RE: Trailer Trash 48, A very difficult dinner. (Patreon)

   The long drive back from Florence was quiet, with Tabitha conceding the Acura’s passenger seat to Elena so that she could sit in the backseat with Alicia and Hannah. The girls were all tired, and Hannah immediately leaned her head onto Tabitha’s arm and nodded off. Aside from a few softly spoken remarks, both of her friends seemed lost in their own thoughts, and Tabitha had plenty to think about herself.

   It was a good birthday party, Tabitha gently combed her fingers through Hannah’s hair. Not PERFECT, exactly, but maybe the best one I’ve ever had. I feel like I’m on the path towards what I want.

   Friends to spend time with, lots of them. Girls to jog with the mornings. People to talk with and hang out with at school. Maybe I’ll even date Bobby—who knows? It’s all juvenile teen nonsense, and I’m just so UNBELIEVABLY excited for it. Some of it’s shallow, a lot of it’s stereotypical growing-up stuff… just, it’s incredible how much it means to me. I wasn’t able to appreciate any of it until all these chances were gone, last life.

   Although she knew it was an incredibly minor milestone, it also felt good to finally be fourteen, a more solid teenager age. Mature sensibilities and perspectives would seem slightly less uncanny and out of place now, hopefully, until maybe when she was sixteen or seventeen no one would find her unusual at all.

   It’s strange the things I want to feel SPECIAL for, and then the areas where I just crave being perceived as NORMAL for. My future knowledge, all of the differences those things make upon me feel UNEARNED. I don’t want to stand out from my peers for being smarter when I’m not actually any smarter. I’m not more intelligent or insightful or quick of wit than my peers, not if you discount my future experiences.

   The big green highway sign for Springton’s exit appeared along their right hand side, and Mrs. Macintire let out a soft cheer. Tabitha and Alicia exchanged glances in the near-dark of the car as they made their turn-off, and in the front seat Elena adjusted the way she was sitting, pulling her knees up to her chest so that she could rub her feet—all of the skaters had been walking a little funny at the end of the night.

   Which reminds me, I have new shoes to break in! Tabitha thought. I was surprised by those. Thought for sure Elena would give me a blouse, or a hoodie or something for my birthday, something… FASHION. I mean, I guess shoes are fashion, but I didn’t expect running shoes? Just like I kind of assumed Alicia was going to draw me a sketch for a birthday gift, and instead she wound up painting a model.

   Many of the gifts were interesting but also somewhat baffling—the personal CD player, for instance, Tabitha couldn’t think of a use for. Unlike an older Walkman, or the iPods and MP3 players that would appear soon in the future, she couldn’t use the portable CD player while she was out jogging. She’d checked the packaging and confirmed that this early model of player didn’t have ESP—electronic skip protection, so any bounce or slight knock would jar the disk and stop whatever music was playing mid-track.

   I guess if I’m running with Casey and Elena though, I won’t need music? Music in general is a frustrating affair for me anyways, because a lot of random music I might find myself in the mood for just doesn’t even exist yet. Can’t just click up an Evanescence playlist when Amy Lee’s still in high school!

*     *     *

   “Hey bro,” Bobby called, shucking off his jacket and stumbling through darkness and cigarette smoke of the townhouse.

   Their CRT television set in the entertainment center was showing a paused game of Command & Conquer: Red Alert Retaliation, its bright colors grainy with pixelation. There, a small bevy of red ore trucks were frozen mid-motion across an ore field pockmarked with craters, under the apparent supervision of a lone soviet tank. The glow of the screen illuminated his brother’s easy chair occupying the center of the cluttered room, a borrowed stepladder next to it shelving empty cans of Dr Pepper and packs of Marlboro Reds, his ashtray, and his glass pipe on its steps. Joe twisted half out of his seat to regard him with a bleary but expectant face.

   “If you didn’t get to second base tonight, you’re a homo.”

   “Naw,” Bobby let out an uneasy laugh. “Wasn’t even like that.”

   “Uh-huh,” Joe took a drag from his cigarette and rubbed his face. “You eat?”

   “Pizza, yeah,” Bobby kicked off his shoes into a nearby pile of dirty laundry, knocking over more empty Dr Pepper cans.

   “You bring me any?!” Joe griped in mock indignation.

   “Naw—wasn’t mine to bring,” Bobby dropped onto the sofa. “You waitin’ on me? Bro it’s like, after midnight.”

   “Was gonna make spaghetti for us,” Joe shook his head in dismay, unpausing the game and letting his ore trucks lurch forward and scoop ore, each truck turning left and right and then left again as their rudimentary AI attempted to path. “But, then I figured hey—you must be out gettin’ lucky.”

   “Naw,” Bobby laughed again. “It was some spooky shit though, I tell you what.”

   “No shit?” Joe panned the view across clusters of cliff faces and scattered trees towards a bunch of red base structures. “Well, fuck—put a thing of water on the stove for me, then.”

   “A’ight,” Bobby groaned, heaving back up.

   “So, no second base?” Joe asked again. “Faggot. First base? You two make out, at least?”

   “Naw, no bases—I’m tellin’ you, it was spooky shit. Like uh, like first act of an X-files episode, almost.”

   “No shit?”

   “Yeah, no shit.”

   “Well, come on then.”

   “Alright, so—” Bobby shifted the pile of dishes waiting in the sink in search of a pot, then found it in the cabinet. “So, first we went and saw Pleasantville, then we drove all the way over to Floren—”

   “Pleasantville any good?”

   “Yeah, actually,” Bobby filled the pot with tap water. “Kinda like uh, like the Truman Show, where everything’s fake. Except things are all switched around, so he’s the only one in the know, and everyone else has no idea yet.”

   “Huh.”

   “But like, Tabitha’s party—it’s her, mom, grandmom, her little sister, a bunch of little cousins, and then like—eight of us teens? I think. And then Officer Williams and his wife.”

   “Anyone I’d know?”

   “Casey was there. Casey and Matthew.”

   “Casey’s cool.”

   “So, anyways,—like everything seems all normal mostly but kinda like, off also, like you’re watching X-files and kinda wondering what’s up and starting to see weird stuff that turns out to be clues and shit.”

   “Right, right.”

   “Well, turns out that like, of all the people invited to her birthday party, only like, two of them even knew her,” Bobby said, sliding a bunch of uncooked spaghetti out of its box and measuring out a portion with his thumb and forefinger. He then broke the bunch in half so that it would all fit in the water of the pot with none sticking out, set the pot on a burner, and shuffled back over to the sofa.

   “...Huh.”

   “Yeah,” Bobby ran his fingers through his hair. “But not like, just me—the mom and little sister turned out to not even be her real mom and little sister, turned out to be the family of this other cop guy. Maybe the grandma and cousins, too? I dunno. They were this… whole other separate family who barely even knew her, they’ve been fostering Tabitha for the past few weeks, ‘cause she apparently narc’ed on her real family, in like a drug bust thing? Casey was telling me about it.”

   “Fuck, she’s a narc?”

   “Well, naw, it was like—heroin or meth, so…”

   “Oh,” Joe grunted. “Alright, yeah. Fair. Continue.”

   “So, she has her two actual friends there, yeah, but then everyone else had either just met her that day, or only ever met her once or twice,” Bobby said. “Myself included there. This one girl showed up super late, like missed the movie even, and would barely even talk to Tabitha. It was like she was seething at the fact she was forced to be there. This other girl showed up with her boyfriend, looked super pissed off the whole time. Tabitha wound up sitting with her most of the night at the skate thing, so it was hard to just hang out and chill with her.”

   “She was pissed off, too? Tabitha?”

   “No, no she was cool—I think it was like she felt obligated to spend time with the pissed off chick so that pissy chick’s night wasn’t as shitty. To be a good host or whatever, you know?”

   “Still, though. On her birthday? You said skate thing? You guys go to a skate park?”

   “Nah, some roller rink.”

   “Pssh. Lame. Where at?”

   “Way out in—I don’t remember the name of it. Long drive away.”

   “E-town? Radcliff?” Joe guessed. “How was it?”

   “It was alright,” Bobby shrugged. “Just—weird. It was this suspiciously normal birthday party, ‘cept from all the people that got invited, pretty much no one even knew her. So, it felt kinda staged and… fake? It was weird.”

   “Yeah,” Joe took another drag. “That’s pretty weird, bro. So, no nothing? You shoot your shot?”

   “Wasn’t any shot to make,” Bobby shrugged. “It’s like uh, like I’ve got the ball, yeah? Turn to make my shot, and—no hoop on that side of the court, yet. Nothin’ set up, no hoop, no net, no backboard—pole’s not even there. No shot to even make. Nada.”

