Chapter Text
Richie was at his mom’s house. Yes, mom’s. Not just his house. His parents are divorced now. So right now his mom has him. They have a 2-2-5-5 schedule, so he’s with his mom for the week, then his dad for the weekend this time.
He was watching some trash on TV while his mom was in the room next to him, looking over at jobs. She’s been unemployed for years, she’s just been too busy for one. But now that she’s single she needs a job to financially support herself.
Honestly, he’s just thankful she’s gone to rehab and picked her life back up. And he’s thankful the fighting is gone. He didn’t want it to happen at all, but his parents' divorce was for the best for all of them. Was he coping well with it? No, not quite. But it was better than the home life he had before.
The dining room/kitchen was quite open, no door, so Richie could look at his mom if he needed to. And that’s exactly what he did when he heard the phone ring. He was curious so he watched his mother set her hands flat on the table to stand, and walked over to the phone, picking it up off the wall.
“Hello?” He couldn’t hear the person on the phone, but by the look on his mothers face, she knew them. “Oh, Aunt Tracy. What are you calling for?” The faint smile on her face dropped, morphing into something dark and serious. Richie was very worried now, his heart beating out of his chest. What did Great-Aunt Tracy say?
His mother nodded to herself, closing her eyes. “Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry to hear that.” She opened her eyes again. Her nails drummed on the wall beside her.
1
The phone rang. Maggie looked up at it, then got up, bracing her hands on the table before standing. She grabbed the phone off the wall. “Hello?” A curious look on her face, before morphing into recognition after the caller spoke.
“Margie? It’s Aunt Tracy.”
“Oh, Aunt Tracy. What are you calling for?”
“I’m sorry to tell you like this, Margie, or at all, but Janis is dead.” Her face fell. Maggie heard the waver in her voice of a mother trying to keep it all together, but failing, because who wouldn’t be mortified and distraught by their child dying? Maggie’s worried about it many times, it’s even kept her up at night. And of course, she lost her first child so soon, plus her third child being put in Juniper Hill–
Stop thinking of that, Maggie. Charlene will never be well again. She’s a lost cause. That’s all Butch Bowers would say to you.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, nodding to herself as she soaked in the information, closing her eyes to keep herself grounded. “Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry to hear that.” She opened her eyes again. “Are you alright?” She took a quick glance at Richie, who sure enough was watching her with a curious and worried expression.
She thought so. She knew how kids were, and she especially knew her son.
“As okay as one can be. We… we were gonna start planning her funeral soon.”
Maggie listens to her and provides the comfort she can give. Tracy mentions inviting the family.
“Do you need me to come over?”
“No, no, dear. You have the little monster with you. We’ll be okay for now.”
“Alright, call me if you need me, ‘kay?”
“I will, dear.”
Shortly after she hung up. Maggie walked into the living room. She sat down next to Richie.
2
Richie was anxious as all hell. “What’d she say?” His voice shook just a tad.
His mother took the remote and turned the TV off. He saw her eyes had tears forming in them. “Richie,” She turned to look at him, “Your Aunt Janis passed away.”
Richie blinked. “Aunt Janey? But… She’s only 39, how…?”
“She was in a car accident. I'm sorry.” His mothers voice wavered. Richie didn’t think he could handle this. Emotions, death, all of it. “They’re, um, they’re planning the funeral soon, and pretty much the whole family will be visiting.” She wiped her eyes. Maggie had no clue what to say, neither did Richie.
Everybody loved Aunt Janey. She was sweet, caring, she was close to almost everyone in the family, even Wentworth’s side. It just didn’t feel real that she was… gone.
3
Richie laid in bed, unable to sleep.
He’d counted to ten maybe fifty times, named five things in his room, and did breathing exercises. Nothing made him feel less foggy, or less like everything isn’t real. That’s what's so wrong with him, feeling unreal, and now it’s heightened to a ten.
He tried to swallow down the bile trying to claw its way up his throat that wasn’t really there. Maybe he should get some water. He didn’t want to feel this way, all serious, all sad. It made him scared, uncomfortable.
His legs moved automatically, half-way across his room he snapped back to reality to wonder when did I start moving? Gosh, did I already get up? I don’t even recall standing, or walking, or actually telling myself to do that yet.
Maybe he just needed to take some meds. Which meds? Who knows. Whatever will numb him.
“Awh, don’t talk like that, little wolf.”
His aunt's words whispered in his brain.
“It’ll get better, kiddo. I promise.”
Oh, you promise? How the hell will it get better now? Or ever? Even when it’s decades later he’ll still be fucked up. Still be sick. Still be himself.
Aunt Janey listened to him talk that one night she stayed over and they both found each other in the kitchen at midnight. He confessed that he felt like everything was pointless, and he was scared. He was scared of everything, of people, of his feelings, of himself.
