Archive of Our Own

Max is unprepared the night they leave. Still shaken and spiraling from the battle at Starcourt Mall, the sense of weirdness fallen over the house in the wake of Billy’s demise. Tiptoeing around Neil’s abrupt disinterest in shaving and hardly leaving when he doesn’t have to, stomping the house even more than normal, each footstep feeling like a threat. Max hides in Billy’s room sometimes even though it still smells gross like body spray and cigarette smoke, staled beer spills he didn’t clean from the carpet mingling with the chlorine from the wobbly wicker basket in the corner with a couple wrinkly pairs of swim trunks he never got the chance to wash. Billy’s room is as safe as it gets, only because his father won’t go in. 

Neil spends a month growing a fucking fugly muskrat on his face (and reeking like muskrat roadkill because he hasn’t showered since the funeral), sometimes shouting at the drop of a hat and sometimes throwing things in silence. The silence is scarier. It’s not that the shouting isn’t scary— the shouting is always scary and terrifying sometimes. But it’s a terror Max is familiar with and the silence is not. She knew when Neil was loud it was time to get out or hide, or stay very still and sink her teeth into her tongue. 

Before Billy died, Neil was like a rattlesnake. Rattlesnakes can kill you if they bite bad enough and yeah, sometimes you get surprised because they spring out when you don’t expect. You trip in the hole they’re curled up in, or you upturn the wrong rock. But once you found a rattlesnake (or it found you) that tail would shake like a maraca and in a snap, you were alert. You knew the danger was afoot. Now that Neil’s just as dangerous without saying a word as he was when he was screaming words so angry his spit would fly, Max has to be on alert 24/7, there’s just no way to know for sure when he'll erupt anymore. 

She has to be on high alert and grieve, and have conflicted feelings about her grief, and the wretched relief mingled with it because The Mind Flayer is gone and she’s okay, and so are her friends— except she’s not totally okay because Billy is gone too, her house is as perilous as a war zone with its new, even worse version of her awful tyrant stepdad, and she has to get ready for high school like normal kids do. School starts in three days and Mom hasn’t even taken her shopping yet. 

Mom’s been different too. Mom’s always been shy, grown timid and weary with her despot husband, even though she never fails to tack on a phony charlatan grin. Sometimes her fake smiles inspire Max’s pity but more often, they drive her insane. But since Starcourt, Mom hasn’t worn a single one.
 
She’s so quiet sometimes Max forgets she’s here, as faded into the background as old wallpaper. Mom exists like a silent enigma not meaningfully here at all, the steps she takes as soundless as a ghost, utterly inscrutable blankness in her eyes. Max's mother as Mrs. Hargrove is often a muted presence and it’s like the new version of Neil has caused whatever was left in her to dwindle away to nothing. Because she seems like nothing now, more than she seems like a person, like someone Max can go to to be held, someone she can trust to help quell the storms inside. 

Max brings up school shopping to her mother the morning before she’s meant to start her freshman year, only for Mom to blink slowly and tell her in a vacant voice that they’ll shop for supplies later this week, after everything has gone on sale. That she won’t really need anything except for a pencil the first couple days of school anyway. 

Max rolls her eyes and spends the rest of the day outside, skateboarding by herself. If she knew what was going to happen hours later, somewhere between midnight and dawn, she would’ve chosen to spend time with The Party instead. She would’ve bid them goodbye. She would’ve kissed Lucy one last time even though they were in the middle of another breakup. 

She’ll think about this a lot later on. Her mother thrusting their departure upon her in the dark, so fast it makes her head spin. It will be something that Max holds a grudge over for a little while. She would’ve liked to be in on the plan. She would’ve wanted the relief of knowing they were finally leaving Neil Hargrove and the time to prepare for it, to fit in some fun with her friends and have one more dinner at Joyce Byers’s place. She would’ve wanted to riffle through Billy’s room to see if she could find his pendant, or at least his lifeguard whistle. 

She’s shaken awake, still blinking the slumber from her eyes when her mother informs her that they are leaving. 

“Right now?” Max mumbles hazily. 

“Yes, right now,” she replies, rushed. 

“Won’t Neil hear us? What if we wake him up?” 

“No…he shouldn’t. Neil had some extra Tylenol PM tonight. But we have to move quickly.” 

Before she knows it, they’re in the car, packed like sardines between their luggage. Mom tucks Neil’s wallet into the center console and snaps the lid shut. They flee under the cover of night like murderers on the run and now Max is wide awake, her blood pulsing cold with the terror that Neil will wake too, and hunt them down. 

When her mother leaves Neil, it isn’t the dream come true Max had been wishing for every freaking day since, like, a week after the wedding. 

Which is exactly why it isn’t what she wanted it to be, she thinks. She spent so much time wishing for it, imagining it, spent most of her life constructing a kind of fantasy around it. A glorious pie in the sky pipe dream where her life became pastiche perfection once Neil Hargrove was banished from it. 

She always hoped they would go back to California. Instead they’re in Michigan, far enough away from Indiana that Mom feels comfortable stopping, but not so far that the gas would cost a fortune. 

The cost of gas is much more pressing of a concern without Neil in their lives. The cost of everything is. They’d never been a rich family and Max knew the adults budgeted their income and had to prioritize bills before other purchases and pastimes, but they hadn’t been flat-out broke, ever. Cash in Neil’s wallet plus Mom’s pawned off jewelry and two gifted high-end kitchen appliances secures them a studio apartment on a street with swayed, crumbling sidewalks. 

“It’s only temporary,” Mom promises. “We’ll get a better place when I find a decent job.” 

“It’s okay,” Max tells her, still a bit bemused but sincere. She is glad to be away from Neil. 

She is overwhelmingly glad to be away from Neil. 

But it’s not the daydream life she imagined it would be. It’s hard. 

Max misses Hawkins. She misses The Party. She worries about them too, wonders if the Gate will open again and something will emerge from the Upside Down. If it happens, she won’t know. Mom strictly prohibited her from writing any letters or sharing their address with anyone. All her friends could be devoured by a Demogorgon and she’d never know at all. They might think Max was devoured by a Demogorgon because of how she just disappeared on them, no notice, no farewell. 

Being penniless is an adaptation. Saving up for a better place is Mom’s number one priority, so they don’t buy much furniture. An ironing board so her mother can steam her nice clothes for job interviews. An inflatable mattress that the both of them sleep on, half off at K-Mart. A couple chairs from a resale shop. A coffee table from a yard sale a few blocks over, where the houses are a little bigger, little fancier, and the streets don’t have ginormous dinosaur potholes. The television from Cherry Lane sits on the floor, thankfully with the VHS player. Mom gave her the choice between the TV and the turntable, as they couldn’t fit both. Max picked the TV. 