   “Shit,” Joe blew out smoke. “Was she all freaked out about it?”

   “Naw, she was—it was like she was trying to have a good time,” Bobby shrugged again. “Sat next to me for the movie, seemed like she liked it. Couldn’t skate though, doctor’s orders or whatever. She’s got her hand in that cast, and all. I think… I think she’s just like in a super weird spot, and Officer Williams and them just kind of set up this whole thing today to try an’ give her something normal?”

   “Sounds like a bunch of work, if you’re tryin’ to be all set on her,” Joe said, turning again to regard his brother. “You sure about this chick? How old is she?”

   “I like her,” Bobby found himself getting defensive. “It was alright. Weird, but alright. I figure if I can get her alone or to like—where it’s just her and her actual real friends, she’d be more herself. At the party she was kinda on edge, ‘cause she barely knew anyone.”

   “That’s fuckin’ weird, bro,” Joe shook his head in dismay. “Her own damn party. You put water on the stove?”

   “Yeah, yeah,” Bobby said. “Didn’t see any spaghetti sauce or nothin’, though.”

   “Fuck it, I’m hungry,” Joe scoffed, leaning forward in his chair and gripping the controller. Yellow enemy tanks had suddenly rolled into his ore field, and were making a beeline for his ore trucks. “Youuu dirty fuckers—”

   “Gave her your copy of Willow for her birthday present.”

   “Shut up—!” Joe said in indignation, pausing the game again so he could search for the familiar VHS tape he normally had displayed on top of the entertainment center. It was gone.

   “Bro, listen—”

   “You fucker,” Joe groused, returning to his game in irritation. “That was still mint condition and everything. Still in plastic. Mint condition. Was gonna pass that down to my grandkids.”

   “Bro—this way, it’s like I’ve set up a date to watch it with her sometime,” Bobby explained. “I’ll buy you a new copy. I’ve got it all worked out, trust me bro.”

   “Fuck,” Joe shook his head. “Yeah, like you can even find one. You know how long it took me to come across that one? Fuck.”

   “Swear to God, I’ll get you another one. Mint condition, just like that one was.”

   “Little bro… listen, she’s cute and all, but—”

   “She is pretty cute.”

   “—But, if she doesn’t like Willow? If she watches with you, and doesn’t like it? That’s like, the deal breaker. She doesn’t like it, you say okay, you walk out and never talk to her again. Willow is the ligmus test for whether or not she’s the one for you, bro.”

   “Ligmus? Litmus?”

   “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s ligmus,” Joe said, swearing and tapping buttons on the Playstation controller in aggravation as his red soviet tank finally succumbed to the persistent fire of two yellow tanks and an APC. “Fuuuck. You ligmus bastards.”

   “No worries there,” Bobby had full confidence. “How can she not love Willow? She’s cool, she’ll like it. I think she’s the one, bro.”

   “If you say so. You put my shit on the stove?”

   “Already said I did.”

   “Alright, cool,” Joe heaved a sigh as he used the cursor to shepherd his ore trucks back towards his base—yellow deciding to harry them with potshots the entire way. “Well, she did invite you. That’s something.”

   “Yeah,” Bobby nodded to himself. “I was—actually, I was the only other guy there who wasn’t already with someone. Other dudes were just Matthew, and he’s with Casey, and then this guy Michael, and he was the boyfriend of the pissed-off chick. I sat next to Tabitha through Pleasantville.”

   “Hold hands or anything?”

   “A little bit,” Bobby hedged.

   “Niiiiice,” Joe said, quickly pausing the game so he could extend a fist bump. “Bro.”

   “It was just a little bit,” Bobby tapped knuckles with his brother. “But, I mean—still.”

   “Yeah, still.”

   “That’s something. And, she did invite me. Like, personally came to Mickey Dees to see me, invitation with my name on it an’ everything.”

   “Definitely something,” Joe agreed, returning to his game. “Weird shit too, though.”

   “Yeah,” Bobby sighed. “Damn, though. Definitely crushin’ on her bad.”

   “Uh-huh.”

   “Think I just need to make sure I can hang out with her again,” Bobby stared up at the dark ceiling. “Have it to where it’s just with her and her two friends, so that it’s… real. I dunno if I was just gettin’ spooked, or if it was the Pleasantville movie we saw givin’ me heebie jeebies or what, but. Was kinda like I was getting worried I was just put into a role, instead of really there, you know? With the way things kind of seemed fake or staged or whatever. Like, it’s like this time they cast me as a potential interest, and it’s cool and all that I was their number one casting choice for that, that’s… a positive sign? I think? But, I want to be her interest for real, you know?”

   “She seem interested?” Joe asked.

   “I… man, I dunno,” Bobby shrugged and quirked a smile. “I hope so?”

*     *     *

   “Are you okay?” Hannah looked up at Tabitha with trepidation.

   “Hm?” Tabitha jolted out of her—well, she would say she was jolted out of her thoughts, but in truth she hadn’t really been thinking about anything. She’d simply been gazing off in the direction of the far living room wall, staring at nothing in particular. It was the morning after the night of the party, Barb had been placed on the window sill above the kitchen sink, but the rest of her presents remained in a neat stack beside the bed in her room. Tabitha wasn’t in the right state of mind to look through them again.

   “You seem upset,” Hannah said.

   “I’m not upset,” Tabitha assured the little girl with a tired smile. “I’m just—I don’t know. I’m just a little out of it, this morning. Thinkin’ ‘bout stuff.”

   “What kinda stuff?”

   “Bobby. Ashlee. School. Worried about seeing my parents for dinner.”

   “Worried?” Hannah gave her a strange look. “Why?”

   “Ummm,” Tabitha sank herself down deeper into the Macintire’s sofa. “That’s a very very big question—and right now, I’m just a very very small teenage girl.”

   “You’re way bigger than me,” Hannah pointed out. “You’re fourteen now.”

   “Yeah,” Tabitha admitted. “For now, I’m bigger. But, you’re growing so fast! I think you’ve sprouted up three or four feet, just since I started staying here with you all. Three or four feet, at least. You’ll be bigger than me in no time.”

   “Pfft, yeah I wish,” Hannah snorted. “I’m not even up to four foot tall, yet. It sucks. Like every single Disney princess is way taller. Pocahontas is the tallest.”

   “Hannah Banana?” Tabitha reached up to tug on the babyfat of the little girl’s cheeks. “Don’t you grow up too fast. It’s really not all it's cracked up to be.”

*     *     *

   As their truck coasted down the road towards the restaurant Shannon Moore couldn’t help but feel her ever-present inferiority darken with even deeper humiliation as she clutched the bucket in her lap. The bucket was one of the few things Tabitha had asked for, so of course they made sure to pick it up for her birthday. However… it was a bucket. She had made sure to accompany her husband to the Home Depot in Sandboro to make sure he picked up the best one, but Mr. Moore and the sales associates there had simply given her helpless looks.

  “There’s some little pink play buckets for taking to the beach or, or playing in a sandbox, but Tabby was sayin’ she wanted one for composting,” Mr. Moore had explained, instead hefting a horribly plain five-gallon bucket. “Trust me, this is what she wants.”

   “I—I can understand that,” Mrs. Moore had colored. “It’s just—it’s very—it doesn’t look very nice.”

   “It’s a bucket,” Mr. Moore had explained with a patient sigh, exchanging a glance with the Home Depot employee. “If’n she wants, she can decorate it with pretty li’l stickers or whatever she decides, hon. Composting is—well there ain’t no other way to say it, compostin’ is dumpin’ in all sorts of kitchen scraps and leavings and what have you, lettin’ them rot down into compost. Coffee grounds, banana peels, egg shells, whatever’s biodegradable an’ll break down. S’not gonna wind up pretty, hon. S’gonna smell like a trash can.”

   “I—I realize that!” Mrs. Moore had snapped at him, a little more harshly than she’d intended. “But it’s not JUST for composting—it’s for her birthday.”

   The worker in his orange apron had shown them the actual official composters Home Depot had for sale, but the smallest one they had available right now was an eighty-gallon one, and she couldn’t imagine how anyone would even begin to fill it. They settled on the five-gallon bucket, just a plain unassuming white plastic bucket with a wire bail to hold it by. The design was so simple and utilitarian that Shannon Moore found herself growing upset, and picking out a nice set of gardening gloves and a cute little gardening trowel to put in the bucket for now hadn’t been quite enough to mollify her.

   She’s turning fourteen years old, this is—this is no kind of present for a teenage girl, Mrs. Moore had felt suffocated by her own inadequacy. We’ll try the other big stores.