Aunt Janey just listened. What he needed that time; someone to listen. And she gave him that. God, he was so grateful. She told him it would get better, that she’ll always love him, that she promises everything would be okay.
She made him feel better, going on some long rant about shit to make him feel safer. Something deep and meaningful Richie could never come up with. She was always just full of wonder and wisdom and love.
Richie realized he reached the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water with icy cold, shaky hands.
Poor, sweet Aunt Janey, everyone would say. Left by her husband to be a single mom. Gosh, I would never want to be put in that situation. She’s so brave.
Aunt Janey was brave, yes. But she loved being a mom. Richie always felt like what they said was dripping in something meaner. Like she wasn’t brave, just pathetic. Maybe even an embarrassment to the family.
Aunt Janey was always there for him. Like a second mother. When she struggled with fertility, Richie was almost like a child to her. She always baby-sat him. She always provided that wisdom and advice and comfort. She had a calming aura to her. Richie was comforted instantly by the sweet familiarity of her. When his parents were out, she watched movies or played with him. When he was sick and his father was at work, and his mom had to do errands, she’d offer to come over and she’d bake things for him. When his mother drank, she took him to the park. When his parents fought, she took him out to get ice cream.
She was always making him feel better.
“Drop that sad face, little wolf. Smile, it’ll make the world brighter.”
“No it won’t.” He rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t help but giggle as a smile grew on his face.
“Yes it will. See? The world's brighter now! Your smile makes you stronger. It shows people you’re stronger than they think. They can’t take away your smile, you don’t let them.”
And yeah, maybe the sun shone a little brighter, the world seemed more colorful, life felt lighter, everything softer. But was that because he smiled, or was it because she smiled seeing him happy?
Richie stared down at his cup. Aunt Janey had a six and a half year old daughter. Richie was young at the time, but he remembered in his eight years of knowing Janey before she got pregnant, she struggled so hard with getting a child. She’d never kept relationships since the guys she dated never actually wanted to have a family with her, so she’d tried trying to get pregnant artificially, but it never worked. He remembered (accidentally) listening in on one of her conversations with Maggie and talking about how devastated she was.
Then she met Harvey. Then they got married so fast. Then he got her pregnant. Then he just left her.
Katrina was born when he was around eight. His aunt adored her. He didn’t think anyone could be happier than she was. She always showed off her little Katrina Rosie Morin to him and anyone she met. Richie liked Katrina. He was the one who started the nickname Kitty since he thought it was cool that her name started with Kat.
Everyone was so happy for her. And when Aunt Janey was having financial troubles, she stayed over. And that’s when they had that talk. When Kitty was 4, fast asleep in the guest bedroom. When Richie was 13 and was struggling mentally. When he faced that clown and didn’t really think he’d make it out alive. When he was scared so much about his feelings for boys, and about his mental health, and about the people in town, he swore his anxiety was through the roof that year.
Richie brought the cup of water up to his lips. Stop thinking, Richie. Stop thinking, stop talking. You make everything worse.
The water was cold. Richie felt it slip past his lips and past his throat. He felt so cold. So cold it made him sick. It was the middle of summer for crying out loud. He should be sweating from the heat, and yet he’s shivering and shaking.
“Rich? What’re you doing up?” His mothers gentle, sleep-toned voice brought him back to a some-what reality, for once this night. “It’s one o’clock.” She was dressed in a sleep shirt and sleep shorts.
“I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged. His mother watched him drum his fingers on the counter. She gave him that sad look she always gave him when she was worried, and sometimes knew what was wrong. Like now.
“C’mere.” She beckoned him over. When he reached her, she pulled him into a hug. He didn’t know how long it lasted but it felt like minutes. She pulled away from the embrace, and he ignored the leftover tears on her face. She took his hands in hers, clearly ignoring how freezing they were. “I know it’s hard.”
“I have no clue how you’re keeping it together.” He whispers.
“I hardly am.” And he remembers she’s had three grandparents who’ve died, plus a newborn baby, and a four year old who went missing, some-fucking-how. And he just felt shitty. He didn’t think he deserved to not suffer as much—or more—than her. He wishes she didn’t go through those and he could, like he could spare her from the awful experiences and take the fall for her.
“I’m sorry if it feels like I’m not considering your feelings, or… I don’t know. I’m just sorry if I act oblivious, or if I just act like a dick.”
“Language.” She half-heartedly scolded. “You're not sweetie. And if you are, you’ll grow from it. I know you will, miùirneach.” Miùirneach. Miracle. Her miracle baby, cause he’s still here, breathing, living.
“Thank you, momma.”
“For what?”
“For being here. For being my mom.”
She gave him a melancholy smile, like that’s all she’s ever wanted to hear. And maybe it was. She pulled him into another hug and Richie didn’t want to let go.