Max starts her new school a month late, a building as old as the schools in Hawkins but not as well-maintained. The lockers are all dented, the wooden doors on the bathroom stalls warped, carved into and written over a thousand times. The class size is much bigger and Max surprises herself by being a tad intimidated by it, since crowds had never bothered her much before. And it’s not really that it bothers her to be in a room with a bunch more kids, she just isn’t used to such a large classroom after spending two years back in itty-bitty Bumfuck Nowhere, where the middle school and the high school put together probably had less students than her new school does. 

She doesn’t go out of her way to make friends. The loss of her old ones is still too fresh. It’s possibly silly but it feels like she’d be betraying The Party. She hesitates because doesn’t know how long she’ll be at this school, too. Mom never specified what she meant by a ‘better place,’ never indicated how far she planned to move once financially mobile enough. 

What if Max did find some really awesome friends only to have to leave them too, get her heart broken all over again? 

Time goes on.

Max adjusts. Her new life is filled with ups and downs just like her old one was, but the downs are not nearly so dire without Neil Hargrove in the house. 

Neil had never actually laid his hands on her, but Max could never trust him not to. She’d seen him beat Billy too many times to have any faith that he wouldn’t do the same to her eventually. Even when Billy got big and broad like a bucking bronco, puberty plus physical pursuits, Neil wasn’t deterred from beating him up. Neil still put Billy in chokeholds until his face went violet and his eyelids were fluttering, still belted Billy until his back was bruised and bloody. Neil had no problem having Max for an audience, either, like maybe allowing her to be present was the warning, the demonstration— showing Max that if she fucked up or kept mouthing off, it’d be nothing for Neil to pound her into mincemeat. If he wasn't scared to do it to her beefed up big brother, then he definitely wasn't scared to do it to Max. She deeply feared the day he finally decided she'd crossed the line and grabbed her in a grip she couldn't break, raised a hand to her face. 

That day had never actually arrived but Neil was nasty to Max in other ways. Ways that didn't leave scars on her body, but left an impact on her insides, nevertheless. Once made her donate all her favorite toys to charity because she wore this two-piece bathing suit he found inappropriate. Sent her to bed without supper on numerous occasions, even when she was so hungry her stomach gnawed. Made her move a heavy cinderblock around the backyard for an hour to build character when she said something rude about her mother's interest in dumb magazines. Grounded her whenever she got a bad grade but simultaneously mocked her for getting it, called her an air-headed chatterbox, told her if she didn’t shape up, she’ve never be good for anything but her looks. Max didn’t want to care what Neil thought. Didn’t want his insults to sting because he was the stupid one and it shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it always stung her anyway. 

“Did Neil ever hit you?” Max asks Mom once, when he’s on her mind because of a song she heard on the radio and they’re eating the food her mother brought home from the bistro she works it. 

The bistro is a small but fancy place on the nicer side of town and Mom isn’t actually supposed to bring home the leftover food even though it isn’t headed anywhere but the trash. She brings it home anyway, discreet, telling her coworkers that she’s taking out garbage when she’s simply stuffed the takeout containers into a clean garbage bag. She tells Max she parks her car next to the dumpster so no one suspects any different. Max supposes this is technically stealing and she wonders if that's maybe why Mom doesn’t call her out when she steals too. 

It isn’t big stuff. Just household essentials Max can fit up her coat sleeves when they’re at the store. Bars of soap. Tubes of toothpaste. The slimmer bottles of shampoo. The individual pairs of socks hung up on hooks. She never explicitly tells her mother that she has stolen these things. But surely Mom must notice when she’s taking a shower and a new bar of soap has appeared in the dish. When she opens up the tote they keep the socks in and discovers pairs she hasn’t worn before. She must notice but neither of them say anything about it. 

There’s a lot of things they don’t talk about. Probably too many things. This is one of them: Neil's bullying of Mom and potentially even worse than Max knew for sure. Back in the Hargrove house, Max wondered endlessly if Neil hit Mom. Neil never beat her mother in front of her the way he did Billy, but Max still had days where she suspected. Because of how irate he’d be with Mom or how she was especially mouselike or jumpy, or bending over backwards for Neil as if he were a king and she was his humble servant. Because her mother always, always wore makeup in the house and Max couldn't help wondering if bruises lurked beneath the concealer. 

Mom lowers her fork, staring at Max as if she’s suddenly belched out guttural Aramaic. 

“Wh-Why would you ask me that?” 

Max pokes at her own ratatouille tart and rubs her lips together. “What do you mean, 'why?' You know how violent he was with Billy. And how scary he could be when he was mad.” 

Mom exhales a deep breath, eyes rapidly roving as she stabs her fork back into her pistou linguine and nervously twirls the noodles round and round. 

“You’re right,” she says, soft. “Of course you’d wonder something like that.” 

“…he did, didn’t he?” Max frowns. 

“No, Neil never hit me,” Mom murmurs, continuing to twirl her fork and look everywhere except at Max. “I think he wanted to though. I believe there were days he came close.” 

Max studies Mom carefully, skepticism swirling in her mind as she thinks of every phony-baloney smile that’s ever graced her mother’s lips. She adjusts her grip on her fork and tries not to lose her appetite. Concentrates so her voice doesn’t falter when she speaks. 

“Are you lying?” 

“No.” Mom finally meets her gaze. “I’m not. Oh, Max, I realize I haven’t…I haven’t been very forthcoming in the past. With the way things were before, I often thought keeping things from you was protecting you, but maybe…maybe it did more harm than good. Now that we’re here, I want this to be a new start for us. I want to be honest with you from now on. Even when it makes me uncomfortable.” 

Max considers her mother’s words as she brings a forkful of ratatouille to her mouth and chews it over, vegetable medley tangy on her tongue. She swallows her food and spends another moment or so ruminating. 

“I want to believe you,” she decides. “I don’t know if I can yet. But I want to.” 

Mom nods in understanding, eyes solemn. Their relationship has taken a lot of damage over the years and they both know it. Max loves her mother but she has trouble trusting her. Finds it painstaking and nebulous. Even now that they’re free of Neil Hargrove, Max finds herself worrying that Mom will meet another man just as bad. Maybe even worse. 

Autumn gradually changes to winter and to Max’s relief, Mom remains single. Every day the wounds between them to heal a little bit more. Every night Max squiggles a little closer under the covers. Eventually she lets Mom spoon her, lets herself melt into the affection and place a tentative kind of hope in its endurance. Max can tell her mother is truly trying, trying hard and it makes it a little bit easier to forgive her for the things they still struggle to talk about, the intimate press of past pains they know too deeply but fumble around shaping into spoken words. 

Renting movies becomes their Friday night treat that Mom sets spending money side for. They alternate choosing the flicks, Max picks one week then Mom picks the next. 