   Braving the overcrowded holiday season aisles of the Walmart for a more appropriate ladylike gift had turned into a disaster. It was mortifying for Shannon to realize her fashion sense savvy seemed to have been left in the dust of 1985. Although she was passingly familiar with modern trends from television, the popular style of the late nineties she witnessed now across the racks remained incomprehensible to her. None of this womenswear seemed cool or larger than life or even visually interesting—it was all flannel in dull earthy tones, denim, unbearably plain shirts and tops in basic colors that at best featured a single boring stripe or some such artsy minimalist design Mrs. Moore didn’t care for.

   The ones Tabitha put together with her grandmother were a million times better than any of this overpriced nonsense! Mrs. Moore told herself with a frown, shaking her head in disappointment.

   In the end, she had picked out a rather smart-looking light gray scarf and winter hat set. Every other purchase throughout Walmart gridlocked her with indecision, all of the cute things like stuffed animals she suspected would be too childish for her daughter, and likewise all of the more practical kitchenwares she picked through weren’t good enough—Tabitha would like them, but they seemed droll and unexciting for a teenage birthday party. Flipping through a plastic display of posters made her realize she knew little about Tabby’s taste in music, and then slowly shuffling her way past the other customers down the bedding aisle and seeing that decorative pillows were in with teens gave her pause.

   Tabitha had held onto that Flounder pillow that had been part of her Halloween getup, but would she have any interest in a round one that was simply a big smiley face? Would she care for the swanky retro one that simply had the words Let’s Go, Girls! in bold curling font? It didn’t seem likely. A fluffy faux-fur pillow in horrific shades of either bright blue or bright pink? Tweety-bird from Looney Tunes was inexplicably popular along the shelves, but Mrs. Moore simply couldn’t imagine the gaudy toon face sparking her daughter’s interest.

   The shopping trip felt like a crisis, and with each passing minute she was acutely aware of how little she really knew her daughter. This deepened the sense of dread and loss she felt, and despite the crowds of Christmas shoppers and her husband beginning to fret over her discomposure, Mrs. Moore felt herself having another small breakdown. Part of the difficulty here in choosing things for Tabitha was the simple proximity of the girl’s birthday to Christmas—several months ago they’d picked out those presents, a nifty sportswear outfit so she didn’t have to wear ratty old clothes when she was out running, and a new pair of shoes for her.

   What on God’s green earth did that leave for them to get her for her fourteenth?

   Her writing means the world to her, Mrs. Moore found herself sinking deep into thought. I’d love to get her a personal computer, but good heavens that’s just too big of a price tag! These electric typewriters are going for ninety-nine dollars—which is still a lot to spend, but at least she would be able to get her story properly transcribed so that it’s more official and fit for a publisher. If she was heading into college, we would definitely get her one. But, she might see a typewriter as too clunky and old-fashioned, and by the time she DOES get to college, they say everyone will be using computer word processors!

   They couldn’t afford either right now, and so a fuming Mrs. Moore led her husband away from the electronics department and over to where the school supplies and stationery was. It was all too easy to get riled up and feeling furious all over again at her sister-in-law Lisa Moore—if they hadn’t given that damned junkie most of their savings in exchange for that worthless beater of a car, their family would at least be able to get Tabitha something to learn to type on!

   It felt absolutely paltry after browsing through the electronics, but Mrs. Moore finally settled on buying an impressive-looking name brand Trapper Keeper, so that Tabitha would be able to replace the cheapo blue binder she kept her Goblin Princess draft in. The choice of covers were mirror-surfaced marbles with checkerboards and a racecar, or a cartoon unicorn and a half-moon with a face in kiddie colors, or a computer wire-frame patterns with palm trees, dolphin, and a sunset, and then finally, a painted van art style rendition of a nebula and planets done up in fantastic airbrushed purples and blacks.

   When she remembered Tabitha had remarked on van art style paintings in her story notes, she felt that this was the one. The painted clouds, stars, and solar system of planets seemed beautiful in a romantic sort of way, but also struck Mrs. Moore as stylish and cool, and so she returned the others to the display and hugged her pick close, satisfied with it. The Trapper Keeper was five dollars, so she was then able to justify searching around the aisle for every possible accessory to go with it; gel pens, color-coded page tabs, blank label stickers, a pack of plastic page protectors, more college-rule notebook paper, and even a few folders with holes punched through them that would fit within the Keeper itself.

   It still wasn’t enough, but Mrs. Moore suspected that nothing ever would be. Their daughter had left them to live with another family, and that hurt wasn’t something that could be band-aided over with well wishes or gifts of any kind. Tabitha had needed them to be proper parents, for them to stand up to Lisa as that nasty woman pushed her way into everything with reckless abandon. Instead, when Alan put his foot down on the issue it was on just the exact wrong side of things—he put his foot down and just might as well have stepped in dogshit.

   She’d screamed and sobbed and argued him down after the fact until her throat was sore, but it was too late. She’d cursed and sworn and seethed vitriol about the Lisa situation to her husband, she’d hit him more than once—she was ashamed of striking him, but also unable to bring herself to actually apologize—but it didn’t matter. Tabitha was gone to stay with the Macintires. Worst of all, Mrs. Moore knew Tabitha would have a better time there.

   They’d failed her as parents, and not for the first time.

*     *     *

   Tabitha stepped out of the Acura and into the parking lot with a frown, breath puffing visibly in the air. Their Springton Applebee’s appeared expensive and well-maintained, but never quite nice to Tabitha—there was a certain unsettling veneer of superficiality to the establishment here she couldn’t shake off. The rust-colored brick facade and cement sidewalk had both been pressure-washed free of grime recently, but managed to look scoured bare, rather than clean and new. Decorative bushes hedged in around the restaurant had been pruned back too far, exposing thick branch stubs to the December air, and then the chunky landscaping gravel beneath was that too-clean shade of artificial white.

   Perhaps some corporate checklist full of OVERBEARING FRANCHISE ENTHUSIASM gets conveyed to the employees here, and they’re simply not paid enough to do more than go through the motions? Tabitha wondered to herself, feeling grim. No, no—I’m nitpicking. I just don’t really want to have this big serious resolution of all the stupid issues with my immediate family at an APPLEBEE’S.

   She did honestly miss her parents, but that didn’t mean she felt ready to see them again just yet. Lines had been crossed and things perhaps better left unsaid had been spoken and couldn’t be unspoken. Not all of this was her fault, but at this point it didn’t matter to her where blame went—the entire situation was ugly. Future perspective tended to further sour her outlook on things, and it was hard to find distractions interesting enough to keep herself from dwelling on all of it. After all, it could have been a lot worse. They could have been attempting to have this difficult family heart-to-heart at the nearby Waffle House.

  Their APPLEBEE’S font looks different here in the nineties, Tabitha decided.

   Mrs. Macintire slammed her driver’s side car door closed and tugged at her jacket, stepping over towards the end of the vehicle to join her.

   “Tabitha?”

   Kind of a big difference, maybe? It’s not as sleek, I can tell. I think. More blocky and cartoonish than I remember it being, not as classy. So there. I’m… I’m being super childish again, aren’t I? Ugghhh, I just can’t stop picturing the deadbeat dad guy from TALLADEGA NIGHTS, making a big scene out of getting kicked out of an Applebee’s. An APPLEBEE’S, specifically. Why APPLEBEE’S?!

   “Tabby, hon…”

   It’s there in my head now, Tabitha lamented. My dad wouldn’t do that—God, I hope not—but the parallels and all of the tongue-in-cheek CLASS themes just won’t get out of my head. Entire movie was lampooning REDNECK CULTURE, so when they make such a point to emphasize the Applebee’s appearance, as if—I don’t know, as if to say lower class families conflate casual dining with fine dining? The idea sticks in my head. Please, PLEASE dad don’t make a scene and get thrown out of Applebee’s!

   “Tabitha—you look like you’ve being dragged into a dentist visit,” Mrs. Macintire observed with a wry smile, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Everything’s gonna be okay! ‘Nother nice birthday dinner, and Karen and I’ll be here to help mediate whatever we wind up discussing with your parents. Nothing will be too dreadful, I promise.”

   “I’m not… filled with dread!” Tabitha said with a wincing smile. “I—I’m looking forward to dinner. I’m going to have soda pop, even! I haven’t had anything carbonated in… it’s been a long while, now. Thank you again for taking me out, you’ve been doing so much for me. I really do appreciate everything.”

   “I’m right here with you, kiddo,” Mrs. Macintire promised, taking her hand. “Let’s do this.”

