Work Text:
Max leaves the dentist’s office with minty fresh polished teeth and an incessant, gnawing ache in her elbow. She grimaces and rubs it as she walks to her car. The break had healed well at the time— of course, she was a hardy, healthy teenager the day Neil Hargrove shattered her olecranon (weird word)— and for decades it rarely acted up at all, but now that she’s in her fifties, the old injury has become a bothersome superpower she never wanted to have. Her pain is a peculiarly precise predictor of the weather.
The sky is not yet gray as Max opens the driver’s seat, but she knows a rainstorm is underway. Her elbow stiffens when it’s going to snow and aches when it’s going to rain. The worse the pain, the worse the weather. And it’s really aching like a bitch, so that means the storm is going to be a big one, a relentless cats-and-dogs downpour, thunder and lightning for sure.
By the time she pulls into the driveway, the clouds are beginning to gather and Max’s mouth quirks in a wry, knowing smirk to no one but herself. She shuts off the engine and grabs her complimentary goodie bag with a new toothbrush, travel-sized tube of toothpaste and plastic floss container. She shuffles up the walk and unlocks the door, kicking her shoes off.
“Mom, I’m home.” She tosses her dental goodie bag and her purse on the couch and slips from the living room to the dining room, glancing around for the other occupant of the household.
“Mom?” Max calls, louder this time. Her mother might’ve forgotten to put her hearing aids in. She forgets a lot of things these days and couldn’t hear a goddamn airplane crash without them anymore.
She slips into the kitchen. No Mom, but a carton of eggs dropped on the floor, white splinters of shell floating in a yellow goopy pool of yolk. Stomach clenching in concern, Max raises her voice another octave, nearly screaming when she she calls for Mom again.
Christ, she hopes she didn’t escape. She’s been doing that more these days too— the wandering. Leaving the house and hopping in the neighbor’s car thinking that it’s hers. Going for strolls around the block and then roaming round in circles when she can’t figure out which house is theirs, even though Max hoped putting her favorite gnomes in the front garden would help serve as a signal. The clouds are going to burst with torrents any minute now, Max’s elbow knows it. Now is the worst possible time for Mom to be wandering lost outside.
Max checks her mother’s bedroom. The bed is unmade. She left the television on again and for a moment the audio from the soap opera disguises the noises but just before Max turns on her heels, she realizes there’s something— someone in the closet. Weeping.
Max winds around the bed, stamps a thumb to the power button on the TV, and opens the closet door. Her mother is tucked back in the corner, her antler bony shoulders hitching as she cries into her hands.
“Oh, Momma, what’s wrong?” Max pads over and rests a hand against the small of her mother’s back. She can feel the knobs of her spine and reminds herself to make sure she gets some protein in her tonight. Eating is just another one of the many things her mother has trouble remembering to do now.
“Max,” Mom gasps, lowering her hands from her face. “Max, sweetie, you need to leave. G-Go to the mall, or go see a movie.”
“Uh. No…I’m going to stay in tonight, okay? The weather’s too crappy to go out.”
“No, no, you have to go,” Mom insists, jittery with anxiety. “I made a mess in the kitchen and when Neil gets home he’s going to be furious!”
Max’s heart sinks. She shakes her head and forces a smile she hopes is reassuring as she strokes a hand through her mother’s wispy white hair.
“Neil’s gone, Mom, remember? For a long time now.”
Max doesn’t normally try to correct Mom’s reality when she gets confused. She rolls with it more often than she doesn’t, because trying to correct her mostly just confuses more or makes her upset.
When Mom asks what Lucas want to have for dinner, Max simply tells her he’s working late instead of trying to remind her that the (blessedly bittersweet, absolutely amicable) divorce was seven years ago. When Mom— who has somehow forgotten how to safely use the fucking microwave yet remembers how to shop online —orders toys and little girls’ clothes for her granddaughter, Max always thanks her for her generosity and sends them back discreetly instead of informing her that Aaliyah’s in her twenties now. When Mom waters the fake plants in the windowsill, Max doesn’t embarrass her by pointing out the cheapo felt petals glued upon plastic stems in styrofoam soil, she simply mops up the spilled water.
But this is different. Mom is afraid and Max wants her to know she doesn’t need to be afraid. She silently begs whatever deity that may be listening that Mom will understand her this time and be put at ease.
