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The sweet aroma of freshly cut white chrysanthemums, perfect white sugar cubes in clear crystal bowls, the flutter of both delicate lace tablecloths and sundress hems in the light breeze. Meticulously manicured grass beneath white patent leather Mary Janes, servers in crisply pressed black uniforms weaving among the attendants of the event with replacement cups for the extravagant silver tea sets available at each table filled with mother-daughter pairs (or more) of all ages, chatting gaily and partaking of the splendid high tea spread that one could only expect of Mrs. Priscilla Northwest’s annual Mother’s Day Garden Party.
To six-year old Pacifica, trying very hard to avoid fidgeting in the pretty yet uncomfortable Roberto Cavalli dress she’d been instructed not to stain with only grim silence as the proposed punishment for failure to do so…it was all very overwhelming.
It wasn’t her first party, clearly; the life of a Northwest (even a very small one) was an endless stream of parties, banquets, and benefits in which the cost of the event often superseded the donations received, and she could remember her last two lavish birthday parties quite well. Somehow this event was different, with a stuffy, suffocating atmosphere that felt like hiding beneath her comforter for too long.
She sat opposite her mother at the table positioned at the center of the garden where Priscilla could survey her domain, a queen overseeing her court and greeting her peers and their young wards with the lofty expression of a woman who knew she was above it all - whatever she deemed ‘it’ to be. Pacifica did her best to smile for the endless stream of women in floral sundresses, shifts, sheaths that approached her mother briefly, paying fealty to the hostess before floating away like so many brightly-colored butterflies clustered around the stands of scones, tea sandwiches and pastries. Beneath the tablecloth (where her mother couldn’t see) her tiny legs swung back and forth nervously, her hand straying to the fragile while flower in her lap. She’d been waiting for at least two hours to present her mother with her first independently chosen Mother’s Day gift. Ordinarily her father chose something he knew her mother wanted and simply put her name on it, and this year was no different, but she’d found something of her own - the first gardenia of the year.
She shifted to avoid dropping the flower, careful to keep her fingers from brushing against the easily bruised, soft white petals.
“Pacifica Elise Northwest! You are slouching."
The little girl met her mother’s stern gaze guiltily. "Sorry, Mother,” she said, meekly.
Priscilla regarded her with a scrutinizing eye, roving over the expensive imported sundress. “And stop fidgeting. Do not embarrass me."
"Sorry, Mother.” Pacifica lowered her head glumly. Minding her manners was so very hard when there were so many of them to mind.
Another half hour passed and finally the stream of women slowed to a halt. Pacifica perked up; this was her chance. “Mother?"
Priscilla dabbed at her lips with a napkin, leaving a pattern of red lip prints. "Yes, dear?"
Before she could reach for the gardenia’s stem a loud "Pris!” rang out from behind her, followed by the arrival of a tall woman shuffling past in a cloud of cream-colored chiffon. “Darling!"
"Goldie! How are you?"
Goldie Guldigger swept her mother (one of her oldest friends) into a dramatic hug. "Splendid banquet as usual, and these new centerpieces are lovely!"
"Expect nothing less of a Northwest!” Priscilla chimed, and Goldie’s face lit up. The Guldiggers were close family friends (in that her mother and Goldie seemed to actually like each other), and she and her daughter Lilian were never absent from the annual garden party. Pacifica didn’t care for Lilian much. She was nearly as outspoken and loud as her mother and she had a bad habit of talking over whoever she was with.
Lilian stood wordlessly behind her mother in an equally ostentatious puff of chiffon. She turned her nose up at Pacifica, and Pacifica stuck her tongue out when her mother wasn’t looking.
Goldie seemed to notice her then. “My, that’s a beautiful dress, darling!"
Pacifica bowed her head politely. "Thank you, Mrs. Guldigger,” she recited. “Mother had it imported from Florence for today."
Goldie clasped her hands together. "Oh Pris, she is a doll. And such manners! You simply must give me some pointers.” She glared at the silent child at her side. “Lilian is such a hassle sometimes."
Priscilla cut her eyes at her daughter, and Pacifica took the hint. She smiled at her mother’s friend, echoing her words from earlier. "Expect nothing less of a Northwest."
Goldie was fascinated by the display, and for the next fifteen minutes or so she and Priscilla chatted animatedly while Pacifica checked on the flower, anxiety mounting. She knew from the gardener’s instructions (doled out that morning when cutting the flower from the bush for her) that gardenias wilted quickly.