   Tabitha mustered up the bravest face she could, tried to focus her thoughts on an expensive dinner, and allowed herself to be pulled across the parking lot, up the curb, and through the double-doors. Inside, a blonde hostess with a rigid smile exchanged greetings full of forced cheer with Mrs. Macintire while Tabitha reflexively scanned across the interior for sight of her parents. She wasn’t able to spot them, but on a Sunday evening the restaurant was pretty busy.

   Nicely stained and polished wood paneling was predominant throughout, with the signature green, red, and cream Applebee’s colors adorning the vinyl cushioning on the seating as well as the decorative glass set in the dividers separating booths. A single pair of rather small box-shaped tube televisions that were bolted to the wall opposite the bartop was the only obviously nineties dated decor she could spot—most future businesses would always opt for stupidly huge flatscreens dominating the walls. It took her a moment of consideration as she looked this way and that to chase down the last lingering subtle dissonant impression. Within sight there was an older couple with a teenager and two younger children, another nearby booth had a group of older women chatting, and then the next one down the aisle was a young married couple with an infant car seat carrier tucked into the booth—this place skewed much more family restaurant than the bar and grill she expected.

   Guess that makes sense, though? Tabitha couldn’t help but grimace. I remember seeing all those ‘ARE MILLENNIALS KILLING FAMILY RESTAURANTS’ articles. Tough to run an establishment like this if everyone’s too broke to start families. Baby boomers and generation X won’t be around forever to keep these places afloat.

   At Sandra’s mention of table for Moore family, the service-smile-faced worker with the chipper voice led them out of the foyer area, past the bar, alongside the central dining area where rows were bustling with people, and finally to the far corner where a table was ready for them. They were apparently last to arrive, as Tabitha saw grandma Laurie and her parents already seated together on the far side, with the familiar stocky shape of Mrs. Williams sitting across from them.

   “Happy birthday Tabitha,” Mr. Moore said with an earnest smile, locking eyes with her for a moment before Tabitha’s eyes darted away.

   Fuck, why the hell do *I* feel guilty?!

   Mrs. Moore rose to her feet the moment they stepped into sight, her expression awash with different emotions. After Olivia's mom had remarked upon how close the resemblance was between them, Tabitha couldn’t stop herself from taking a closer look. The orangish tangle of red hair they shared seemed washed and free of oil, but on Mrs. Moore also mussed and uncared for, put out of the way and forgotten rather than how Tabitha had fought to comb hers out and make it presentable. The pounds her mother lost over the past few months showed no signs of a return, but to Tabitha’s dismay, her mother didn’t really look better for it. She was thinner but in a haggard way, her cheeks drooped a bit more than in memory.

   “Hi mom,” Tabitha said with a soft, hesitant smile—she watched as the simple greeting made her mother’s eyes wet.

   More than just teary, her mother’s eyes were tight, strained, and even fearful. The grumpy uncaring indifference of last lifetime was gone, but again Tabitha had mixed feelings about whether or not that wound up being any better for her mom. It was another reminder of what a double-edged sword forging a deeper relationship with her family was—a more meaningful connection didn’t simply translate to sunshine and rainbows. Her mother was more severely affected by Tabitha’s conflict with the family, and Tabitha’s sudden and abrupt departure from their home looked to have taken yet another serious toll on the woman.

   I’ve wanted to just put her out of my mind, Tabitha felt her chest constrict. Assume that at any old time she could just magically revert back to being the mean old trailer queen despot who just didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone. That… that REALLY wasn’t fair of me.

   “Happy birthday, honey…” Mrs. Moore managed to choke out. “I missed you!”

   Frozen with indecision, Tabitha’s mom stilled with a certain stiff set to her shoulders, all but wringing her hands in worry. Realizing she would have to send a clear invitation, Tabitha opened her arms for a hug. After another surprised pause, Mrs. Moore screwed her face up in either a pained smile or a sobbing laugh of relief—or perhaps both—and then shuffled around the table to wrap her arms around Tabitha. The hug was warm but constricting, and seemed to communicate the anxiety Mrs. Moore felt more than any expression of comfort and understanding.

   I’m so so sorry, mom, Tabitha sighed to herself as she tried to give her mother a reassuring squeeze. I’ve been selfish. Just ran off again, didn’t I? Needed AWAY, needed distance. The opportunity to stay ANYWHERE ELSE popped up, and yeah, I pounced on it without a second thought. In both lives, I’m just in this big awful hurry to leave you and dad behind as soon as I can. Kept telling myself I was doing so much better this lifetime, was so quick to pat myself on the back over it. Then, the Macintires make an offer—and right away I’m just gone, all over again.

   “You’re here!” Mrs. Williams exclaimed. “Fashionably late, hah ha. C’mon, Sandy sit, sit, move it, we’re starving!”

   Sandra had slowed to allow Tabitha a private moment to embrace her mother, and the woman glanced to Tabitha and gestured with a finger, allowing Tabitha to choose which remaining chair she’d like to claim.

   On opposing sides from the Moores no matter what, huh? Tabitha felt her mind go blank as she compulsively picked the one at the end, across from grandma Laurie.

   After all, it was difficult facing her father right now.

   “We—we could have ordered appetizers or started on something, if you’re—” Mrs. Moore fretted as she sidled back around the table to her spot.

   “Oh stop, I’m kidding!” Mrs. Williams waved off her concerns with a casual flourish of her hand. “Shouldn’t even be eating out, we went and gorged ourselves on pizza just last night. And right after Thanksgiving! Ooph, I’m gonna be in trouble if this keeps up!”

   “The boys loved the pizza,” grandma Laurie smiled. “Happy birthday again, honey!”

   “Thank you, everyone,” Tabitha said in a voice that did not feel like her own. “I, I don’t mean to hold anyone up—we can go ahead and order as soon as everyone’s ready?”

   “Sure thing!” Mrs. Williams beamed, turning in her seat and holding up her arm to flag down the waitress. “Let’s get your drinks for you two. Missy! Missy! Darling baby girl, I think we’re ready over here.”

   ‘Missy’ turned out to be their nineteen-year old server, a furiously blushing young brunette with ‘Melissa’ on her nametag and a completely mortified expression that Tabitha already found herself sympathizing with.

   “I’m friends with Missy’s mother,” Karen confided to the rest of the table. “Missy just got her first car—bought it all with her own money, all from workin’ here and savin’ up the tips she earned! She was just tickled pink! It was, what was it? A cute white one. A Toyota, I think?”

   “A um, a 1995 Toyota Camry,” Melissa answered with a pronounced Kentucky drawl, turning away in embarrassment to face the newcomers. “Drinks for you two? We have both Coke and Pepsi products.”

   “Pepsi, please,” Tabitha said.

   “Pepsi for me as well, then,” Sandra chimed in. “Mmm, might go for a Bahama Mama later, though…”

   “No you don’t, you’re driving,” Mrs. Williams gave her a swat. “Is it okay if we start ordering, Missy honey?”

   “Uh—of course!” Melissa dug a notepad out of her apron pocket. “What can I start’cha off with?”

   “Well, I’ll have your nine ounce sirloin with—”

   Tabitha tuned out the voices as she hurried to flip open her menu—she was on the other end of the table, so she could decide on what she wanted by the time they got around to her. Photos of dishes were paired with detailed descriptions in the laminate pages, but when her eyes reached the listed prices for each, Tabitha’s thoughts lurched to a numb halt.

Riblet Basket A Hearty Portion Of Slow Hickory Roasted Rib Tips Basted In Our Spicy Bar B Que Sauce & Served With Fries 6.99

Buffalo Chicken Wings Spicy Wings With Celery Sticks & Bleu Cheese Dressing 5.69

Potato Skins Six Hot Skins Topped With Cheddar & Chopped Bacon Served With Sour Cream 5.49

Applebee's House Sirloin 9.99

Chicken Fingers Basket Breaded Chicken Tenderloins, Fried & Served With French Fries & Honey Mustard Sauce  6.49

Applebee's House Sirloin A 9 Oz. Sirloin Steak Served With Your Choice Of Two Sides. Served With Boboli Oven Bread 9.99

   Holy hell—how is everything so cheap?! Tabitha couldn’t help but do a double-take, rereading the menu from the beginning again. These would seem like pretty good normal prices if they were SIXTEEN ninety-nine, not SIX ninety-nine. I was going to try to not break anyone’s wallet and order kinda modestly… but now it’s just like—hell, might as well order whatever I want? Can we just freeze everything like this here in 1998? Let’s keep these prices, and just not ever get on into the future?

   “An’ for you?” Melissa had worked her way around the table to finally ask Tabitha.

   “Um,” Tabitha was still in a daze even after everyone else had placed their orders, so Tabitha made a snap decision. “Fajita quesadilla with the sirloin steak? Thank you.”