“Neil is gone,” Max repeats slowly, resolute as Mom blinks owlish eyes at her. “He is never coming back.”
For a moment Mom just continues staring at her, bemused. Then, to Max’s great relief, recognition flashes in her gaze.
“That’s right,” she murmurs.
Max smiles and bobs her head in encouragement. “Yes, ma’am. No more Neil.”
“No more Neil,” Mom agrees with a dash of sass that melts Max’s heart. “I killed him.”
...wait, what?
Max’s jaw drops to the floor, flabbergasted.
“Huh?”
But Mom’s already puttering around her, humming a happy tune off-key.
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Max follows her out of the closet.
Her mother either doesn’t hear her over her humming or elects to ignore the question. Max can’t be sure which as she watches her shuffle from the bedroom at a fairly fast pace for a lady in her eighties.
Physically speaking, Mom is in pretty good shape. When she remembers to eat consistently, she’s fairly fit and it’s actually a cause for worry when she wanders. Mom doesn’t even need a cane, moves so well that she could actually make it rather far if it took Max awhile to realize she was gone. She's always afraid of that.
Max doesn’t quite understand why some old people’s bodies become as fragile as glass while others stay sturdy. Why some old people totally lose their marbles but others remain sharp as a tack. She recalls seeing on the news a segment about a man who went paragliding for the first time at 105 years of age. She wonders what the difference is between his tuned-in brain and her mother’s dementia-addled one, his able-enough body and Joyce Byers’s paper thin skin stretched over peanut brittle bones.
Joyce is the opposite of her mother, so frail physically that Max frets about hugging her too hard during her monthly visits to the retirement home, but retaining her sound mind and a crystal clear memory. Joyce can recall the smallest details of events years past that Max herself can only conjure up murkily, and when they watch game shows together, Joyce figures out all the right answers before Max does. Joyce still has the patience and the cogency to finish 2000 piece puzzles and often bests Max in the card games they play together.
Thoughts of Joyce follow Max to the bathroom as she digs the liniment out of the medicine cabinet to massage into her achy elbow. If there’s any truth to the bizarre thing her mother said in the closet, Joyce would probably know. Joyce with her keen, vivid memory of an elephant. Joyce who was there the night Mom kicked Neil out.
Well. That’s the version of the story Max was told anyway.
When Max was a kid hanging out with her friends at the Byers’ place, or staying over for dinner, Joyce seemed to suspect something was wrong at home. She began to pull Max to the side when she would come over, and check in with her mother when she was checking her out at the store. For the longest time her mother rebuffed her, but eventually she grew receptive. She began to take Joyce up on her offers to go to lunch. She’d take Max to the local library to do her homework and slip behind bookshelves to speak to Joyce more privately.
They formed a friendship and it was a friendship that had a good effect on her mother. One day, while Max’s surgical sutures were still fresh and somewhat swelling, arm bound in a splint and supported by a sling, Joyce came over and the both of them sat Max down to break the news. Her mother was going to kick Neil out of the house. Joyce was going to be there for moral support and assistance should he react badly. Max's job was to spend the day out of the house while they took care of business.
Max had been wary, worried it would go wrong, but nevertheless relieved that this was the plan. Her mother was always so timid but Joyce seemed to give her courage. Joyce, who was an open book where Mom wore phony smiles and painted pretty pictures over every ugly happening. Joyce, who stood tall and spoke her truth even when the town treated her like a cuckoo bird, resilient and strong, compassion as depthless as the ocean. Joyce knew how to take on monsters and Max trusted her to be Mom’s pillar, the example Mom needed to take on her own monster.
The version of the story Max had been told, was that that’s exactly what happened. That when Neil came home that night to his crap put out on the curb, he was angry and Mom got scared, but Joyce stood beside her and they pushed forward anyway. That Neil realized he didn’t have power over Mom with Joyce by her side, that he yelled until he was blue in the face until he recognized he had no choice but to leave anyway.
Max was so relieved Neil Hargrove was gone that she never bothered to question that version of the story. She chews her lip as she muses on the past, eyes Mom as she sidles through the living room. Mom is watering those damn fake plants again. Sets the watering can down to pick up a spray bottle and mist the rubber cactus spines.
