Good Days Bad Days: A Novel, page 34
“I see that now, but your mother read your book. I told her not to, I thought you’d say something about how you were raised or about the house and your mother and me. As much as it would’ve hurt to read those sad truths, I think it hurt her worse to be erased.”
“I was erased, Dad. You both erased me from your lives. For what? For a house full of junk? I never wanted to be like her, so I used to throw everything out if I’d had it longer than a year or two. I did the same with relationships, ditching them before they could do it to me. And then my own kid—I let her go live with her dad without putting up a fight. Turned out like you guys after all.”
Greg’s brow furrows. He pats my head and gives me his signature shoulder squeeze.
“Oh, honey. No. You’re not like us—at least, not in that way. You have to understand that your mom had a reason for being like that with the house.” He refers to her hoarding disorder in generalities again. “You saw her books and her show. Every woman who watched her show wanted to be her, and every man wanted to marry her. She was all that, until . . .” He glances at Betty, who is completely absorbed in the TV show. I think I know what he’s going to say. It’s starting to make sense, at least a little.
“The thing with Laura?” I ask, bringing up the topic of my sister again.
“Yes,” he replies, pausing again to ensure Betty’s not listening. “It was a fire. It burned her house to the ground and took her husband and baby with it. A . . . a furnace malfunction.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “I heard something far more—upsetting,” I go on to share what Taylor, the waitress, told me and then ask, “Is that what it was? Murder?”
Greg’s face is pale, and he looks miserable, as if an ancient worm lodged in his stomach is trying to climb its way up through his esophagus and into the light. He peeks over at my mom and then back at me and blinks slowly, staring at the speckled hospital tile as he finally—finally puts my desires in front of my mother’s.
“She called me the night it happened, crying and asking for my help. Her husband was a real piece of work—my old boss at WQRX—and I knew he was bad news. Your mom and I were . . . close. So, I drove to Janesville, but when I got there, the whole place was on fire and she was the only survivor.”
“Did they conduct an investigation?”
“Yup. Never found any evidence against her. Don and the baby died from the smoke, and Betty was only spared ’cause she was waiting outside for me to arrive. But it was in all the papers. She lost everything, her family, her house, her job. She got me, which doesn’t seem like a fair trade on her part.” He lets out an odd kind of chuckle at the self-deprecating comment.
“But when we started over, I couldn’t bear to ask her what really happened that night. I just couldn’t. Whenever it came up, she’d freeze or break down and—why dig it up? Why make her relive it all? I simply wanted to fix her life at that point, start over. We built the house. Got married. Then you came around, and it all seemed good. At first it was a bag or two of supplies, a box of clothes she’d bought or made. Then it started to get out of control, like a snowball rolling down a hill, and then it was too late and—we lost you, too.”
His voice cracks and he wipes at his nose with his shirtsleeve. I wonder how long he’s been holding this inside. I have to give him credit, as basic and trusting as his retelling is, it’s also the most open I’ve ever seen him. He’s obviously been wearing blinders for so long that he’s lost the ability to see clearly, but the fact that he’s trying helps.
I tilt my head and cautiously ask the question that’s been tickling the tip of my tongue.
“But what if she did it? What if she did start the fire? Were you ever worried that she’d—”
My dad starts to answer, but Betty interjects.
“I didn’t start any fire.”
“I know, dear. I know,” he says, moving to her side, patting her arm lightly, clearly mortified she’s heard our conversation.
“Stop fussing over me for a minute so I can be heard,” she snaps, waving him away, and Greg listens, as always. He steps back, folding his arms and leaning against the darkened windows on the far side of the room where he watches as I slide the stool to the head of the bed. Her eyes are clear and focused as she speaks.
“I didn’t kill them. I didn’t kill Don, and I didn’t kill my baby,” she says, her voice growing warbly when she mentions her firstborn child. My father flinches like he wants to comfort her again, but I raise my hand, urging him to let her finish.
I take her hand in mine and she continues.
“My husband came home that day, and he was drunk, drunk and mad, mad and drunk. I’d seen him that way before, he was like that more and more since the baby and . . . and . . .” She trails off, seemingly losing her train of thought.
“Don. He came home from work the day of the fire,” I remind her, and she starts again.
“Oh, yes. Don. He was tall but not as tall as Greg. Greg’s a boy I work with—a kind man, good with tools,” she says. For a split second, I can envision him as a young man: a handsome, scrawny guy with big hands, curly hair, and a nervous smile. “That night Don and I fought because he wanted to leave town and leave our house.” She closes her eyes and winces as if she’s replaying the argument behind her eyelids. “I went to bed. I woke up in the dark and . . . and there was a strange smell in the house.”
“The fire?” I ask.
“No, no. This was a different smell. This was . . .” She opens her eyes, fear evident in them. “Exhaust. Car exhaust. I ran to the garage and I found him in the car. It was running. I opened the automatic door and dragged him out. He was still breathing just fine. He confessed that he was in trouble at work, and he thought this would solve things. I could get the life insurance instead of a husband in prison for whatever it was he’d done.” She brushes the detail aside as if it’s nothing and then focuses in closely. “He was fine—worked up and still a bit drunk, but fine. I made him coffee and sat him on the couch. I went to check on the baby to make sure the outburst hadn’t woken her, and . . .”