   “Oh, no problem!” Melissa made a quick note and tucked her notepad back into her apron. “I’ll have your guyses drinks out for ya in jus’ a minute.”

   “Missy darling,” Mrs. Williams began to reveal a smile that was alarmingly wide. “Today is actually a very special day for our Tabitha, here. She’s just turning fourteen, and—”

   “Oh, no no no, no,” Tabitha experienced a rare full-body cringe that puckered her very soul. “I’m not, no, it actually—it was last week, technically, on the tenth, and we already even celebrated it yesterday, so—”

   “Well, I’m sure they can still all come out and sing and clap for you!” Mrs. Williams pursed her lips. “Missy sweetie, since this is—”

   “That’s, no, they can’t,” Tabitha shot their waitress a pleading look. “That… wouldn’t really be right or fair to anyone else. My birthday’s already passed by and over. It’s over with.”

   “Um, if that’s the case…” To her credit, Melissa read Tabitha’s horrified expression and then turned to Mrs. Williams with an apologetic look. “I’m really sorry, Momma Williams. If her birthday’s already passed on by, we really shouldn’t—I don’t want to get in trouble with Dylan.”

   “It was just a day or two ago!” Mrs. Williams protested. “I’m sure if—”

   “Karen, stop,” Mrs. Macintire smacked her on the arm. “They’re both gonna strangle you.”

   “Oh, pooh,” Mrs. Williams let out a reluctant sigh. “Alright, alright!”

   “Yeahhh—sorry again!” Melissa apologized as she fled out of sight.

   “You really are a Karen,” Tabitha remarked, casting a wary look over at Mrs. Williams as the woman’s defeated expression morphed into a rather telling smirk.

   “You’re just the worst,” Mrs. Macintire agreed, shaking her head. “You know that’s only funny when we can have margaritas. I’m way too sober for you to be torturing the kiddos, okay?”

   “Fine, fine,” Mrs. Williams laughed. “What a bunch of spoil sports!”

*     *     *

   The next half hour turned out to be one of the most excruciating half hour of Tabitha’s two lifetimes. Mrs. Williams fought hard and leveraged every ounce of her social acumen, but the Moore parents were clearly uncomfortable, and each answered in only brief, single-word responses. There were too many sensitive issues to avoid touching on, and maintaining conversation that didn’t lapse into awkward silence after a few moments was such a herculean task that Tabitha imagined even Karen was beginning to sweat.

   Tabitha’s mother tended to clam up in group settings, and neither of the Moores ever went out to eat together much, from what she recalled. The takeout boxes that used to fill their refrigerator at the mobile home were all from the local grease pit on their side of town, DaM Good Wings—the 'DaM' was short for Deb & Mike’s. They sold cheap food, mostly to people who would be drunk enough to not be too discerning in their taste anyways. Tabitha had declined all of his offers to take her there since traveling back to this time, as her every distant memory of DaM Good Wings’ sticky surfaces and cigarette nicotine-stained ceiling was already regrettable enough. By comparison, the Springton Applebee’s was almost posh fare—everything was clean and neat, and their table here sported napkin holders instead of a simple roll of discolored paper towels, at least.

   Mrs. William’s further attempts at levity couldn’t buck off the somewhat gloomy atmosphere, and Tabitha hid on the other side of Mrs. Macintire and sipped at her soft drink, doing her absolute best to not draw any attention to herself. Pepsi was many, many times more sugary than Tabitha had remembered, but now she was too embarrassed to ask for a water. In the end, grandma Laurie managed to participate in actual conversation with Karen, and those two were able to talk about Tabitha’s four cousins until the food began to arrive.

   The steak quesadillas Tabitha ordered turned out to be incredible, satiating a specific craving that had likely persisted since sometime in the year 2045. Springton didn’t have any place that served proper southwestern dishes—or so she had thought—and eventually Tabitha forced herself to concede that in her grown up lifetime, she rarely ventured outside of her routine or tried new places to eat. The Applebee’s had been there that whole time, and it was Tabitha who was at fault for never stopping by through those years.

   Everyone’s food looked good—the table was filled with the glasses of their drinks and plates of different courses each of them had ordered, but oddly enough, as conversation gave way to enjoying meals the tension around the table instead rose. Occasional glances were being exchanged between Mrs. Williams and Mr. Moore, several others were very studiously not looking up from their food, and a pall of seriousness began to weigh across their section of the Applebee’s with terrible gravity.

  The time for them to talk had come.

   “You’re growin’ up, Tabitha,” Mr. Moore explained in a weary voice. “You’re goin’ through the phases. I know a’part of this is you wantin’ some personal freedom for yourself, so you can leave the nest, stretch your wings more—and I know with us we don’t have a lot of room for you to stretch your wings, and I understand that. But, the thing is…”

   The man sighed, absentmindedly cleaning his fingers with his napkin and frowning down at his food for a moment.

   “You’re jus’ now fourteen years old, and you’re not ready to be out on your own yet, you’re just not,” Mr. Moore shook his head. “No one at that age is. I’m not prepared to see anything happen to you, and out on your own—anything can happen to you. I can’t—we can’t—let that happen. Let anything happen to you. We’re not gonna sit back and watch as you go an’ put yourself out there and maybe the world jus’ chews you up and spits you back out.”

   But you WERE content to sit back and watch as LISA happened to our whole family, Tabitha wanted to retort. It’s fine when LISA happens, huh? That doesn’t count?

   Mrs. Macintire sat up in her seat and very obviously about to object to a number of his points, but the woman was paying attention to Tabitha and took the small shake of the head as a warning cue to desist for now.

   “Dad… I’m not exactly ‘on my own,’” Tabitha replied in a dry voice. “When they took me in, the Macintires didn’t exactly set me up in a doghouse out in their yard—”

   Sandra snorted at that, and a strained smile surfaced for a moment before slipping back down again—her arms were crossed now, and her irritation with the Moores seemed to now be obvious to everyone at the table except for Mr. Moore.

   “—and I have to say that the level of support, attention, and care that has been provided to me has been nothing short of miraculous,” Tabitha finished. “If your concerns are based on—”

   “There you go again, talkin’ like that,” Mr. Moore interrupted with a scowl. “Like you’re a stranger, like you're somebody else. Like you’re tryin’ to be somebody else.”

   “Alan, please,” grandma Laurie let out a sigh.

   A red-hot flash of irritation—and, jarringly enough, the lyrics from that specific Avril Lavigne song, Complicated—washed through Tabitha’s thoughts and for a moment jumbled up the careful and concise line of rebuttals she had.

   His claim that she was just out there on her own in a cruel, uncaring world was already ridiculous to everyone at this table except for him. But, that was okay. That was fine. He wanted to take stabs at how she was acting. This was even better, because it meant they were somehow already passing right on by a number of frivolous arguments that had no weight or merit, and getting towards the real meat of the matter. Tabitha had long since been just as prepared to cut into all that.

   “That is part of growing up, isn’t it?” Tabitha shot back at him. “Trying to be somebody, discovering my identity. Or—should I tuck my wings firmly in, and keep them there? If this is about me ‘leaving the nest,’ will you brook no attempt for me to fly? Not before, what, before some arbitrary amount of time passes? Should I make no attempt to try to be somebody, to grow up—and then hope that, at eighteen and only at eighteen, I magically transform overnight into a mature, fully-formed adult?”

   “Tabitha,” Mr. Moore warned. “Now, you know that’s not what I meant.”

   “No, I’m sure it wasn’t,” Tabitha wanted in some small part to flinch back at the animosity she heard in her own voice, but she was also getting mad. “Your meaning hews instead towards my class, doesn’t it? My socio-economic class? That’s where you don’t like me trying to ‘be somebody else.’ In which case, what do you even identify me as in the first place, that you find yourself so uncomfortable with this? What am I? Simple small town girl? Your humble blue-collar daughter? An ordinary Kentucky country girl? Redneck, poor kid—white trash?”

   “Tabitha—” Karen Williams reined her back in, and Tabitha rocked back in her seat, realizing her overwhelming teenage emotions had gotten the better of her again. She had good arguments—she had so many good arguments here, but there was a deceptive amount of difficulty in articulating them here in front of everyone without losing her cool and beginning to wax towards the melodramatic.

   Tabitha rocked back in her seat, eyes darting around the table—she hadn’t maybe meant to go quite that far. Sandra beside her looked all too supportive of her little rant, Mrs. Moore wore a pensive look at Tabitha’s little explosion, but it was grandma Laurie’s look of concern that really started to finally cool the anger thrumming inside of her back down into guilt.

   “We’re all on the same side here, and we’re all here for Tabitha!” Karen reminded everyone. “We all want what’s best for her, and I know we can agree on that—or come to an agreement on what that winds up meaning.”

