RE: Trailer Trash 3 pt 5 (Patreon)

(pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4)

   After giving Mike one last teary-eyed hug and ruffling his hair to his even louder protests, Tabitha went home. It felt like something big had changed deep inside of her, something she hadn’t felt in all the months since time-tripping back to 1998. For once that tense, almost frantic compulsion to do everything she possibly could, all at once, was gone, and in its wake there was only exhaustion. She felt her shoulders go slack as she re-entered her family’s mobile home, forgetting for a moment that her parents were—well, somewhere else. She had no idea where they were, today.

   Still aching from this morning’s run, Tabitha realized, letting herself collapse onto the couch of their living room and sink deep into the cushions. Pain had been such a constant for all this time that it’d been shoved into a throbbing backdrop in her mind. The trailer was quiet, and she idly wondered to herself how she’d even managed to get this far. She was tired, more mentally spent than she’d ever realized, and it finally—finally felt like she was allowed to rest.  

   Cleaned and organized everything, lost all that weight. Made a real friend at school, maybe more friends soon. Saved the officer’s life, Tabitha thought, letting out a slow breath. 

   No Taekwondo, not for today. I can take it easy, just for a little while. I don’t need to run and practice forms every single day. She was already in trim shape, and unlike where she’d been at this age in her previous life, she didn’t suffer much in the way of cravings for food. After living through stomach ulcers that had hospitalized her more than once, she first associated eating with debilitating pain and nausea, rather than satisfaction. 

   She’d almost drifted off to sleep right there on the sofa when the phone began to ring, momentarily startling her. Combing errant red strands of hair out of her face, she wearily clambered up off the couch and found her way over to pick up the phone. Probably Grandma Laurie again, just getting the news.

   “Moore residence, this is Tabitha speaking,” she said. “How may I help you?”

   “Tabitha Moore?” A woman’s voice, and not one she recognized. “My name is Sandy—Sandra Macintire. Rob found me your number, but I didn’t—I wasn’t, um, I’m so sorry for not getting a hold of you until now. You saved my husband’s life. You saved my husband’s life, and I can’t ever, ever thank you enough.”

   Mrs. Macintire’s voice was awash with emotion, and it sounded like she was beginning to cry over the phone, bringing tears back to Tabitha’s eyes and making her choke up.

   “It’s okay,” Tabitha managed. “I just heard it was on the news, myself. I’m really glad he’s going to be okay. I, um. Wasn’t doing okay at all myself, until I knew for sure.”

   “I wasn’t, either,” Mrs. Macintire tried to chuckle but had to stifle a sob instead. “Oh, honey, I wasn’t, either. B-but they say he’s, he’s going to be alright now. That it’s just going to be some time before—before he’s back on his feet, and up and around again and everything. Thank you so much, I can’t ever thank you enough. If there’s anything you ever need—”

   “I just need him to be okay,” Tabitha explained, sniffling into the back of her hand. “I’d like to come visit him, if that’s alright. I’ve been having... bad dreams.”

   One long, bad dream, where your husband bleeds to death on the way to the hospital, because no one was there to help him in time. A bad dream where the little trailer trash girl hears the gunshot and just goes back to watching TV. A dream where she grows up callous to his death, and starts to resent him for the way people treat her for being from the Lower Park neighborhood.

   Except, it wasn’t a dream, really. It was a total fucking nightmare.

   “Oh, of course you can, honey—I’m sure Rob would be happy to drive you out here to Louisville. Rob Williams, he was the officer first at the scene there with you, he told me everything you girls did. Thank you so much. I really—I don’t know what I would have done, what I was going to do, if. If.”

   “He’s going to be okay,” Tabitha reminded her, wiping her eyes. “I can’t wait to meet you both, and see for myself.”

   After profusely thanking Tabitha again, promising her that Officer Williams would be in touch with her parents about a trip to Louisville this Sunday, and suggesting they all share a meal together over Thanksgiving when her husband was fully recovered, Tabitha was finally able to say her goodbyes and hang up the phone. Not a moment too soon, she would discover—because several vehicles were pulling up to loudly park out front.

   Stepping over to the window with no small amount of trepidation... she discovered Uncle Danny’s car had arrived. Tabitha couldn’t help but slump forward and knock her forehead against the glass in frustration. In her head, the vaguely-remembered events of her past life were supposed to follow some sort of episodic narrative, where the next chapter would begin only after the current one had concluded. In reality, however, occurrences overlapped in such a way that now she felt like she’d already missed out the first half of this Uncle Danny going to prison story, and completely lost any opportunity to take preventative measures.

   Swallowing down her frustrations, she opened the door and strode down the steps to see what she already knew was going on. The familiar car was finally here; no doubt to find its near-permanent resting place up on cinder blocks on their lot. To artfully complete that last missing piece of their long anticipated trailer trash decor. Both of her parents had followed behind in her father’s truck, likely in case Uncle Danny’s car broke down again on route.