Christmas is a modest celebration that takes place on the 27th instead of the day proper, because Mom works a double for the time-and-a-half pay offered on holidays at the bistro. She takes Max to the bowling alley where they exchange gifts and indulge in cheese sticks. It’s goofy and embarrassing the way her mother actually freaking claps her hands every single time Max has a good roll, but Max doesn’t tell her to cut it out because she likes having Mom’s attention all to herself and she likes this new version of Mom who isn’t afraid to clap, to make noise, to be a little bit embarrassing in her enthusiasm. 

Max gifts Mom the napkin holder she built in wood shop. She'd really taken her time to earn the A, lacquered the finished product and everything. She'd wrapped it up in crafty tissue paper in art class and slapped on a sparkly bow for good measure. When Mom opens it, her eyes glimmer with joy and she hugs Max tight. 

Beaming, Max opens her own present. The neatly wrapped box contains four brand new wheels for her skateboard and a gift card for the ice cream parlor. Not a bad turnout at all.

It’s been a long time since they’ve had a carefree night out so Max lets herself get a little mushy and embarrassing herself, softly kissing her mother on the cheek. The festive spirit is on their side tonight and Max has the good fortune to receive not one but two bonus presents when Mom takes a crack at the claw machine and manages to best it twice. On her first try, she snags the best prize available, this soft, gray plush narwhal with a spiral felt horn. She bombs her second try and gets nothing, but comes back in the third round, successfully capturing a button-eyed green stuffed lizard just slightly less cute than the narwhal. Max wins their game with a lucky strike and that means she gets to pick out two movies instead of one. It’s the best Christmas she’s had in years. 

New Years is a bit more bittersweet. Once again Mom is pulling a double shift for the holiday pay, and Max is left at home, her head a hornet’s nest of buzzing thoughts. She won’t be kissing Lucy at midnight. Maybe back in Hawkins, Lucy has a new girlfriend to smooch. Max kind of wants to be happy for her but also kind of wants to punch her new girlfriend (who may or may not actually exist, but probably does, because who wouldn’t fall for that sweet, beautiful, badass nerd?) in the face, maybe kick her in the coochie for good measure. 

The new year hangs in the air, a breath away, a rainfall of confetti waiting to happen and champagne corks ready to pop. And Billy isn’t here to see it. Billy is a toothache in her heart that never really goes away, this dull background pain that flares up from time to time but bite into the wrong thing and it’s suddenly sharp as a spike, agony unleashed. Her stepbrother could be a giant fucking douchecanoe, no bones about it, but things were steadily getting better between them after the night Max stood up to him and the whammy of their move across the country began to wear off.

Max never wanted to see that happen to him. Any of it, all of it, his dad’s beatings, The Mind Flayer, the tendrils that tore his guts to pieces and fuck, maybe he was dead anyway— no human being’s blood should run ink black or smell like…like that. 

There are things Max forgives Billy for and things she doesn’t forgive Billy for, and things she might’ve forgiven him for if they’d had more time. They were kids and it was awful.

How much of it was he apologizing for, anyway? 

What exactly was Billy packing into that ‘sorry,’ the last thing he ever wheezed out? 

Max couldn’t tell if the desperation she heard in that final, scraggy syllable was his or her own, and then he expired and that was that.

Max shook Billy and his shoulders were slack, the book between her and her brother ending on a real fucking crappy cliffhanger. 

The finality of his death feels fresh again, harsher in the glaring light of New Years’ shimmery metallic decor. Last New Years Billy disappeared for three days, came back drunk with hickeys on his neck and lipstick stains on his shirt (which pissed Neil off, because the shirt was brand new, a Christmas gift— and Max couldn’t help but wonder if Billy’d had his lovers ruin it on purpose), a nosebleed (adding a little splash of red to the parade of pinks across his rumbled white collar), and she’s pretty sure syphilis considering some hushed conversations she got bits and pieces between him and her mother that left both of them flushed stoplight red and visibly discomforted, and the long, long also extremely uncomfortable, awkward sex-ed conversation Mom sat her down for shortly after.

Max doesn’t know anybody who had a busier New Years than Billy in 1985 and in 1986 he’s nowhere but the ground, the worms eating whatever’s left of his rotted Swiss cheese corpse.   

Max cries about it for awhile. Then she throws stuff she knows won't break against the wall and pummels her pillow with her fists. 

When Mom gets home, she’s too exhausted to stay up to watch the ball drop on TV. She gives Max her dinner and a bottle of sparkling apple juice, and doesn’t even bother taking off her uniform before she collapses on their blowup bed, possibly already conked out when her head hits the pillow. Max feels hollow by the time she goes to bed, snuggles up to her mother for comfort and receives only snores. 

Their new year doesn’t really ring in with good fortunate. The toilet starts leaking on January 8th and the maintenance man the landlord sends to fix it is a real piece of work. Speaks to her mother as if she’s a five year old, the same tone Neil used to take with Mom when he was talking about his truck or his guns. Leers at Max like a first class creep. Max’s skin crawls in disgust as his eyes roam her body as if he’s mentally undressing her, even cracking a slimy grin. 

Mom slams the door shut behind him with a blaze in her eyes Max hasn’t seen in a long time. Her voice crackles with lightning as she announces that never again will she call the landlord for anything. The next time something breaks, she’ll just have to fix it her goddamn herself. Max hasn’t heard Mom swear in a long time either, especially not that particular curse. Blasphemy was usually off limits in Mom's vocabulary, a lingering side-effect of her Catholic upbringing even though Max is pretty sure she doesn’t believe anymore. 

The spate of bad luck doesn’t end there. Mom gets caught bringing home food from the bistro, fired on the spot. She comes home earth-shattered. Sits slumped over their rickety coffee table with a tearstained face, raking in her breaths as if they’re running out. Max tries to soothe her, massaging a hand between her shoulder blades. 

“I can get a job too, Mom. I can work part time.” 

But her mother is already shaking her head. 

“No, no, no,” she declares adamantly. “I won’t hear of it.” 

“Why not? I could probably pick up shifts at the laundromat. It’s close enough that I could walk there after school and they’ve had that sign in the window f—“ 

“No, Maxine,” Mom cuts her off, sharp, vehement. 

“Excuse me for trying to help out,” Max snaps, retracting her hand and crossing her arms. 

“Oh, baby, it’s not…” Mom shakes her head again, then tips it back and heaves a frustrated sigh up at the ceiling. She inhales deeply before she looks back to Max with softer eyes and reaches out, lightly resting her hand on her shoulder. 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer. Or that I don’t think you’re capable of getting a job— I know you are, you learn fast and you're very responsible. But…” Mom trails off.

She audibly gulps, and continues with a slight tremor in her voice. “Living the way we did in Neil’s house was so hard on you, sweetheart. In so many ways, you had to grow up faster than any kid should. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair. I can’t make it up to you, Max, but I can provide for us. You’re young, your only job right now should be your schoolwork. You should be enjoying your high school years, spending free time with friends. You have your whole adult life to work.” 