   “In my opinion,” Sandra jumped in, “this isn’t so much about class, or resources, or socio-economic—socio-whatever, this is just about method and manner of parenting! If—”

   “Sandy,” Karen now turned in exasperation to try to moderate her friend.

   “No, let me finish!” Mrs. Macintire waved Karen down. “If there are communication issues between parent and child so stark as to allow a heroin addict into their home—despite of all of Tabitha’s warnings and comments about it—that’s a huge problem!”

   With a sinking feeling, Tabitha realized that everyone at this table was sitting on their own topical powderkegs. In some way or another, all of the fuses seemed to be lit at once and burning towards terrible confrontations. Drugs, custody, familial trust, parenting—each of these issues would be better addressed separately, individually, but were already so entangled that everyone was sure to be talking past each other to argue different points.

   This… was a mistake. I already want to bail. Yeah, and just—just not do this. Check, please?

   “Now hold up, we still don’t know for sure that Lisa was—” Mr. Moore started to argue.

   “Yes we do,” Sandra talked over him, stabbing a finger through the air. “Yes. We. Do. The heroin was found in her purse, she tested positive for it, for Christ’s sake they put the woman on methadone to manage her withdrawal sympt—”

   “Okay, let’s settle down, settle down!” Mrs. Williams restrained Mrs. Macintire with a hand on her shoulder and turned in her seat to face outside their table area. “Sorry about that, Missy hon! We’ll keep our voices down!”

   “Uh, no no—you’re fine!” Their wide-eyed waitress blurted out in an apologetic tone. “Please, don’t even mind me. Was just gonna cut in and see if any o’ y’all needed a refill on anything. I can uh, I can come back?”

   “Pepsi, please?” Tabitha spoke up, feeling her cheeks burn at the reminder that they were doing this in an Applebee’s.

   Melissa awkwardly stepped over and leaned in past Tabitha’s shoulder to pour more ice and soda pop into her glass from a pitcher, and then the poor worker promptly excused herself again. Silence lingered heavily around the table following the interruption however, and Mrs. Williams took the opportunity to shoot Sandra a look and then attempt to clear the air a bit.

   “Mister Moore—you hold family as inviolable, and I can understand that and respect that,” Mrs. Williams said. “I know you love Tabitha, and want the best for her! She’s your daughter. I just think this ‘family’ mindset of yours, where family can just do no wrong, gave you a bit of a blind spot when it came to this Lisa person! Maybe the way you saw her, or the way she was around you all led into that somehow, and then it just becomes difficult to believe a problem like drug abuse could be so close to home. Which is—it’s understandable—”

   Mrs. Moore bite her lower lip in aggravation, tightening her fingers on the cutlery she was clutching, but Tabitha wasn’t able to tell if her mother’s frustration was directed at Mrs. Williams, or if it was reserved for the husband sitting right beside her.

   “I can’t, and won’t, forgive willful ignorance when heroin winds up around minors,” Sandra sniped with a frosty expression, crossing her arms. “That’s not okay.”

   “—It’s—yes, that is a huge problem, but I think we can all agree no one could have expected it or seen something like this coming in a nice area like Springton,” Mrs. Williams hurried to finish. “This was going to be crazy news to all of us, and if I’d heard it but not seen the evidence myself, I’m not sure I’d have believed it, either. Who would? Heroin? In Springton?”

   “Apparently it was obvious enough that a minor caught all the signs,” Sandra refused to relent.

   Tabitha couldn’t help but chafe at the continuous emphasis on her being underage, but she did appreciate the thrust of Mrs. Macintire’s argument. After all, the woman had her own experiences, she’d married a police officer, and she had her own daughter to look out for. For most anyone, taking an inflexible zero tolerance stance on heroin was completely sensible.

   There was temptation again for Tabitha to mention that perhaps the D.A.R.E. programs at school could have clued her into factors more quickly than her parents, but also she wasn’t confident bringing that forward to the scrutiny of so many adults at once. Tabitha had been absent from public school for some time now, and she couldn’t recall any appreciable Drug Abuse Resistance Education lessons since reliving this part of her life.

   “Tabitha honey—what was it that first caught your attention regarding your Aunt?” Mrs. Williams passed the ball back to her court.

   Oh shit. Yeah, there it is.

   “It—um,” Tabitha swallowed. “I think… I always suspected. When she actually just showed up that one night recently, she barged in around midnight, hammering on our door—that’s when I couldn’t help but look for signs. And, all the signs were there.”

   The truth had never felt like such a lie, and Tabitha immediately felt guilt wash through her upon saying all of that out loud. In her first life, Tabitha had been completely ignorant of Lisa’s heroin addiction; it was simply an offhand fact she heard from her parents years and years later, something they had discovered when Tabitha was already well into her mid-twenties. There had never been an opportunity for the original Tabitha to suspect anything; aunt Lisa had disappeared from their lives shortly after uncle Danny was incarcerated. Only this unique set of circumstances and then the rumor of settlement money by chance brought Lisa back this time through.

   “Can you be more specific?” Mrs. Williams pressed.

   “In regards to…?” Tabitha wavered. “I-in regards to specific needle abuse symptoms I observed, or pertaining to insight into Aunt Lisa as a person that first led me to suspect her?”

   Mrs. Williams exchanged glances with the Moores and then Mrs. Macintire before turning her gaze back towards Tabitha, and Tabitha inwardly cursed at realizing her language had turned clinical and robotic again.

   “Anything you can give us. Just whatever comes to mind, hon.”

   “Okay,” Tabitha took a deep breath as she tried to gather her thoughts. “There are two traits I would first use to characterize my aunt Lisa and uncle Danny by. Having poor impulse control, and having little to no regard for consequences. When I found out my uncle had committed a serious crime and was facing prison time, I wasn’t surprised at all. I had subconsciously already put them in roughly that mental box, and so the news just… fell within my expectations. I think maybe only my father was actually shocked by the news.”

   “Well—o’course I was!” Mr. Moore seemed both angry and indignant. “It was just—it was stupid, what he did. Stupid.”

  “Yes,” Tabitha agreed. “But, that fit perfectly with what I thought of him and Lisa.”

   “Oh, ha ha. So that’s it, then,” Mr. Moore’s voice rose. “That’s what you think of us—you think your family’s all stupid?!”

   “She said him and Lisa,” Grandma Laurie pointed out, leaning forward to speak up. “Alan. She didn’t say you, she didn’t say you all, she didn’t say her whole family is stupid, but Lord help me, with the way you’re—”

   “We’re, we’re getting sidetracked!” Mrs. Williams held up her hands. “Let’s just let Tabitha say her piece, okay?”

   “The rest is… all obvious,” Tabitha gave the table of adults a small shrug. “The puncture marks were there, if you looked for them. She was twitchy. Unusually possessive of her handbag, never had it out of arm’s reach or even away from being tucked in under her arm like she had it. It was suspicious! My first thought, honestly, was that she’d stolen something.”

   And I think she DID, the last of my codeine tablets still turned up missing—

   “Your aunt Lisa wouldn’t steal anything,” Mr. Moore shook his head in disbelief.

   “Dad—how or why would you make that assertion with such confidence?!” Tabitha found herself blurting out, a wave of anger crashing over her again without warning. “On what basis are you so willing to vouch for the quality of her character? If you’re aware of something that I’m not, by all means please—”

   “Because I know Lisa, and she’s not that kind of person,” Mr. Moore replied with an expression that indicated he was explaining the obvious. “She’s not a thief, she wouldn’t—”

   “Oh? She’s not a thief? Not like uncle Danny?” Tabitha countered.

   “—She—Tabby, stop,” Mr. Moore blustered. “She wouldn’t be up to any of that kind of nonsense, and honest to God I still don’t think she was doing heroin, either. This is all some sort of big mix-up, and once we can get this sorted out—”

   “But, she was doing heroin!” Mrs. Macintire’s eyebrows went up. “That’s what was found, when everything was sorted out. Just what in the hell have you done towards sorting any of this out? It seems to me—”

   “Well, I don’t know anything about that,” Mr. Moore shook his head, stubbornly refusing to believe it.

   “Dad—” Tabitha found herself at a loss. “I know you don’t like it—I know you don’t want to accept it. But, when you look at all of the facts together? The picture it illustrates is a rather damning one. Uncle Danny is a criminal. Trying to steal a pallet of computers—an entire pallet—wasn’t some random whim. It was planned, premeditated, thought out; he chose to break the law. Aunt Lisa was in full support of that, grandma caught her over and over again, telling the boys that their daddy didn’t do anything wrong. But, he was.”

