeed herself and I’ll regret letting her get so close to me.

I scoot the stool across the floor until I’m next to the bed, but not touching it.

“Now, tell me what happened?” she says. “Show me.”

“Like Dad said—an accident.” I lift my bandaged hand, where I was both burned and scratched.

She glances around the room critically and says to my dad, “The lighting in here is perfectly dreadful. Greg, open the curtains, will you? I need some sun.” It’s growing dark outside, so there’s no way to bring in natural light, but Greg dutifully opens the curtains and turns on every light he can find.

With every bulb burning, I flinch against the eye-aching brightness.

My mother sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you were my daughter, Charlotte. I can see I was mistaken. Could you tell her I’m waiting and ready for her to come in?”

She doesn’t recognize me, but it’s different this time. Instead of thinking I’m Laura or an old coworker, she’s looking for her daughter Charlotte but can’t see her in me because she’s looking for the fifteen-year-old girl who left her house thirty years ago.

“I am Charlotte,” I say.

“No. No. You’re not Charlotte. Charlotte is a little girl. She’s got blond hair and blue eyes and . . . and . . . Greg, where is Lottie? Did she run away from home again?”

“No, no. This is Lottie, honey. She’s back. With her daughter, Olivia,” he repeats, knowing that only some of what he says sticks.

“You are Lottie?” she clarifies, her eyes softening, a mix of young Betty and my mother Betty. She tries to touch my face, but she can’t because of the gauze wrapped around her hands.

“I am.”

“Goodness,” she says, shaking her head, “I thought that nasty woman took you away, but you came back. You came back, and now everything is fine.”

I can tell my dad is holding his breath, wondering if I’ll explode with pent-up resentment like I did a few days ago.

I look at his anxious face and back at my confused, frail mother.

I want to tell her they did take me away and that she did nothing to get me back, but what good would that do at this point?

I’d just be beating up on a sick old woman for my own satisfaction.

“Yes, Mom, everything is fine.”

There’s something peaceful about that mantra: Everything is fine.

In some ways, it’s true. I have a beautiful life—it’s not perfect, but it’s mine.

I have my own children, house, career, and family.

And over the past several weeks I’ve gotten something I never thought I’d have—a relationship with my mom.

I’ve found a way to love her again. Betty Laramie can’t apologize for something she doesn’t even remember, and I don’t really need it. I think I’m starting to forgive her.

But strangely, the more I’ve come to care for Betty, the more I wish I could really know her.

I can research news articles and court records, but without Betty’s perspective, I’ll never know what it was like for her to work at the Playboy Club-Hotel, whether she experienced the same kind of stage fright I do every time I start a show, and if that fear turned into steady calm once the cameras started rolling.

I won’t know if she loved her first husband, what color my big sister’s eyes were, and if she killed them both.

“You look sad. Why are you sad? Are you in pain?” she asks, sounding more like the nurturing mom I remember from my childhood than the one who turned against me during my teenage years.

“I’m not in pain. I just . . .” I glance at my dad, who is refilling my mom’s water cup from a pitcher on the nightstand. I don’t want to upset Betty again, not after everything that happened at Ike’s, but I can’t help but tell her the truth about what is on my mind. “I was thinking about Laura.”

The pitcher slips out of Greg’s grasp, splashing water everywhere. He curses under his breath, and I pass him a towel to sop up the mess, giving him a reassuring stare.

“Laura?” Betty asks, looking to my dad and then back to me. “Who told you about Laura?”

“You did,” I reply, which is the truth. She called me Laura the first day I was in town.

“I did? Now, how could I possibly have thought that was a good idea?” she muses.

“And you showed me a picture of her as a baby.” I recall the first photograph I put in the “keep” box from my parents’ bedroom—a woman holding a baby with the name Laura written on it. My sister, Laura.

At first, she seems a bit dazed, but then she grasps onto a memory. “Baby Laura.”

Greg offers Betty a sip of water, staring at me with a look on his face that says Be careful.

“Dad, maybe you’d like to chime in here since Mom’s a little confused. Tell me about Laura,” I prompt.

“Stop, Lottie. This is not necessary,” Greg says with finality, and I think of the argument we had in my parents’ room a few days ago.

“I agree, Dad. You could’ve told me a long time ago, and none of this would’ve happened.”

“It never should’ve happened,” Betty agrees, and I know she’s not talking about the current conversation.

“Don’t do this. You’ll only upset her. There’s no reason to—”

While I’ve been learning to forgive my mother during my time here, the resentment toward my father has grown. The more he retreats, the more blame I find to direct at him. He could fix all of this and leave my mother out entirely.

I take a breath in through my nose and speak again, calmly this time. “How about this—I’ll gladly step outside, and you can answer all of my questions honestly.”

“I don’t know. Your mother wouldn’t like it.”

“Mom, do you care?” I ask, aware that she isn’t following our conversation.

“You both talk too fast. You always talked too fast. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“There,” I say, gesturing to Betty, who is starting to look irritated. I roll the stool down to the end of the bed and loudly whisper to my father. “Now please tell me what happened to my sister.”

Greg glances at Betty, then back at me. He picks up the remote for the mounted television, clicks through the local stations until he finds a game show that captures Betty’s attention, and then he sits on the edge of the bed right in front of me.

“If I tell you this, do you promise to leave your mother alone and never mention it again?” he asks, which doesn’t exactly make me feel great.

“Oof, ouch. I promise to never come back, if that’s what you want. You’ve got the crew and the contract; you don’t need me.”

“No. No, that’s not what I mean. I want you to help. I want you here. I never wanted to upset you, but they promised they’d fix the house so your mom can come home again. With the money from the show, I could get her a full-time nurse. She always wanted to live out her last days in that house.”