Max blinks, soaking it in. It hadn’t really occurred to her that living in fear had matured her in certain ways. Without permission, unpleasant memories rewind through her mind. She's inclined to think her mother’s right. 

When Max thinks about it, she knows her friends could afford to be carefree in ways she didn’t dare. Days where Max had to embody respect and responsibility, or potentially face consequences much worse than a weekend grounded or a night without television. Days where the heightening of any voice or any kind of sharp sound put her body in a sudden survival mode, her eyes peeled for danger and legs braced to run. 

“Okay, Mom, I won’t fill out applications anywhere. Maybe I could shovel snow every now and then though. Make a couple extra bucks.” 

Mom’s smile is sad, eyes watery as she combs gentle fingers through Max’s hair. “You’re so good to me, Max. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a special girl.” 

Max rolls her eyes. “Please, every mom thinks her kids are special.” 

Well, maybe not every mom. Definitely not every dad. Max called hers just once after moving out of Hawkins. He never called back. There's a graveyard inside her where their relationship used to be. Sometimes she hates him for it. Most of the time she just wishes he'd call back. 

Bad luck’s bleak shadow remains cast over them. Her mother fills out application after application, doesn’t get hired, only gets called back twice. She bombs one interview so bad Max can feel shame bleeding through her skin, hears her sobbing in the bathroom, their studio too small for her sobs to be successfully stifled into balled up towels. The next interview she comes home feeling confident about, glowing— and it’s a sight Max tucks close to her heart because her mother’s confidence is a rare and delicate thing she's come to cherish. 

Mom is absolutely crushed when nine days pass and there’s no callback. Max follows through with the idea to shovel driveways and walkways, charges five bucks and makes decent spare change. For awhile their cupboards are nearly bare, they’re just about living off fried egg sandwiches and spoonfuls of peanut butter.

When her mother was married to Neil, she cooked a big breakfast every weekday morning, eggs, meat, toast, waffles, fresh fruit and juice. There was more than enough to fill her up and Mom somehow managed to arrange it all neatly on the table. Mom never set a cluttered table because Neil couldn’t stand things like clutter. Neil was a stickler who wanted everything neat and presentable. 

Back with the Hargroves, Pop-Tarts and cereal were reserved for the weekends only, when Max would eat on a TV tray to watch morning cartoons. Now her breakfast consists of Pop-Tarts and cereal more often than it doesn’t. Max picks out the bland fiber-and-grain cereals even though she prefers the sugary cereals with marshmallows, in case Mom's right about them rotting your teeth. Neither of them can afford a root canal. 

Max has a few friends at school now. The casual kind, who she shares assignment woes and classroom gossip with. Eats lunch with. Not the kind of friendship she shared with The Party. A new girl transferred in the second semester that Max inevitably found her eyes drawn to, a girl with a radiant smile who wore Karate Kid t-shirts, mimicked the crane kick in the hallway like a total dork, and joined Max’s table in art class where she showed off some radical acrylics skills. Melody. 

They get a little closer than Max has managed with anybody else, learn a little more about each other. Melody sings in her church choir, she won the Pi Day contest at her old school, she prefers horror comics to horror movies but likes superhero comics even better, with her favorites being Cloak and Dagger. Zebras are Melody’s favorite animal, but unicorns were her first favorite animal when she was little, until her parents killed two birds with one stone, breaking the news unicorns weren’t real the same day they fessed up about Santa Claus. 

Melody’s Karate Kid tees are faded and fraying a bit at the neckline. Some of her jeans have holes and not the stylish kind. The bracelets on her wrists match the beads in her hair until the day they don’t because the cheap fuchsia paint chips away to dull gray base. Max feels comfortable enough to open up a bit about her mother’s unemployment, their money situation to begin with, feels like Melody might understand. Melody is kind and absolutely understanding, even laying a hand on her arm as she informs Max that every other Tuesday, her church offers free food boxes for local families. She tells Max it's nothing to be shy about, that her own family brings home boxes too. 

Max passes this information along to Mom. Her mother isn’t exactly thrilled about the idea. Max flings open a kitchen cabinet and points at the bare shelves. Mom lets out a sigh and bows her head in resignation. Max is disappointed not to see Melody there the day they go, driving carefully through roads slick with melting snow and bumpy with potholes. Mom has to sign a slip of paper, write down their address and how many people live in the home before they’re given a cardboard box of food. 

The box isn’t as the same as a grocery trip, but it’s more than welcome. They have one pork loin and one pineapple, and the rest of the food is non-perishables. Canned vegetables, canned fruit, canned cheese, canned soup, two big bags of pretzels, two big bags of rice, and a bag of chickpeas. Mom cooks the pork loin that night, serves it with sides of green beans and the pineapple, sliced. 

“I was a tad…taken aback earlier, Max. But I think it’s a good thing you reached out to your friend.” Her mother offers a small smile. 

“Thanks.” 

Max returns the smile above her full plate and knows it’s true. Reaching out doesn’t come easily to either of them, for different reasons. And when Max had confided in Melody, she wasn’t even asking for help of any kind. She just wanted to vent. Melody telling her about the food boxes was just a dash of serendipity. 

March comes in like a lion roaring in rage, no mild lamb spring in sight. Mom finally gets a job, working as a receptionist at a motel. It pays more than the bistro does but she’s still looking for part-time work on the side, really trying to make enough bank for them to move. 

“Will I have to change schools?” Max asks, running her thumb along the pages of her science textbook. 

She’s getting closer with Melody. She’s also made friends with Bev on the girls field hockey team. Was thinking about trying out for soccer herself, not because Max is particularly interested in soccer, but Melody’s got her thinking about what things would look good on a college application. And hey, it’d probably be pretty fun to kick a ball around if she just pretended it was Neil’s head. Max also likes her science class, really interested in their current unit about invasive species. She doesn’t really like her social studies class but she does like the teacher, Mr. Castillo, his laid-back energy and his funny jokes. 

“Well…I don’t think so,” Mom answers. “I have been scoping out the options nearby. And there are indeed options nearby. We’re never going to live in a mansion, Max, but one day— I hope one day soon, we’ll be somewhere better than this. I promise. We’ll get a better place with a safer street for you to play on, a small yard where I can garden, more space for the two of us.” 

The two of them. 

Because they’re a duo again.   

Mom and Max. Max and Mom. No Sam. No Neil. 

“Hey, Mom?” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Why did we leave Neil?” 

Mom stiffens in her seat, eyes wide and startled. 

“I mean, I know why we left him, he was horrible. But why that night? Why not before?” 

Her mother blinks slowly as she absorbs the question. She fidgets, breathes out, wrings her hands a bit before her fingers tent together. 

“There isn’t just one reason. There were many reasons, all of them and more combined. Um, B-Billy’s passing was a factor.” 

“Neil got scarier after he died,” Max says, that toothache in her heart flaring up again, a blunt throb. 