   “It was stupid, an’ he made a mistake,” Mr. Moore shrugged. “S’all there is to it. People make mistakes.”

   “Uncle Danny was working,” Tabitha continued to spell it out for him. “He had steady income, he and Lisa shared a comfortable apartment, and with grandma Laurie’s help and support with the kids? They had a comfortable life. Why would he jeopardize that, why was he suddenly so pressed for money that he turned to crime? Why was Lisa so eager to sell off the Cutlass Supreme for cash? Wouldn’t she have needed a vehicle to get around? Where did all of their money keep going, dad?”

   “Heroin,” Mrs. Macintire chimed in. “Obviously!”

   “I don’t know where anything like heroin even came from,” Mr. Moore said, putting both hands on the table in a gesture of finality. “But, what I do know is that every a one’ve y’all is sure damn quick to condemn someone before we know what’s what. Yer uncle Danny has his court date, an’ Lisa has hers too, and this is America—so as far as I’m concerned, she’s innocent until proven guilty! They both are. An’ that’s up to judge and jury. Men and women under oath—under God—to decide, once all the evidence is figured itself out and everyone’s had a chance to have their say.”

   “Mister Moore,” Mrs. Williams sighed. “From late that night when I picked up Tabitha, to when we got her inside and my husband had a chance to see what it was in that purse, no one else touched any of that stuff. Are you suggesting Tabitha, your daughter, planted four grand worth of illegal narcotics in that purse?”

   “Of course not!” Mr. Moore appeared outraged. “How could you even say that?”

   “Your daughter voiced her suspicions to you,” Mrs. Williams replied in a calm voice. “You disregarded them as impossible, and went on about your day. Your daughter went and took the purse to us, and her suspicions were confirmed—because we found a whole bunch of heroin in said purse.”

   “In a Batman thermos, actually,” Tabitha remarked. “The plastic kind, that comes from a child’s lunchbox. Perhaps from one of the boys?”

   “Does one of those four kiddos have a Batman lunch pail?” Mrs. Macintire asked grandma Laurie.

   “Well—” Grandma Laurie paused. “Batman? Yes, I know they do, one of them’s a batman lunchbox. I send Aiden to school with it every day.”

   “Is it missing a thermos?” Mrs. Macintire pressed.

   “Oh, they all are,” Grandma Laurie shrugged. “We stopped puttin’ them in there, on account of one of them makin’ an awful mess the one time when a lid wasn’t screwed tight. I just put in a little juice box for each of them instead, and they’re fine. The thermoses would be—somewhere at Danny’s apartment, in with their things, I suppose.”

   “Can we check up on that?” Mrs. Williams asked.

   “Of course, I have a key,” Grandma Laurie nodded. “I can have the boys hunt through all the stuff over there.”

   “Mom—you don’t seriously believe that Lisa had heroin, do you?” Mr. Moore shot the middle-aged woman a look of surprise. “That she’d not only have heroin, but put it in one of the kid’s thermos? C’mon, now.”

   “I don’t know what you expect from me,” grandma Laurie said after a moment of consideration. “She had no problem drinking or smoking around the boys. The outfits she wore—nothing was appropriate, and then all the foul things that came out of her mouth! I don’t rightly know what to think. Would it really be all that shocking if she was gettin’ herself into drugs? You know I’d caught them smoking marijuana the one time, and we talked about that.”

   “That’s,” Mr. Moore frowned, staring down at the table. “No, that’s jus’—completely different. That is that, and then this is this. I don’t see what—”

   “Are you willing to stake this family on that?” Tabitha delivered the ultimatum she felt she had been waiting for. “Because, that’s what this is, dad. I won’t be a part of this family if she is, and I won’t allow her to hurt the boys any more than she already has—she’s done enough damage.”

   “You can’t—”

   “So, it’s very simple: you just need to choose, right now, between me and her. You either believe in her innocence, for, for whatever unfathomable reasons you might have, and think that I somehow framed her, or you believe in me, everyone else, and all of the evidence when I insist she’s a drug addict and a threat to this family.”

   In the moment she was delivering those words she felt a rush of power and conviction because she knew she was right. But, locking eyes with her dad and seeing his irritation and refusal to accept the reality in front of him instead filled her with a gut-wrenching sense of loss. It was as though the unstoppable force of her argument simply met the immovable object of her father’s stubborn mind, and that was that.

   In which case, nothing I could EVER say will matter, Tabitha felt totally defeated. He’s not even listening to me. In a movie, IN A STORY, this is where I had my moment to shine, and I had all the right words, and everything I had to say was just going to be so compelling that he’d have NO CHOICE but to accept what’s going on here! He’d be, he’d be MOVED, his mind would be changed, SOMETHING WOULD CHANGE, but instead—

   Instead Mr. Moore simply appeared annoyed, because he hadn’t wanted to hear her say anything like that. Tabitha watched with plummeting spirits as he turned his infuriating pigheaded look of consternation from her over to Mrs. Macintire and Mrs. Williams in turn, as though they’d been filling his poor daughter’s head with nonsense. As though these two meddling outsiders had clearly been trying to set members of his family against one another. The realization was so deeply, personally exhausting that Tabitha felt too tired to even be angry anymore.

   I’m just done. I’m done. Take me home, I want to—I’m just gonna curl up under the covers and be done with today. This was pointless. What a fucking waste of everyone’s time. Shouldn’t have even tried! I’m done. I’m done. Check, please?

*     *     *

   “You okay, kiddo?” Mrs. Macintire asked, stepping into the ladies’ restroom of the Applebee’s where Tabitha had been staring vacantly into the mirror for somewhere upwards of five minutes.

   “I’m… here,” Tabitha reported.

   “I, honestly I think it went about as well as can be expected,” Sandra said, joining her at the mirror. “You okay? Was worried you’d be in here crying.”

   “You know?” Tabitha shook her head at their reflections. “I wish I could cry. That would be—something. A thing. A release, I guess. I just feel nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing, about anything. I feel like I’m just done with all of this? Can we just leave?”

   “He did say that if it came down to it, he’d side with you instead of Lisa,” Mrs. Macintire pointed out. “That’s something.”

   “Did he?” Tabitha shrugged with indifference, trying to think back to what had been said. “I guess I just sort of started to zone out, there. Wasn’t getting through to him, so it all—everything—stopped mattering. Even if he did say it, does he even mean it? What does it mean if that’s only a decision he’s able to make grudgingly? What does anything mean? I—I don’t care anymore. I’m done. I’m sorry.”

   Tabitha watched in the mirror as Mrs. Macintire pulled her into a hug, and felt the woman run a hand up and down her back in a way that should have been comforting. It didn’t feel comforting, however—she still felt nothing, felt like she’d become the robot she spoke like when she was stressed. Like some worn out part of her mental faculties had failed to continue processing her emotional state, and just stopped working. The experience felt neither unpleasant nor pleasant, because she just didn’t feel anything at all.

  I am… not real confident that this is a positive development for me.

   “I get it,” Mrs. Macintire patted Tabitha’s back and gave her another crushing squeeze. “I really do. I get it, and seeing it again like this makes me want to just, to just reach over and knock his block off. It was both of my parents, for me. Had a brother, he um, he got into opiates. They tried to help! Over and over again. The wrong kind of help really winds up hurting everyone, but they—they didn’t see that, or couldn’t see that. I don’t know, kiddo.”

   “I’m sorry,” Tabitha’s brow furrowed. “Did he…?”

   “Yeah,” Mrs. Macintire shrugged. “One time too many, and they just couldn’t resuscitate him. It’s okay. Long time ago, I was—I must’ve been nineteen, back then. How the years just fly by, huh?”

   “Yeah,” Tabitha agreed fully, finally feeling a spark of—well, feeling something.

   “Hah, and with your parents, your dad at least, it’s like he can’t even hear a word we’re saying at all,” Mrs. Macintire let out a bitter laugh. “He’s got it bad. This stuff just, it’s just not part of his world view, so to him, it can’t be this way, can’t be real. Not with family.”

   “It’s crazy,” Tabitha remarked, also feeling the urge to swear. “Family.”

   “It is,” Mrs. Macintire said. “It’s like that for a lot of people, just, it never comes out until things go all to hell. There’s a lot of crazy hidden in people, hon. Sometimes it’s like everyone lives in their own little reality, and anything that pushes too far and challenges that—well. Yeah.”

   “I thought I had him,” Tabitha admitted. “I thought I would get through to him, if it was just laid out in the right way, maybe. Now, it’s like—is it even possible for two human beings to ever fully understand one another? Is there meaning in trying to ever reach anyone? I. I know that’s melodramatic as hell, but Jesus Christ. I’m just so done with all of this.”