Betty explodes, not into her usual fit of anger, but into a sorrowful flood of tears. Greg rushes across the room to her side and I can’t stop him this time. He sits next to her on the bed, his arm around her, dabbing at her tears, shushing her sobs. He gives me a pleading look asking me to let her be done.
“Of course,” I say, emotional myself at my mother’s retelling of Laura’s last night on this earth, but as I start to pull away, she shakes my hand to get my attention. The eagerness in her eyes tells me that it’s not me forcing her. Betty finally wants to tell her story.
I give her a reassuring squeeze.
“The garage was below the nursery,” she says, sniffling but stable. My father stays by her side, the look on his face telling me he’s never heard this part of the story before. “Somehow, maybe bad insulation or another flaw in the building was to blame, but when Don tried to take his own life—the exhaust had risen up into the room above it and taken my little Laura instead.”
I inhale sharply. What a tragedy. What a horrible, horrible loss. What a—totally valid reason to lose your ever-loving mind and burn shit down. I lean in, eager to know what happened next.
“I tried to get her to breathe, but she wouldn’t. Then Don tried, and he couldn’t either. He screamed and screamed, and I had to run away from his screaming or it was going to shatter my mind into a million pieces. I called Greg, asked him to come, and went outside to wait for him, but while I was sitting on the front porch, I smelled something new. This was not exhaust. This was burning. This was fire. I went to open the door to go inside and get Don and Laura, but the handle was already red hot, and I knew there was no way to get in. I ran to a neighbor’s house and called the fire department, but by the time they got there—it was too late. It was all gone.”
She finishes the story, holding up her bandaged hand as though she’d just burned it on a superheated doorknob and starts to cry again. I release her other hand and step away as she turns into my father, burying her face into his chest. He pats her arm, soothing her gently, whispering sweet words to her that I try not to listen to, feeling like an interloper.
“Promise you’ll stay,” she begs my dad. “Promise.”
“Of course I will, darling. Shhh. Shhh,” he replies, curling his body around hers, murmuring, “I didn’t know. You never told me.”
In the hallway, I find a nurse and explain Betty’s emotional state. A few minutes later they add a sedative to her IV, and soon she begins to drift off to sleep. I gather my belongings and stand by the door, waiting for my dad to notice so I can say goodbye.
He’ll stay here tonight, probably until she’s ready to return to Shore Path, which means the project at the house will be on hold for a few days. That’s just enough time for Ian and me to get up to speed and make a few important decisions.
“I’m sorry,” I say to my dad when he looks up, hoping the apology covers all the mistakes I’ve made since I stepped foot in Wisconsin.
“It’s all right. We’re all right,” he says calmly, chant-like, rubbing large circles on Betty’s back.
Though Greg Laramie stayed by Betty’s side without needing to know what happened, I like to imagine he’s grateful to know the truth—or at least what this version of Betty claims is the truth. I can search records to confirm her story the best I can, but even with that, I don’t think we’ll ever really know for certain.
But I got enough of what I needed today.
My father cracked open his locked door just a little and whispered to me from inside, and my mom, she gave me a tiny glimpse into the tragic origin of her compulsion to hoard.
It’s likely she won’t remember this in the morning—she won’t remember him or me or even why she’s in the hospital. But I’ll never forget the sight of my father holding my mother as she weeps for the daughter she lost to death while talking to the other daughter she lost to life.
As I’m about to slip out of the room, I hesitate. I watch my father tenderly kiss my mother’s cheeks and pet her hair, and suddenly I see them as they once were: young, broken, and living this life like we all do—without instructions.
I rush across the tiled floor and lean down to kiss Betty on her head, just like I used to do with Olivia when she was younger, and as Betty did with me when I was a little girl, feeling a sense of coming full circle in this moment.
As I walk into the waiting room where Ian and Olivia are sitting, I’m grateful not only for all I’ve gained as I’ve faced the pain of my past but also for all that I’ve started to purge. Sometimes I forget that the first step of renovation is demolition. It’s not easy to look trauma in the eye and have a conversation with it, but I’m learning it might be the only way to not become captive in a prison of your own making.
We are not healed by any means, not me and my parents or me and Ian or even me and Olivia, but one month ago I thought our family was too damaged to repair. And now I think maybe we’re finally ready to try and put the pieces back together—one truth at a time.
Chapter 40
Greg
June 12, 1976
Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
“Do you, Betty, take Greg to be your lawfully wedded husband? To love and cherish him, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, for so long as you both shall live?” The reverend stands between us on the swaying wooden dock that juts into the lake. Behind us, our freshly painted house sits up the hill, while a small gathering of guests is seated on rows of mismatched chairs brought over from the shop.
Pink ribbons line each side of a makeshift aisle Betty just walked down. It’s covered in pink rose petals, and the rows are marked with hanging vases of daisies. Pink ribbons are strewn through the towering willow branches, and rose petals float in the water by the dock. The strands dance in the warm summer breeze above us, and little bells tinkle with each gust, as if fairy kings and queens are attending our union.