The stream resumed the moment Goldie moved away, dragging a sullen Lily along to scold her for scuffing one of her shoes against the chair leg. Pacifica tried to get her mother’s attention once more, only to be silenced with a sharp "Pacifica Elise, you are being rude."
By the time the garden party died down, taking the cloud of butterflies with it, the flower had yellowed. She felt bad for killing it for nothing, so Pacifica left it in the grass to wilt near the other gardenia bushes instead of throwing it away.
Later on when her father handed over the tiny black box holding the heart-shaped diamond pendant, she presented it to her mother with a false yet fetching smile and a swish of floral silk. "Happy Mother’s Day!"
"Oh Preston, Pacifica, it’s beautiful!” Priscilla clicked the jewelry box shut, sweeping her daughter into her arms in a hug that Pacifica pretended wasn’t as lifeless as the gardenia folding in on itself among the ruins of the garden party.
The middle of May was one of the least welcome periods of the year for Pacifica Northwest-Pines, second only to the first week of June. On one hand she was glad that the two holidays that soured the tail end of spring and beginning of summer were so close together. On the other, it led to nearly a month of what she tried to pretend wasn’t heartache.
The world didn’t make avoidance any easier, bombarding her with advertisements and Mother’s Day sales and restaurant specials and flower displays that made her sick to her stomach. These paled in comparison to how she felt when the small silver envelope showed up at the Mystery Shack, penned in her mother’s neat handwriting, year after year. She no longer opened them, but Pacifica couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. There were a variety of envelopes in the jewelry box on the nightstand beside she and her husband’s bed, invitations to garden parties and banquets and benefits that she could no longer bring herself to attend. Not yet.
She held this year’s envelope in her hands, curled up beneath a nest of blankets and pillows on the bed. The summer heat was already moving in, and she was incredibly uncomfortable, but moving required effort. It was almost as stuffy and suffocating as the event listed on the invite.
She heard the bedroom door creak open, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching. A weight settled on the bed beside her, and the kindness in Dipper’s voice made her curl up even more tightly.
“You doing okay?"
Pacifica ran her fingers over the silver paper. Expensive stationary, embossed with the prints of spring flowers. The name on the front still read 'Pacifica Elise Northwest’; never 'Pines’. Once in a fit of defiance and irritation she’d corrected the name, appending the surname she’d adopted from her husband of the past two years and readdressing it to the manor. It hadn’t made much difference.
"Communications between HQ and blanket fort are spotty,” Dipper announced, mimicking radio static, and she had to smile then, moving aside a pillow to peek out at him.
“You’re so lame."
Dipper grinned. "And you still married me."
Pacifica rolled her eyes. "Don’t let it go to your head."
Dipper reached for a pillow, pausing for moment before taking hold of it. "Can I come in?"
"What’s the password?” There wasn’t a password, but the playful banter was lifting her spirits somewhat so she decided to keep it up.
“I love you."
Pacifica flushed, ducking her head beneath the covers again. Cheater. Heknew she was a sucker for those three words, spoken with a sincerity that never wavered. "Wrong, but close enough.” She scooted over, allowing him to join her in the poorly constructed fort of bedclothes. Dipper drew her close, running his hands through her hair, and she shifted to lay her head against his chest. It was probably her imagination, but she felt as if she could breathe more easily with him here. “I should be over it by now."
"It’s kind of a hard thing to just shake off, Paz. You’re only human."
Pacifica sighed heavily. "I haven’t seen her for three years, Dip. I haven’t spoken to her in two."
"She’s still your mother. Trust me, it’s pretty hard to get someone out of your head once they’re in it.” Soft lips brushed against her temple. “Stop beating yourself up."
"I wish…"
"Hm?"
"Never mind."
Priscilla Northwest’s annual Mother’s Day Garden Party was no less stifling, sixteen years later, but the eyes that roved over the intricately poised pieces of her mother’s court were no longer dazzled by the sparkle of china and the wings of the chatty butterflies weaving among each other. It was like a choreographed dance, Pacifica realized, mothers and daughters that may or may not have screamed at each other on the ride over positioning themselves to be seen interacting in a loving manner. This was her parents’ world, where appearances were truth, and she was grateful to have taken Dipper’s hand all those years ago and followed him out of it.
She wore white silk printed with spring flowers as she had when she was a little girl in Mary Janes, ruffles flowing over curves that hadn’t been there before, and padded across the well-kept lawn with a small bouquet of fresh gardenias in tow. All around her, butterflies, servers in black, silver tea sets, petit-fours.