“Yes, he certainly did,” her mother breathes out, fraught with memories. “But it was more than that, it was…oh, Max, I never knew what to do when Neil was hurting Billy. I couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t listen when I asked, and if I’d dared to try to pull him back…I never dared to do that. I just. Never knew what the right thing was.” 

Max swallows uncomfortably, squeezes her science book hard in her hands. She never knew what to do, either. She couldn’t watch it. Didn’t know how not to hear it. There were definitely days she blamed Mom for not doing anything but if anybody had asked, Max wouldn’t have had a specific answer for what it was her mother was supposed to do, anyway. Not nothing though. Whatever the mystery answer was, it wasn’t supposed to be nothing. 

“I always felt guilty,” Mom continues, sorrow crawling into her voice. “When he died, that guilt came back with a vengeance. Oh, Billy could be a thorn in my side, and he…he frightened me too, sometimes Max. Especially with that rebellious nature of his, that recklessness. I’d always worried he’d die young but I was still shocked it happened. And that was it for me, my stepson died too young, too fast, and I realized there was not a day he lived without being afraid under Neil’s roof. It really hit me that there are no crystal balls, and we never truly know when something is going to happen, a car accident, a terminal diagnosis, an explosion at the shopping mall. I didn’t want either of us to live in fear anymore, I hated the thought of—“ 

Mom breaks off with tears in her eyes as Max feels her own welling up, shaking her head and gathering her voice again. 

“God forbid anything happens to either of us, Maxine, but I hated the thought of something unexpected taking you like it took Billy and knowing that your whole life you'd lived feeling afraid exactly where you should’ve felt safe most of all, in your own home.” 

Max puts down her book and goes to her mother, wrapping her arms around her quivering shoulders. They’re both crying. Mom clutches onto her as if she’s afraid of that unexpected tragedy snatching Max right here right now, embracing her so tight she can barely breathe. 

Later that week, they go shopping at the resale store for some nice work clothes for Mom. It’s a somewhat cluttered place that smells like lemon soap and linens. They came in one other time, when they got the chairs, but back then, Max thinks the posters scared Mom off.

This resale shop is a non-profit that donates items and its proceeds to the county’s battered women’s shelter. Numerous eye-catching posters pasted on the walls present listed facts and statistics about domestic violence. The last time they were here, Mom had squirmed like a worm in a robin's beak under the headboard-sized and appropriately vermillion poster that listed common red flags. Max had ticked them off her fingers, snorted a bitter laugh to no one that Neil showed every one. 

But Mom doesn’t seem to be having a problem here today, pushing her shopping cart at a leisurely stroll, browsing with a contented posture. Max is glad. Max likes this store, the way it smells, knowing their purchases will go toward helping people in need. She thinks about the food the kindly smiling lady gave them at the church and hums thoughtfully as she reads the sign on the checkout counter calling for volunteers. Maybe come summer vacation. Maybe it’s something Melody would like to do with her. 

Mom buys several new outfits for work and rain boots for Max since April is around the corner. Although March mostly feels like an extended February, since they’re still getting snow. 

It’s like the universe is pulling a malicious prank on them come April Fools’ Day, starting them off with another string of bad luck. 

First the ficus dies. Her mother has had it for years and she’s inconsolable when it doesn’t bounce back, yellowed petals remaining curled and lifeless even when she tries the plant food beads. Tearful when she tries re-planting it in another pot she splurges on and it still refuses to resurrect. Max is sad too, sort of. The little tree didn’t mean as much to her as it meant to Mom, but it’s been in her life forever. 

The ficus made the move with them from California to Indiana, then from Indiana to Michigan, and it bums her out a bit to see it go. Although she’s somewhat surprised it lasted as long as it did anyway. Billy always snuffed his cigarette butts out in the soil when he wanted to get under her mother’s skin and that couldn’t have been good for it, Max didn't think. If cigarettes aren't good for your lungs, they probably aren't good for ficus roots. Neil once smashed his work boot against the ficus in a fit of rage and the clay pot shattered, soil spilling all over. Mom had salvaged it then, successfully transferred it into another pot that time. But it hasn’t been getting the best sunlight in their apartment and Max supposes it just couldn’t hang on anymore. 

Later that week, Mom brings home a mild sniffle, her nostrils pinkish. She waves Max off when Max suggests she slows down and Max knows she gets on her nerves with chants of "I told you so," when that sniffle becomes a full-on terrible cold in record time, Mom sneezing up a storm, constantly dabbing her drippy nose until it’s a bright Rudolph red bulb of irritation. The frog in her throat has made a nice home for itself and doesn’t sound in any hurry to leave, rendering Mom’s voice a thick gluey croak.

This is the day Mom decides to splurge. She bundles up in a wool hat and scarf, then they’re bound for the store. Mom buys a separate blowup bed for Max with the hope that sleeping apart will keep her from catching it. A foam topper for herself because she says months spent sleeping on an inflatable mattress are finally taking a toll on her back. Another foam topper for Max just in case her youth isn’t enough to keep her own back from getting stiff. She fills the cart with two canisters of spray disinfectant, tissues, cough drops, and more tissues when she has to open the first box in the store to tend her persistent waterfall of a runny nose. After Mom got fired from the bistro, weekly movie rentals were suspended. She brought them back once getting hired at the motel, but this week, all the movie money and more is spent before they know it. 

In no time at all, the trash is overflowing with sodden tissue balls. Mom always covers her mouth, wiping down or spraying everything she touches. Max dutifully sleeps on her single inflatable twin, even though she’s dubious, figuring their place is just too small for her to escape the recycled air and her mother’s cold is just too bad to be anything but ultra contagious. Mom is still pretty sick four days in, just can’t shake it off, probably because she refuses to call out of work to rest, even when Max nearly begs her to. It’s five days before her nose dries up, the nasal congestion finally run its course, the chest congestion lagging behind, when Max feels herself coming down with it. Her own nose starts to dribble, one nostril stuffy, a tickle in her suddenly scratchy throat. 

Mom coughs into her elbow all through Day Six of her cold while Max officially begins Day One of hers, her nose running like a leaky faucet and throat so sore she feels like she swallowed a hedgehog whole. Mom apologizes profusely and throws herself into caregiving even though she’s still fighting off the virus herself, serving Max cup after cup of steaming honeyed mint tea and bowls of canned chicken soup. The chicken soup doesn’t look as tasty as Mom’s homemade but Max can barely taste anyway. She’s too plugged up, has no idea how her nostrils continue to stream when her mucus feels as thick as molasses packed in her nose. 

On her third night sick, Max isn’t sure if she’s woken by Mom’s coughing bout or her own in the middle of the night. In any case, she quickly discovers she’s lying on the floor. Her blowup bed must have a hole somewhere because it’s flat as a flapjack under her back. So that’s like ninety bucks down the drain but Max supposes it’s whatever, because it didn’t serve its intended purpose of protecting her from Mom’s germs anyway. 