Oh, Mom.
Sometimes she has good days, moments of lucidity. But they’re getting less frequent. It breaks Max’s heart to see her like this. She knows it breaks Joyce’s heart too, which is why Max doesn’t bring her mother along when she visits anymore.
Even after Joyce helped Mom overcome the obstacle that was Neil Hargrove, they continued to be friends. In fact, Max believes their friendship was even better after that, because without Neil holding her back, Mom could be herself fully and freely. She could wear what clothes she wanted to wear, laugh as loud as she wanted, and go out whenever she felt like going out.
Joyce roped her mother into joining a book club, actually got her out of the house to socialize and make more friends. Her mother invited Joyce to aerobics classes thrice a week, an activity that seemed to help Joyce's anxiety as well as her flexibility. They began to send each other cards on holidays and Joyce set her mother up with a good woman therapist when the man that had been counseling Mom started to show red flags of his own, seemingly collecting vulnerabilities to exploit all the way up her skirt instead of helping her heal, more of a predator on the prowl than a professional.
Last year Mom stopped recognizing Joyce as Joyce and it hurt her so much, it brought her to tears. Joyce was already on heart medication and Max decided right then and there that it was too much to put her through this, to bring over her friend who was no longer a friend, but a confused, sad creature where her friend used to be. Max’s mother wasn’t truly the Susan Joyce knew anymore, simply a shadow in her place.
Max gets down on creaky knees to scrub the eggy mess off the kitchen floor. After that she makes chicken breasts and side salads for dinner. Thunder rolls outside the window and bright lightning streaks across the sky. The rain patters the roof like bullets, as Max’s elbow accurately predicted it would, and she makes Mom eat at least half her meal before she’s allowed to leave the table.
At this stage in their lives, their roles have completely reversed. Max is like the parent and her mother is like the child. She’s getting used to things being this way even though at times it’s frustrating. At times so sad it leaves her sobbing in the shower.
Max misses Mom the way she used to be. But she does her best to make the time she has left with her a good time anyway. She takes care of her mother the best she can and never lets herself shout at her, even if she’s scared Max half to death by wandering off or spent the afternoon rearranging the house with no earthly idea of where she put Max’s stuff.
Mom’s earlier memories seem to be the strongest ones. She can never remember what day of the week it is or why exactly it was she tried to flush the car keys, but she can remember confections recipes she memorized thirty years ago. Which is exactly why Max thinks there might actually be something substantial to what she said about Neil. Why it might be more than just a dementia patient’s wacky ramblings.
Mom definitely said and did wacky shit these days, but when it came to stuff that happened decades ago, she was mostly on the ball. She accurately remembered the day Billy died, the subsequent funeral. She recalled Max’s high school graduation, Max’s wedding, the day Aaliyah was born, the route she took to get to the lavender farm.
Max doesn’t mention Neil to her mother even though her interest has been piqued, wondering if he truly walked out of the house the night he vanished from their lives. She worries that if she brings him up, she’ll frighten Mom, so she stays mum about the subject instead. At the end of the month, she drops Mom off at Lucas’s bachelor pad, entrusting her amicable ex to babysit his former mother-in-law for the day while she makes the five hour drive to visit Joyce Byers. He gives her a sage and citrus scented candle to gift to the older woman and Max promises to say hello for him before a hug that lasts a little longer than exes’ hugs ought to, because when they talk about Joyce they’re both thinking of who they used to be when she knew them; the small town kids who hunted monsters and loved each other with the eager, exuberant effervescence of a first crush.
Joyce seems to have shrunk even more than the last time Max saw her, a teeny wisp of an elderly woman whose wrinkled face lights up with a jack-o’-lantern grin at the sight of her.
“Maxine!” She gives her a great big bear hug stronger than her twiggy arms would suggest.
“Hi, Joyce,” Max greets warmly, gingerly hugging her back as careful as she can.
“Come in, come in,” Joyce waves her inside the apartment, taking attentive steps with her hand against the wall until she makes it to her walker. “Please, take a seat. Make yourself at home.”