As magical as the decor is, the most mystical sight is that of my bride. Her long hair cascades nearly to her waist, and her antique peasant-style dress flows from her neck to the ground and covers her wrists, with her skin visible through the lace at her neck and down her arms. A wreath of flowers and garland encircles her head, ribbons pouring down her back like she too is part of the canopy. I watch her pink lips repeating the same vows I just completed, in awe of her, of us, of the future we’re building together.
Betty hasn’t left my side since the day I brought her back to Harry’s store after that terrible night where she lost everything. As I washed the mud from her feet with warm water and a soft terrycloth towel, I told her what I’d said to the police—how I claimed that the call they would eventually trace from her house to mine came from Don.
She listened quietly, and as I patted her feet dry she agreed to adopt my storyline. I didn’t ask what really happened, thinking it’d only cloud my ability to tell my version of the truth. And I already knew the two most important details: First, there’s no way Betty is capable of murder, especially not of her own child and husband, and second, whatever she did inside that house that night she must’ve done out of desperation. Those two facts are enough. I’ve seen what desperation leads men to do, and it isn’t always simple or morally black and white.
We soon moved into a little apartment a few blocks from the shop when Harry expressed concern about the scandalous nature of our cohabitation, especially with the rumors about Betty spreading nearly as quickly as the fire that’d engulfed the Hollinger home. My name was cleared immediately, and after a six-month investigation, Betty was cleared as well.
However, it took longer for the public suspicion to die down, especially when people heard about the insurance payout—more than a quarter of a million dollars. The car was insured and was in the garage when the house burned. The house was fully covered, and of course there was Don’s life insurance.
I suggested we move far away, somewhere no one knew her name or face, and where no one had heard the story of her husband and daughter’s demise. But Betty didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay close to Charlotte and her nieces and nephew, hoping that one day an opportunity would arise to spare her sister from the same tragic fate she had suffered due to an unhappy partnership.
Betty almost got her wish. Soon after she received her insurance payout, Charlotte called to say that Bill had been arrested again and that she was ready to leave. Betty promptly sent her sister a significant sum of money, enough to pay off any debts and provide a fresh start.
A week later, we made the drive to Kegonsa to help Charlotte pack up her kids and move into a small house in Lake Geneva. When we arrived, the house was empty with a “For Sale” sign at the end of the driveway. It’d all been a ruse to get some of the insurance money. Another gutting loss for Betty.
We searched for Charlotte and the kids for months, and then Betty suddenly stopped. “I can’t keep what doesn’t want to be kept,” she said. The next day, she purchased a piece of land on the lake, and we never spoke of Charlotte, the kids, baby Laura, or Don again.
From that point forward, she put all her energy into building her dream house, using the same plans she used to build her home in Janesville, only with a detached garage and a large deck in the back looking over the lake. Had it been my choice, I would have opted for a new design—something that symbolized her fresh start, but it was her money, and the project came at an enormous cost. I wasn’t her husband yet, not even her fiancé, when she broke ground on the new house.
That all changed once the house was finished. She handed me a key and finally said yes to a question I’d asked nearly every day for two years. Yes, she’d marry me. Yes, we could build a family together. Yes, she felt safe entrusting me with her future.
And I feel the same. She is my future. She has been since she walked into Ike’s with her red lipstick and misplaced keys. She was my missing piece, and I felt it—the gaping hole where she belonged and the urge to fill it with her presence. Now, it’s official: in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for better for worse . . . for so long as we both shall live.
“I do,” she says as I slip the band around her left ring finger, mine already in place, my promise already made.
“You may kiss your bride,” the officiant declares. Her hands are clasped in mine as I lean in to kiss my wife. Her touch still brings me the same thrill it did in the dark studio when I was about to leave the country and she was about to marry the wrong man. It’s not her beauty or fame, nor is it her body or the clothes she wears that I love. It’s the resilient, creative, resourceful person inside her. It’s because of her painful past that I feel honored to try to shield her from any future loss.
As we pull away, Lucy, Mark, their two kids, Harry and his wife, and a few of our regular customers and neighbors explode in cheers loud enough for a crowd ten times their small size. They toss confetti into the air, where it swirls between the pink silk tendrils fluttering in the wind.
We run through the deluge, laughing as the handful of people we still have in our lives after losing so many cheer us on. Out of breath when we reach the deck, we stop for one more kiss—a dramatic dip. Our lips linger against one another, our heartbeats pounding in our necks and vibrating through our chests in sync.
I hold her there, suspended backward in my arms.
“So beautiful,” I say tearfully, overwhelmed with gratitude for both my bride and the stunning scene she planned and curated. “How the hell did I get so lucky?”
“I told you,” Betty whispers, pecking my lips gently before standing up. “You’re my hero.”
She squeezes my hand, my new ring pressing into my finger in a way I’m sure will become second nature.
“And you’re mine.” I clutch her against me, kissing the top of her head, wanting to memorize every second so I’ll never forget it. “You’re mine.”