Max goes back to school in the morning even though she slept like shit, because they ask for a doctor’s note if you’re going to miss four days or more in a row. Her mother sends her off with sandwich bags packed with tissues and grape flavored cough drops in her pockets. Mom had to go back to the store for a second bag because she went through the first one to soothe her own miserable cough that’s only now beginning to abate.

Max drags herself like a zombie, sneezing and coughing her way through classes with a head that feels swollen and sorely wishing she could skip. Her wish is granted and backfires in evil genie fashion, when her stupid cold clings on even longer than Mom’s did, the ache in her ear gets worse instead of better, and the thermometer she’s too wiped out to protest confirms a fever. Mom hauls her off to the clinic where Max is poked and prodded at, promptly diagnosed with an ear infection, and rewarded with the note that lets her skip until next week. 

The schoolwork that adds up in her absence is overwhelming when she finally comes back. She fails two quizzes, one in social studies and one in history. She half-asses a convolutedly complicated English assignment she’s too impatient to devote effort to, and gets a C on a science paper she actually thought she did well on and had applied herself to in earnest. All in all, April is a lousy month. 

May begins better. Max gets invited to a sleepover at Bev’s trailer, along with Melody and Trinity from Oak Street. They play Truth or Dare, watch The Slumber Party Massacre, chow down on popcorn and gummy worms. They have a pillow fight— the real kind of pillow fight, not the sensual romp in their undies dumb boys (like Mike, she'd imagine, nostalgic twang in her stomach) fantasize pillow fights to be. Bev is an athlete and she takes no prisoners, smacking Trinity so hard that the feathers fly free, sending her toppling from her battle stance atop the ottoman. Max can almost see the cartoon birds circling her head. Max ounce fought monsters and she’s no slouch, puts real power into it when she avenges Trinity, pouncing Bev with her pillow like a bludgeon. 

She’s never had this many girl friends before. Always buddying up with guys, with her tomboy interests and as Mom called it, her "rough and tumble" nature. Lucy and El were her first girl friends, then Lucy was her girlfriend-girlfriend. But she’s in high school now and high school boys don’t seem to ever hang out with girls unless they want to snap bra straps, or grope, or cornily pick-up-line their way into your pants. Boys aren't fun anymore, now they're just annoying. 

Bev smuggles beer from the fridge and they walk the trailer park at night even though administration has a curfew. There’s a small playground in the middle of the park for families to take their kids, and that’s where they go, making hushed conversation along the walk. The three of them get drunk on the playscape and chase each other in the dark. In the morning Max has a couple scratches and grass stains on her pajamas, her chest as light as air despite the hangover squeezing her skull. 

Mom successfully snags a second job at a Thai restaurant where the owners are a lot nicer and much more practical than the owners at the bistro. They don’t mind if Mom brings home leftover food at all. In fact, they’d rather someone eat than waste it. Mom waitresses there on weekends, and on Thursdays after her motel shift. Some of the food is too spicy for Max, and not for the first time she suspects her mother might be an alien when she eats it with a straight face. Some of it is so delicious that Max could gobble up truckloads and never tire of it. 

Max still misses The Party sometimes. She’s happy to have new friends, but she’ll never forget the ones she left behind. She hopes they’re safe. She hopes Lucy’s potentially-nonexistent-but-probably-not new girlfriend is good to her. She wonders if Eleven got her powers back, and hopes she received the support she needed in her grief over Hopper. Still regrets that she wasn’t there to help be that support, maybe even added to her grief by vanishing suddenly from her life, from all their lives, in the middle of the night without a moment’s notice. 

Max misses parts of her life before, but she feels more herself now. She feels like Mom is more herself too. Mom only wears makeup when she goes to work now, never around the house. She laughs freely now, even though her eyes are tired, takes her bra off at her leisure and doesn't scold Max anymore when she does the same. Sometimes Max is strangely happy they’re still sharing the blowup bed (albeit now equip with the two foam toppers purchased when they shared The Cold From Hell, plus a pillow topper because the Beyond Bed And Beauty store went out of business and sold the last of its wares at 75% off). At fifteen she knows she's a little old for cuddling with her mommy, but now that things are better between them, some nights Max just enjoys worming her way into her mother’s arms and being held. She thinks Mom enjoys holding her and teenager or not, she won't let herself feel bad about it.

Max survives her freshman year.

Mom winds up juggling three jobs. She gets a higher paid receptionist position with better benefits at a fancier hotel a little further from the apartment. She quits the motel to work there full-time, but continues to waitress part-time at the Thai restaurant on Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. During the daytime on Saturday and Sunday, specifically from 10:00 AM to 2:30 PM, she does her latest part-time job, working as a call center representative for a camping resort business. 

Sometimes Max worries about her mother working herself to the bone. Watches Mom closely those nights she plods over the threshold yawning and only remains awake long enough to change into a nightgown before she’s snoring on the blowup bed. But the thing is, even when Mom is fatigued, she seems more at ease now than she did back with Neil. Max doesn’t have to ask to know that this is what her mother prefers, that she’d rather be dog tired in a peaceful home than well-rested in the hostile Hargrove jailhouse. 

They move again in the middle of July. The weather is broiling. Sweat pours down their backs as they carry boxes up and down the steps. Thankfully there aren’t too many. Boxes, not steps. There are plenty of steps because they live upstairs now, in a modest apartment on top of a basement garage, rented to them by a stout, former Air Guard lady who inherited it from her parents. Air Guard Lady used to live there herself until she got married. She still stores personal items in the basement garage so it’s all locked up, Mom and Max only permitted the living quarters above. 

The sun beats down on them as they continue to unload. The cement sizzles under their shoes. July is an awful time to move but Max actually appreciates the distraction because July is just plain awful in general now. Fireworks are always going off. Max watches beautiful colors explode, dazzling in the dark sky, and can only think of death. 

Their new apartment has two bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, and in the hallway, a deeply set closet equipped with a washer and dryer. They have their own beds now, real beds, two twin mattresses acquired at a very reasonable price from that non-profit resale shop Max has indeed begun volunteering at. It’s boring work, most of the time, tidying up messy clothes racks, checking in donated items, and ringing up customers. But it’s for a good cause, the community service will look good on her college applications, and it also means Max is often the first in line for the good finds— like the mattresses. 

They get a secondhand sofa from a different thrift shop, a pine green Hide-a-Bed sofa possibly even older than Mom. From that same thrift store, they get a new set of dishes, beige with little roses. On sale at Sears, Mom gets a faux wood kitchen table. She'd prefer real wood, tells Max that it always cleans better and lasts longer, but mahogany simply isn't in their budget right now. 