Max smiles and sits down on an overstuffed couch she practically sinks into, marshmallow cushions covered with chunky knitted throws. Joyce’s cat gives her a start, seeming to appear out of nowhere on the armrest in the blink of an eye. Joyce’s cat kind of creeps her out, truth be told, this ugly, hairless thing with piercing ice blue eyes and a spindly body. It looks like it could’ve belonged to a wicked witch, but Max always brings it catnip anyway. Always cleans out its litter box too, just to save Joyce a chore.
Joyce sits beside her on the couch and they spend awhile catching up, talking about their kids and day-to-day activities. Max dutifully passes along the hello from Lucas and the scented candle. Joyce shows her pictures she’s been painting, including a watercolor of her fugly nude cat that’s going to be featured in the art show the senior center is putting on after Bingo this coming Sunday. Max would’ve chosen the painting of the cows instead, but she doesn’t say that, only offers congratulations and gently pats the older woman’s knee. They watch a few game shows and Joyce reheats the pickle soup she made the day before, pouring herself and Max a bowl for lunch they share on mismatched TV trays.
“So how is Susan?” Joyce asks eventually between sips from her spoon, her eyes shadowed with a trace of sorrow.
“She’s okay,” Max says. “Her memory keeps getting worse and it…well, it sucks, but she’s content most of the time. So that's a good thing, I guess.”
“Mm.” Joyce nods and spoons up some more pickle soup.
“Since we’re on the subject, she recently said something odd that I was hoping to ask you about.”
“Oh?” Joyce tilts her head.
“A few weeks ago Mom dropped a carton of eggs on the floor. They all broke, the yolk was everywhere and I think she was extra mixed up that day, because I found her hiding in the closet, terrified Neil was going to be angry at her. I reminded her he was gone and she, uh, luckily she listened to me. But then she said that she killed him.”
Max watches as Joyce’s thin lips curl into a tiny, tight smile.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” Max unfolds her arms to pet the witchy skin-bag of a cat nudging at her elbow. “And I mean, don’t get me wrong, Mom says plenty of stranger things these days. We both know her mind isn’t what it used to be. But when it comes to the past, she never says like, the nutty stuff. Her older memories are the clearer ones. At least, that's how it's been so far...”
“Are you asking me something, Maxine?” Joyce blinks knowing eyes.
Max slurps her last spoonful of soup, sinking her teeth into the tasty chunk of dill pickle as she bobs her head.
“Well, I always thought Susan would tell you about it eventually. I’m a tad surprised to hear that’s not the case, though it was a very scary day for the both of us. Perhaps it was too painful for her to talk about.”
Max has been mulling over this possibility for weeks, but she still feels a frisson of shock at the confirmation. Her mouth falls open, her eyes widening. Joyce reaches over and pats her hand with feeble fingers, eyes floccus soft behind her thick bifocals.
“Would you like to hear what happened?”
Max inhales a sharp breath and nods. Meowing, the cat crawls into her lap. She holds the freaky looking thing close, her chest tight with anticipation.
“It wasn’t the plan. The plan was exactly what we told you it was, but it didn’t go well.” Joyce adjusts her glasses and gives a short shake of the head. “We told Neil he had to go and he was adamant that that was not the case. He advanced on your mother. She began to quake and I stepped right in front of her, so angry about what he’d done to you— to both of you, I jabbed my finger in his face, told him to listen up.”
Max gulps. Putting a gun in your mouth and pulling the trigger was a less surefire suicide.
“I warned Neil that if he didn’t get out, I would call the police. That I had proof of what he’d done, pictures of your mother’s cuts and bruises, things of hers he’d destroyed, my older son as a witness to seeing bruises on Billy when they went to school together…well, he didn’t like that very much, Max.”
“No. He wouldn’t.”
“I told him I was close with the chief and swore that I was a breath away from calling.” Joyce pauses and closes her eyes as she releases a shuddery exhale that gets the cat’s attention. It squirms out of Max’s arms and moves into Joyce’s lap, stretching on two legs to bunt its head against her chin.
Joyce opens her eyes and strokes her skinny fingers down her feline friend’s furless back. “Neil tore the telephone right out of my hands. He threw it at your mother and then he hefted me up by the shoulders and slammed me against the wall.”
Max shifts uncomfortably in her seat, feeling the memory of Neil’s violent hands on her too, the bite of his belt and the taste of his backhand. The way her scalp burned when his fist yanked her hair before he chucked her down the basement steps and her entire being exploded with supernova pain, elbow shattered so badly the doctors had to fix it with metal screws.