Pacifica felt out of place, now, and the feeling grew as party guests noticed her presence, whispering behind their hands and looking away instead of making eye contact. Her fall from grace had been well-documented, from both choosing a non-Ivy League college to attend to moving into the Mystery Shack the year before with her plebeian boyfriend, the ghost chasing grand nephew of the infamous town swindler. It was a scandal of massive proportions, her parents had not handled the situation well at all, and she’d spent so many nights either curled up crying in Dipper’s arms or sitting beside Mabel while she worked on her latest piece, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder. Eventually the pain and anxiety faded to a dull ache instead of a malignant one, helped in no small part by the lively environment she now found herself in full-time, between Mabel’s fairly successful creative endeavors and Dipper’s paranormal studies blogging that he was somehow nudging into an actual career and the slew of visitors to the tourist trap that now contained a semi-famous artist, a young heiress, and the town’s leading expert in paranormal activity. The influx of business endeared her to Stanford immediately.
Now she stood as a pariah among her former kind, bolstered by the strength of will that she could attribute to her family name – and the band of silver studded with tiny gems arranged in a constellation on her ring finger.
At the center of activity sat her mother, alone at her table, holding herself as regally as always. She looked up at her daughter with eyes that betrayed no emotion whatsoever, smiling pleasantly. "Hello, dear.”
Pacifica smiled pleasantly as well, presenting the bouquet to her mother with an eagerness that reminded her of a much younger version of herself. “Happy Mother’s Day."
Priscilla accepted the gardenias with a perfunctory sniff. "These are gorgeous!”
“I thought you’d like them.” Pacifica sat down across from her mother, smoothing her dress. “You look well, Mother.”
“I am recovering,” Priscilla said with a melodramatic sigh. “It was quite a shock to the system. I dare say you could’ve informed your father and I of your intentions with a little more tact.”
Pacifica winced, hurrying to change the subject before the conversation devolved into a repeat of one of the arguments from several months ago. “How is Father?”
“Attending to business overseas.” Priscilla took a dainty sip of tea. “London, I believe.”
“Remember when we went there for my 10th birthday?” Pacifica piped up, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. Her efforts didn’t work as intended.
“Is that when you managed to ruin a $500 coat chasing after ducks in the park?"
"Yeah.” Pacifica poured herself a cup of tea, not bothering to wait for a server to do it for her. She needed a drink. “I slipped on the bank and fell into a pond.”
“I was so cross with you then,” Priscilla huffed. “You were such a clumsy child.”
Tea wasn’t going to cut it.
Pacifica fell silent, twisting the ring on her finger. She hadn’t seen her mother in person in months, and already her enthusiasm was waning. “Mother, something happened, and I wanted to tell you first. Dipper-”
“Pris!”
Pacifica groaned, muttering an epithet under her breath that made her mother gasp and glare at her before greeting Mrs. Guldigger. “Goldie! So glad you and Lilian could make it out this year after all.”
Lilian trailed behind her mother as she had before, clad in more money that some people made in a year. The years had not changed her uppity resting face, and she smirked at Pacifica while Pacifica considered stealing Dipper’s journal and searching it for information about voodoo dolls. “Pacifica.”
“Lilian."
At the sound of her voice Goldie noticed her (or pretended to), turning to face her with an amused expression on her face. "My, look who turned up this year!”
“Hello, Mrs. Guldigger,” Pacifica said dryly.
“We certainly missed you last year, didn’t we, Priscilla?”
Her mother pressed a hand to her chest, pantomiming sorrow. “As I do everyday.” Her theatrics were for effect, but the look in her eyes was anything but. “A mother never stops missing the other half of her heart.”
Pacifica’s stomach twisted into a knot, and she resisted the urge to leap from her chair and go vomit in the bushes. The ring. She was wearing the ring. You don’t live here anymore. You don’t have to.
“Of course!” Goldie continued, much too loudly for a friendly chat. “I suppose roughing it on the edge of society does build character.” Her cruel eyes bored into Pacifica, locating the little girl that cried at the sound of a bell slumbering deep within her. “Tell me, darling. Are you still running around with that Pines boy? We heard you’d taken up residence in that hovel just outside town, but I assumed it was just a phase.”
I don’t live here. And I don’t have to take this shit from the likes of you.
Pacifica adopted a similar smirk, placing her hands on the table before her. “His name is Dipper, Mrs. Guldigger. And yes, I am. We are engaged, after all.”
The results were varied, but instantaneous. Lilian let out a high, nearly hysterical giggle; Goldie gasped, hand flying up to cover her mouth.