Max and Mom still have their ritual of renting movies on Friday nights and it’s the one night a week they still sleep together. Now on the pullout couch-bed instead of the blowup one. Mom usually picks some drama or a dog movie and Max usually sticks to horror, but occasionally goes for a sci-fi or action flick. She and her mother get the pillows and blankets from their beds and curl up on the sofa’s mattress (which now has the pillow topper that used to be on the inflatable bed) to share a big bowl of popcorn, buttered and sprinkled with parmesan cheese and just a dash of black pepper. 

A summer shower carries on outside during one evening in August, warm rain watering the grass so Max won’t have to on the weekend. They stay inside and put their movies on earlier than usual because there’s nothing to do outside and the day feels so lazy draped in gray. The one Mom rented is about three weird women in a California desert town, and Max picked A Night to Dismember. Max unexpectedly finds herself enjoying Mom’s movie even though it's a bit melodramatic, but her mother does not enjoy hers. 

“Ugh, Maxine,” she scolds as she thumbs the power button on the remote. “That was not entertainment. That was an insult to the mind.” 

“No way!” Max scoffs. “It’s the total opposite of an insult to the mind, it’s challenging you! You have to think outside the box to understand what it was trying to say.” 

“Trying to say,” Mom repeats, unimpressed. “What in the world could that senseless splatter fest be attempting to communicate? What was intended to be imparted on us by a woman gratuitously murdering her sister and falling upon her own axe?” 

“Uh…I mean, I think it’s clearly symbolic of intergenerational trauma, how it can lead people to harm others as well as themselves, and also represents this idea of a particular kind of pain that mingles self-harm and external harm; the way we ruin ourselves through the very act of hurting the ones we love the most.” 

Some days at the resale non-profit were slower than others. One particularly slow day, Max went picking through the book bin and found a thick, hardcover guide on trauma. It’s not something she would’ve normally picked up, but with all the posters on the walls making it impossible to forget to she had a great deal of her own, she figured she might be able to get something out of it. Brought it back to the checkout counter and began reading, found herself engrossed as well as informed, even when some things made her stomach uneasy. Just how much she could connect to the content was somewhat dismaying to face, some chapters more disarming than others. In any case, she'd finished the book. 

Mom’s lips part. “But it didn’t make any sense.” 

“Right,” Max agrees. “Because we’re supposed to experience the movie the way Vicki experiences events as her siblings gaslight her to the point of a severe mental breakdown.” 

“…you’re full of it,” Mom decides, giving her a gentle, teasing tap on the head with the remote. “But nice try.” 

Max shrugs, supposing you’d have to be a slasher fan to actually get it, which Mom decidedly is not. 

Max spends the rest of her summer volunteering at the non-profit resale shop in between skateboarding around, practicing tricks on the ramps by the river, and hanging out with her friends. They go to the arcade and walk the trails at the cider mill during the day. They rebelliously get drunk and jump off the swings in Bev’s trailer park playground at night. competing to see who can jump the farthest. The other girls go to the shopping mall on the nicer side of town sometimes, but Max never joins them. She never wants to set foot in a shopping mall again. 

School starts up again and with it, another stupid streak of bad luck. Max got the worst homeroom teacher you can get, the strict geezer who smells like wilted cabbage and assigns boatloads of tedious homework. She inadvertently learns that Trinity is homophobic when she calls Adam and his friend Steve fags for mooning other guys on the football field (as if straight guys never moon each other, anyway) and that sucks big time, because Max otherwise likes hanging out with her a lot. It makes Max angry and sad at the same time, knowing she has a friend who would mock her, maybe even be grossed out by her, if she knew Max swings both ways, has relished in kisses from girls and boys alike. 

Couple days after Trinity's homophobic comment, Mom comes home late and trips over Max’s skateboard in the dark, twisting her ankle. It leads to a spat between them when Max tries to apologize and Mom won’t hear it, reams her out so bad Max’s eyes mist up, screaming and swearing like a sailor, which is completely, utterly unlike her. Her foot swells until she can’t put her shoe on, and Max is pushed away when she tries to help her to the car, not invited to the trip to the clinic that Mom returns from grumbling, clomping awkwardly with this bulky medical boot up to the knee she has to wear for two weeks. No movie night on Friday, because the insurance didn’t cover it and Mom had to pay out of pocket. 

Max tries to cook dinner the next day while Mom is at work to make it up to her and accidentally starts a grease fire. Oil hisses and pops in the skillet, her only warning before flames shoot up from the pan, springing up to singe the cabinets. Frantic, she tosses a cup of water over it. Water is supposed to put out fires but there’s a louder hiss, a fwoosh, and the fire explodes into a fearsome blaze. Smoke billows toward the ceiling as the swirling orange flames hungrily devour the cabinets. 

Blood running ice cold despite the roasting furnace heat that fans across her face, Max panics. Scrambling, she nearly trips over herself as she darts into the hallway. They have a small fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. Came with the place, coated in a fine layer of dust and covered in cobwebs, Max desperately prays it’s not expired. She skims the instructions, rushing back to the kitchen with a jackhammer heartbeat as the smoke detector shrieks its piercing cry of alarm. 

Max yanks the pin to release the seal and aims toward the fire with shaking hands. She pinches the handle. A gasp leaps off her tongue as white foam spews forth from the nozzle. She madly sweeps from side to side and up and down, desperate to douse every flickering flame. Doesn’t stop until the extinguisher is sputtering. 

By some miracle, Max manages to put out the fire. But most of the cabinets are charred, the air reeks awfully of smoke, and there’s powdery film all over the damn place. She stares at the destruction and the mess, swallowing thickly. Now that her panic has passed, dejection fills her to the brim. 

Max just wanted to cook dinner for her mother, how did everything go so wrong so fast? 

The smoke alarm continues shrieking, the noise like razors to her ears. Max frustratedly beats it with the broom until it finally shuts off. Then she moves on to tackle the mess. She opens the window above the kitchen sink to let some fresh air in, slumping in defeat as she fetches the rubber gloves her mother uses to wash the dishes. She has no idea what you’re supposed to use to clean up fire extinguisher residue, so she just fills a plastic tub with the brew of dish soap, white vinegar, and warm water Mom uses to clean most everything. 

Her mother returns when she’s managed to successfully clean about half of it, so shocked at the state of the kitchen, her purse falls right out of her hands and hits the floor. 

“Please don’t be mad,” Max begs, already dispirited and drained. 

Mom blinks wide eyes, mouth still gaping as she whips her head from side to side. “What on earth happened here, Maxine!?” 

“I don’t know! I was cooking dinner, or trying to anyway, but I guess I had the heat up too high because the next thing I knew, there was a fire in the pan! I tried to put it out, but when I threw the water on—“ 

“You threw water on a grease fire?!” Mom tosses her hands skyward, eyes growing even bigger, round as pizza pies. 

“...uh, yeah, I did. I thought it would put it out, but um. Then the flames exploded.” 

“Oh my word, Maxine! You never put water on a grease fire! Never ever!” Mom gestures with her arms. “That’ll only make it worse!” 

“Well shit, I didn’t know that!” 