“That wasn’t the first time a man had taken his hand to me, as you know. It wasn’t the first time I’d come face to face with a monster, either. I'd been told what your stepfather was like, Max, and I thought I was prepared for anything when I chose to help your mother that day, but…oh, Max, Neil bounced me off every wall in that kitchen and my world went topsy-turvy as a circus tent.”
Max nods in understanding, reaching over to hold Joyce’s hand. The old woman smiles at the touch.
“At one point, he took me to the ground, pinned me, started hollering about how he was going to teach me to mind my own goddamn business. Susan tried to pull him off, but he was too strong. Then Neil ripped my blouse open, buttons flying everywhere. I sank my teeth into his arm so hard it drew blood. He slapped me silly, shooting stars in my eyes.”
“Oh my god, Joyce. I had no idea.”
“Well, I don’t know. I never thought it my place to tell you, Max, but now that your mother’s mind is going, I suppose I’m the only one who can.” Joyce smiles like she may begin to cry and scratches underneath her naked cat’s chin.
“Your mother had the meat grinder out. After we shooed Neil out, she wanted to show me her own mother’s chili recipe…well, when my vision came back, it sure was something to behold. Your stepfather was standing on his knees, fumbling with his fly. I don’t know if he truly planned to violate me right in front of his wife, or if it was only a move meant to scare me into submission, but needless to say that’s a question I’ll never have an answer to. Because Susan was just behind him, that iron grinder gripped in her hands, arms raised high above her head.”
Joyce demonstrates, lifting her rail thin arms up high in the air and bringing them down so fast it makes her wince. Max's heartbeat quickens.
“Bam! She hit him! Bam, she hit him again!” Startled by the motion, the cat leaps off Joyce's lap. Her eyes swirl with dark memories. “Crack! Just like an eggshell! Neil pitched over, moaning, blood everywhere. I finally came back to my senses and bucked my hips, managed to displace him and squiggle free.”
“My mom killed Neil with the meat grinder?” Max blinks rapidly, incredulous.
“Mhm. That grinder was a solid, heavy thing, Max. Pure cast iron, good quality. It’s a shame that they don’t make them that good anymore. My new one was a chintzy thing, only lasted a year.”
“What happened after? What about the body?”
“Well, you know life in rural Indiana. Plenty of farmland. Plenty of pigpens. And it’s true what they say about pigs, Maxine.” The old woman smiles an eerie smile worthy of the witch it looks like her weird cat should belong to. “Pigs will eat anything you throw in the trough.”
And for the life of her, Max throws back her head and laughs. Her feet drum the floor as she bubbles with merry cackles just as witchlike, slapping her knee. Joyce begins to laugh as well, giddy and wild.
They’re both breathless and tearful by the end of it. Joyce opens her arms and Max hugs her, no longer scared that she will break. She fondly kisses the snowy crown of the old woman’s head, awash with adoration in her embrace.
That’s the end of talk about Neil for the remainder of her visit. Max helps Joyce with one of her puzzles, a cute illustration of mischievous kittens peeking into a fishbowl. Max cleans out the cat’s litter box like she always does and has one more tasty cup of pickle soup before she hits the road. Joyce bids her goodbye with two parting gifts, a hand knitted scarf for herself and throw blanket for Mom.
Mom is sitting on the couch when she gets home, wearing her shirt backwards and trying to polish the coffee table with laundry detergent, Lucas having dropped her off after Max called to let him know she was on her way back. Mom grins, absolutely elated to see Max, and Max can’t actually find it in herself to be exasperated, even knowing she’ll have to clean the mess.
“Here, Momma, I’ve got a surprise for you.” Max frees the knitted throw and drapes it around her mother’s shoulders like a shawl.
“Ooh.” Her mother grasps the fabric between two weathered fingers and brings it to her nose for a whiff. She sniffs at it like a curious puppy and her smile gets even bigger, eyes sparkling like gemstones. “Oh, Max, I like this. Why, it smells like my friend…”
Max hums in her throat, thinks about all she’s learned today and reaches out to take her mother’s hand, tugging her gently toward the kitchen.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s dinnertime now. We’re going to make chili. Grandma's recipe.”