And her mother dropped her teacup in her lap, brown liquid soaking into white silk.
Pacifica felt like laughing, crying, and emptying the contents of her stomach, all at once.
No one said anything for a moment. Goldie recovered first, delivering a “Congratulations” while locking eyes with her mother. Priscilla ignored her, staring at her daughter with possible murder in her eyes.
“I was trying to tell you earlier, Mother,” Pacifica explained, hastily. “Dipper asked me to marry him last week, and I wanted to tell you in person. I know you-”
Priscilla stood up, stained dress and all, and seized Pacifica by the forearm. “Goldie, Lilian, please excuse us.”
Mrs. Guldigger took the hint, ushering her daughter away without another word to the hostess or her wayward spawn. “Come, my Lily, let’s give them some privacy.”
Lilian looked back at Pacifica; to her surprise the smirk was no longer there, replaced with something that looked almost wistful. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Pacifica said, allowing her mother to tug her away, past the rest of the party and into the manor proper. Once she shut the door, she exploded.
“What are you doing?”
Pacifica bristled, clenching her fists at her sides. “What do you mean what am I doing? I’m marrying my best friend. What are you doing, Mother?”
Her mother’s face was nearly completely white with rage, and it would have been hilarious in contrast to her heavy makeup if Pacifica wasn’t terrified. “Trying to keep my foolish daughter from making the worst mistake of her life.”
There it was again, and the anger flared up, cutting through the fear like a knife. “It’s not a mistake!” Pacifica yelled. Don’t raise your voice, it’s rude. Mind your manners. “He loves me! Actual me, not the person painting her face for all those wax figures out there!”
“He has no future,” Priscilla said, firmly, still clutching her arm tightly enough for it to hurt. Pacifica tried to jerk free, but she held on. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a crumbling wreck with a boy that chases ghosts for a living? You are a Northwest! Have some dignity! You can have anything and anyone you want! Why would you choose that, of all things?”
A single tear slid past her cheekbone, over the layer of pressed powder coloring her cheeks. “Because he’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Her mother released her then, settling onto a nearby chair and averting her gaze angrily. “Your father will be very disappointed. I am very disappointed. I thought we raised you better than this.”
Pacifica laughed, a hollow sound that only twisted the knot in her stomach further. “And I thought you were supposed to be my mother.”
A year later, when she became Pacifica Elise Northwest-Pines in an odd but lovely ceremony held on the lawn on the Mystery Shack, surrounded by friends and her newly cobbled together family, neither parent was in attendance, nor did they acknowledge the event. They didn’t cut her off or yank her trust fund, and up until she stopped answering correspondences they didn’t cease communication. They treated her new life as something non-existent, as if she’d never defied them.
So she let go first.
“Family isn’t set in stone,” Dipper said, taking the envelope from her hands. He didn’t crumple it the way she knew he wanted to, but he did push back the covers and get up to place it in the jewelry box with the others. Someday, she decided, someday she’d burn them. “So you got a crappy one to start out with. Seriously. Your dad is the actual worst.”
“Mother’s a close second,” she muttered darkly. Dipper rejoined her on the bed, and she embraced him again, holding on for dear life.
“Just because you start out with a family that doesn’t deserve you doesn’t mean you’re stuck with them. And your parents are really missing out.”
Somewhere downstairs, she heard Stanford grumbling something about decorative plates; outside the window Mabel’s voice rang out amidst the high squeal of Waddles the Second and the laughter of Soos and his wife Melody’s daughter. Somewhere on the premises Soos was probably attending to some maintenance issue, while the seemingly immortal goat that just seemed to live at the Shack made a snack out of something valuable. Sometimes one of Mabel’s old friends would visit when they were in town, and sometime during the summer Wendy would drop by while visiting her family. The floorboards creaked and bats flew in through the kitchen window and sometimes Dipper and Mabel fought the forces of evil in the woods while she either looked on or tried to help to the best of her ability.
These pieces were home, and these strange people she’d been foolish enough to look down on so long ago were family.
It didn’t erase the all too frequent dreams of her former home, sitting between her parents on a private plane on the way to some exotic locale, holding her father’s hand before growing too old and imperfect to make him effortlessly happy, or the warm memories of her mother teaching her to apply mascara, brushing the length of her hair every night until Pacifica was old enough to do it herself. Not yet. Maybe it never would.
“I know,” Pacifica agreed, burying her face in his shirt. “It still hurts, Dipper.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s okay.” And then he held her while she cried, as he had the year before, and would for some years to come.