   “I know, kiddo,” Sandra sighed. “I know. He does love you. Just, he’s awful close-minded in these certain areas. He’s got a thick head. Nothing we could say I think was ever gonna just… bring him around, and get him convinced all right away. It’s a process, and it takes time. We made some headway, and that’s all we can do.”

   “I guess?” Tabitha tried not to sound doubtful, and failed at that miserably enough to eke another weary laugh out of Mrs. Macintire.

   “Well,” the woman said, taking Tabitha by the shoulders and appraising her at arm’s length for a moment. “We weren’t sure how this was all gonna go… but I think it’s best that you stay with us, for the time being. Rather than havin’ you go back home with your parents anytime soon. How do you feel about that?”

   “I—please,” Tabitha nodded thankfully. “If you’ll still have me, I’d love that. I’m sorry for, for all of this.”

   “We will be thrilled to have you, for as long as we can keep you,” Mrs. Macintire said with a twinkle in her eye. “I promise. Can you even imagine? Me goin’ back all alone, havin’ to be the one to tell Hannah she won’t be seeing you for a while? Are you kidding me?”

   “Hah,” Tabitha let out a listless chuckle.

   “You’re okay,” Mrs. Macintire assured her. “We’re gonna be okay. Let’s get ourselves back out there, and have the rest of dinner with your parents—I think I saw they had some birthday presents for you—and, maybe we’ll wrap up with ice cream for dessert, and then—and then, we’ll take you home to Hannah. How’s that sound?”

   “I… think I could go for ice cream,” Tabitha admitted. “Just for tonight.”

*     *     *

   Spoons clinked against the dessert dishes and several milkshakes their table had ordered, but a strained silence reigned over their section amid the noise of the busy Applebee’s. Even Mrs. Williams was no longer pushing herself to initiate small talk. Tabitha’s ice cream was okay—surprisingly rich—but the sundae was also melting so fast that it was annoying. It was as though her serving had been scooped directly into a porcelain bowl that was still steaming hot from the back kitchen dishwasher.

   “I—well, we would like to have her for Christmas,” Mrs. Moore finally spoke up, an act minutes in the making and one that seemed to take every last ounce of courage within her. “So that she can have Christmas morning with family. We Moores don’t do much of anything to celebrate New Years.”

   Mr. Moore nodded at that as he chewed his fudge-covered brownie, but didn’t say a word. Whatever had happened while Tabitha took her breather in the restroom, her mother appeared to have been forced to step up into cautious conversation, while Mr. Moore instead lapsed into a brooding distant quiet this time. The reversal of their roles came as a relief, because there seemed to be a clear consensus that the uncomfortable topics were at a close for tonight. There seemed to be a tacit acknowledgement that Tabitha was staying with the Macintires, which came as an enormous relief.

   I guess the fear was just THERE that some random helpless turn of conversation would have things wind up otherwise, Tabitha thought to herself.

   Even if that doesn’t really make sense. Because—I don’t know what to do. With mom, with dad. With all of that. We need to reconcile obviously, duh, but—I also have to accept that I’m not emotionally equipped to do that just yet. Or they aren’t. No, it’s not just them. In my head, seeing them today I was going to keep my cool, be calm and collected, and yeah. That just didn’t happen, doesn’t happen. And, when I get to where I’m feeling so burnt out and just DONE with everything, like this? I don’t even want to try to reconcile. I just want distance again. Distance and time.

   “Also, she does have a doctor’s appointment in January,” Mrs. Moore continued speaking in a small, quiet voice. “January fifteenth—to see if her hand’s healed up enough to get that terrible cast off. It’s covered under my husband’s insurance already.”

   “You hear that?” Mrs. Williams turned to Tabitha. “Just a few more weeks in that awful cast.”

   “Maybe?” Tabitha couldn’t commit to getting excited over that just yet, and mustering up enough Tabitha to be conversational again was an enormous struggle. “Maybe not. January will be three months. They warned me it would be three to five months, and also said my diet was too low in calcium. Bones were brittle. I’ve been having a glass of milk a day now, but… I don’t know. It’s hard to be too optimistic?”

   “Where would you like to spend Christmas, Tabitha honey?” Mrs. Macintire asked. “Whatever you want to do is fine. We’d love to have you, but I’m sure it could also be nice with your family.”

   “I think,” Tabitha paused, taking a deep breath.

   “I think… and I say this as diplomatically as possible—that spending Christmas morning with the Macintires would maybe be… a little awkward. Maybe embarrassing. While I love your family to pieces, I also understand that I’m, I’m a guest in your household. It would feel weird, to receive gifts out of courtesy or obligation, and, it would also feel strange to sit by and watch when I suspect Hannah has a small mountain of Christmas presents waiting for her. I’m uh, I’m also a little ashamed to say I only prepared one tiny gift, one for Hannah.”

   “Hannah and I picked out a few different things for you here and there,” Mrs. Macintire said with a small smile. “What we gave you on your birthday was part of it. How about you spend Christmas Eve with us, so that you and the munchkin can exchange gifts that night, then I can swing you over to the trailer park for Christmas morning?”

   “That would be—that sounds lovely, thank you,” Tabitha still didn’t dare look up at her parents.

   “Hannah’s getting a couple ‘big’ things this year,” Mrs. Macintire sighed. “A gameboy and the Pokemon thing for it. She’s getting a plastic cottage playhouse for out in the yard—yes, this will be her second one. This one’s a little bigger than her old one, she’s just sprouting up too fast and was already starting to bump her head on the door of that one this past summer. New one has a working door, and little window shutters, and a little fold-down table. The outside is much fancier-looking, it’s just cute as can be. We’ll either donate the old one to the church, or… or we’ll start to have a little kiddie-sized town forming in our backyard, I guess? Hah.”

   “I’m sure she’s going to adore it,” Tabitha nodded. “She did show me her old one out there in the side yard, but she wouldn’t go inside—she said she saw a big spider in there once.”

   “Of course,” Mrs. Macintire groaned. “Lost cause, guess we’d better donate it, then. Maybe we’ll just set up the new one in the living room until Spring? Hannah’s not too keen on spiders or creepy crawlies. Oh! The other big thing is a new bicycle. Still will have training wheels, but she’s definitely outgrown her old one, that was a dinky little thing from when she was in kindergarden. Hubby and I discussed picking you up one so that you and Hannah can ride together, but we were gonna talk to you and see how you felt about that, first.”

   “Um,” Tabitha froze. “I—I don’t know. I’m… not sure if I’m comfortable with that, with you spending that much. May I—uh. I was going to ask for some time to think about it, but there really isn’t much time left, is there? Before Christmas.”

   “You take all the time in the world to think it over,” Mrs. Macintire offered, tucking her spoon into her ice cream. “We won’t pick anything up ‘til we have your say-so. How’s that sound?”

   “Intimidating, still,” Tabitha let out an uneasy laugh. “It’s just—that’s a lot, and you already spent so much.”

   “Well,” grandma Laurie decided to throw in her bid for Tabitha’s time, “I think if you’re having Christmas with us, we should have the Moore Christmas at my place, at the apartment. I’m the only one with a tree, and the boys will be there, and I was hoping to make up a nice big meal for everyone.”

   “I have presents for each of the boys,” Tabitha nodded. “That sounds wonderful. Actually—I probably should have checked with you, first. You got videogame things for the boys?”

   “Two new games for Danny’s Nintendo set, yes,” Grandma Laurie nodded. “Then, they each also got two action figures. Wrestlemania, Batman, Star Wars, and I think more Godzilla ones.”

   “Speaking of presents…” Mrs. Moore let out a laugh that was more of a wince, hefting a bucket, of all things, up from beside her chair—a white five-gallon bucket, sporting a gold tinsel stick-on gift bow. “Uh. We did bring you a few birthday things. For your late birthday presents.

   “You um… you don’t have to open them here.”

( 47, Grow up. | RE: Trailer Trash | Next, to be continued... )

/// This was a hard one to write, I feel that I just about feature the worst personal qualities of each of the characters in turn. Guilt and anxiety, hesitance and inaction, deniers, enablers, meddlesome middle-class women with a slight savior complex. Bobby? No, Bobby's fine, I love Bobby. That bit's the odd one out and probably should get cut. Overall though there wasn't a cathartic, satisfying and clean-cut resolution for this one. Personal hostilities occasionally reach a cease-fire, but the war of wills here won't conclude in such a perfunctory manner at an Applebee's.

Going to go yet another month putting off redoing the pledge tier prices. Not okay or comfortable with raising prices when I haven't had great writing output, regardless of whatever various reasons why. For now just doing the best I can, and working towards having next month be a better month.