   Looking over it now, the thing was a relic. Already a full decade old even here in this time—Uncle Danny’s car was a sun-bleached and faded black two-door coupe; a 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Classic, perhaps one of the last fumbling grasps automakers made with gigantic boxy, rigid-looking notchback designs of the era. The loud but wheezy-sounding motor finally sputtered off, and Tabitha turned her attention to its driver as she disembarked, a sleazy-looking young woman with peroxide-blonde hair and uncomfortably revealing clothing.

   There’s no way that can be Aunt Lisa… right? Tabitha found herself dumbfounded, forced to run the math in her head. Her Aunt didn’t look to be even twenty-five years old, but the eldest of her four cousins was Sam—and he was eight or nine years old. The woman wore a low-cut tank top that didn’t seem to cover up her bra at all, and crammed herself into cut-off jeans tight enough that they pinched her midsection into a noticeable muffin-top. The princesses of pop—Britney Spears, Jessica Simpson, and Christina Aguilera—wouldn’t emerge until next year, but Aunt Lisa already seemed ahead of that trashy late-nineties fashion curve.

   “Oh my wooord, Tabby is that you, darlin’?” Aunt Lisa crooned in mock surprise. “Goodness sakes, I wouldn’ta recognized you one bit if not for you havin’ yer Momma’s hair! Jus’ look at you!”

   “Hi, Aunt Lisa,” Tabitha weakly waved.

   “Why, I’m surprised you even ‘member me, you were just a little thing, last time we met,” Aunt Lisa seemed pleased, and she slapped the roof of Uncle Danny’s car. “Well, you go on and thank yer Daddy, ‘cause he just bought you a car for when you turn yer sweet sixteen! Soon as y’all get a new battery in there, it’ll be good to go!”

   “Oh wow,” Tabitha tried to mask her disappointment with a look of shock. What a waste of money.

   Over the next fifteen years, she remembered they would discover it was a problem with the alternator and not the battery, that there was a fuel line leak, and that both the electronic control module and controller for the idle air intake were shot, causing the engine to stall if the vehicle idled for a little bit too long… amongst other problems. By the time Tabitha had given up on finishing her Goblin Princess novels and started working at the Safety Plant, her parents decided the cost of getting the rusty old thing running ever again wasn’t worth it. Eventually, they paid to get it hauled to a junkyard in Sandboro.

   “How are the boys?” Tabitha asked, trying to reign in the anger she was feeling rise up at this hussy.

   Aunt Lisa ignored her question, instead turning away from her with a blank look on her face towards Mr. and Mrs. Moore as they climbed out of the pickup.

   “You’re a lifesaver, Al!” Aunt Lisa squealed in a chipper voice. “Thank you so much, this li’l bit of cash is gonna get us through some of these hard times. You sure you’re okay with swingin’ me by over to Shelbyville?”

   And, we never saw her again, Tabitha thought to herself. Sam, Aiden, Nick and Joshua wouldn’t see her again either for years and years. This woman was about to ghost all of them and start a new life elsewhere, now that Uncle Danny was locked up. To her own surprise, Tabitha realized... she actually felt no compunction to speak up or try to stop Aunt Lisa from disappearing.

   It’s going to be hard on you boys, but you’re better off without her, Tabitha decided, her previous anger settling deep into the pit of her stomach in a cold feeling. Grandma Laurie takes better care of you anyways, and this time I’m going to be over there looking out for you as much as I can. I know it hurts, and I know it’s not fair, but…

   She watched on with that icy feeling in her gut as Aunt Lisa said goodbyes to Mrs. Moore, sent Tabitha a cheerful parting wave, and then left, chauffeured away by her father in his pickup. When Mrs. Moore finally approached her silently staring daughter, the fat woman actually had the decency to wear a guilty look.

   “I’m... sure you have some questions,” Mrs. Moore managed, not making eye contact with her. “‘Bout what’s going on with your Uncle Danny.”

   NOW you say something?! What the fuck am I supposed to do about all of this, now? It’s too late. It’s too late to figure out how to keep Uncle Danny’s nose clean. Too late to talk Aunt Lisa into remembering she’s a fucking mother of four, and needs to fucking act like it. It’s too late for me to trust you— and that’s what really makes this all so tiresome. Because I probably could have figured something out. Or, at least tried. Everything’s too late, Mom.

   “Questions? No,” Tabitha said flatly, turning to head back inside. “I don’t.”

(pt 6)

/// Shorter than normal, but the next one should be a school segment that's a little longer than usual. 

If it feels like an emotional roller coaster here, it's intentional. Really want to drive home how overwhelming it is when she tries to shoulder too many responsibilities with knowledge from a past she barely remembers.

It'll be quite a bit more light-hearted going forward from here for a while. Well, light-hearted for Tabitha. Mrs. Moore's in for a rough time.