“Look at this. This place is a disaster zone. It smells like a gas station.” Mom groans loudly and buries her face in her hands. 

“I’m sorry,” Max mumbles, lowering her head in dismay. 

After a long moment, her mother’s hands peel from her face. Mom inhales a deep breath and swiftly limps over, walking boot clunking against the floor. She wraps gentle arms around Max and pulls her close, pressing warm lips to the crown of her head.  

“The most important thing is that you’re okay. We can replace cabinets, Max. We can’t replace you.” 

Max leans into the hug, tucking her face into the crook of her mother’s neck. What happened was pretty scary. The plumes of smoke, the flames stretching toward the ceiling. She hadn’t been that scared in a long time. 

“I never taught you about grease fires,” Mom hums wistfully. “I can’t expect you to know something you weren’t taught.”

“I taught myself today,” Max muses. “Trial by fire. Literally.” 

Mom gets a laugh at that, dark but amused. 

“I’ll help you clean up.” 

“Nah, Mom, just sit down.” Max breaks the hug and waves her hand dismissively. “You’ve had a long day. You worked a double shift with a sprained ankle.” 

“Oh, I wasn’t on my feet much, Max. It’s a desk job.” 

“But it still hurts.” 

“Mm, a little bit, yes.” 

“Exactly, go sit down. Put it up.” Max flaps her hands in a shooing motion. 

“…are you sure you’ve got this handled?” Mom dubiously roves her eyes over the remaining residue. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Max had already taken care of the hardest part: putting out the fire.

“Well…alright. Let me know if you change your mind.” 

Mom awkwardly shuffles off to sofa, elevates her injured ankle on a throw pillow as she flicks on the television. She flips through a few channels before settling on Fantasy Island reruns while Max finishes cleaning up. When she’s done, she changes her clothes, and they order pizza and salad. 

Life carries on. Thankfully the rest of September is relatively smooth sailing. Mild autumn weather turns to cold, the wind crisp, a few mornings presenting frost in the grass. 

October falls upon them in a flourish of changing leaves and Halloween decorations. Max is excited for the holiday even though she’s too old for trick-or-treating. She’ll just buy herself a bag of candy, binge some creature features, maybe hit a party or two. The community center has flyers posted across the city about a costume contest they’re having on Devil’s Night and Max flirts with the idea of entering, wonders if the prizes are any good. 

Max eyes the decorations on display at the K-Mart while Mom browses produce. Meanders her way to the hygiene section with all the shampoos and stuff. Quickly scopes the area to be sure she’s alone. 

Max still steals things from time to time. Sometimes things she keeps. Sometimes things she donates to the resale non-profit shop. Always essentials, just like before. Vitamins. Body wash. Antiseptic spray. Only the stuff they always need. The stuff the shelter the non-profit supports always needs too. Never anything unnecessary, like comics, or gel pens, or stickers for her skateboard. 

She and her mother are currently running low on deodorant. Max prefers stick deodorant while Mom prefers roll-on. She doesn’t see why she couldn’t grab one of each. 

On some level Max supposes it’s wrong, but really, who does this kind of robbery actually hurt? 

Swiping a couple of household essentials every now and then from loaded shelves isn’t the same as pointing a gun at an underpaid cashier and demanding they hand over every cent in the register. 

Max sidles up to the shelf and skims light fingertips along, latching onto a roll-on deodorant and surreptitiously sneaking it up her coat sleeve. She finds a stick deodorant with a fresh scent she likes and does the same up her opposite sleeve. They should stay in place, though she wishes she had the foresight earlier to get some rubber bands or ponytail holders around her arms, to hold the items more securely. 

Max trots out of the hygiene aisle and hurries off to find her mother. She doesn’t want to stay here much longer with stolen goods up her sleeves, even though she isn’t overly worried about getting caught. She’s done this dozens of times now, never been caught before. 

It is possibly this optimism that jinxes her. 

Max turns too fast around the corner of breakfast goods aisle with all the cereal and granola bars, colliding smack-dab into an end cap display. Her hands fly up as she falls back, crashing hard on her butt, a shockwave sent through her tailbone. The deodorants slip from her sleeves and clatter to the floor. Loudly. Right in the direct visual axis of a sales associate rotating product. 

The associate walkies his manager as he leads her up front. Max internally groans, ushered into the manager’s dinky office and told to wait. It reminds her of getting in trouble at school, escorted to the principal's office. Her mother is requested over the intercom and Max cringes in the ratty office chair. She curses herself for her carelessness. 

The next thing Max knows, she’s banned from the store, her mother having apologized profusely to the manager after he'd lectured Max, visibly abashed. Now they’re in the car and Max is embarrassed too, not because she stole but because she got caught. Mom’s mouth is a firm line of disappointment, her eyes flickering between watching the road and glowering at Max. 

“I thought you were past this petty theft phase of yours.” 

“So you did know.” Max blinks at the confirmation. She’d figured as much, but could never be sure. They never talked about it. 

“At first I didn’t. But these little things just kept showing up and for the life of me, I couldn't remember getting any of them.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Because I thought you wanted me to say something.” Her mother tightens her grip on the steering wheel. “I originally believed this was an attention seeking behavior and that if I did the opposite of granting it attention, you would stop. But considering you’re still doing it, I take it I was wrong.” 

“Totally wrong.” Max scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Attention seeking has nothing to do with it.” 

“Then what is it all about? Why are you stealing, Maxine?” Concern seeps through the frustration in Mom’s voice.
 
“Why are you mad? It’s all stuff we need. I’ve never lifted anything useless or unnecessary.” 

“I will get us what we need, Maxine. I didn’t raise you to steal.” 

“Raise me?” Max echoes, bristling, a buried resentment resurfacing for the first time in a long time. “What do you mean, you raised me? You married Neil when I was like six! He called all the shots from then on, and you know it.” 

Mom lets out a cry so soft and thin, for a heartbeat Max thinks she imagined it. But when she glances in the rear view mirror, her mother’s eyes glisten with a shield of unshed tears. She sinks her teeth into her lip and blinks them back. 

“I t-tried, you know. It wasn’t always enough. I’ll readily admit that, but I always tried to do what I could in our home.” 

“It was never a home,” Max retorts. 

“…I know. And that’s why we left. But I tried my b-best to make it one, Max. I really did. I wasn’t a good mother and I won’t pretend I was, but I was never apathetic. You don’t understand why I did everything I did. I regret many of the choices I made but I— when I made them, I really thought they were the best ones.” 

“Ooh, you want me to throw you a pity party?” Max sasses, curling her lip. “You want a participation prize for trying oh-so-hard?” 

Max watches her words cut, sharp as butterfly knives. Mom blinks back more tears, hurt and mortified, shame shimmering in her wet gaze. A long silence stretches out between them before she breaks it with a low sigh. 

“Okay, Max...please tell me why you started stealing.” 

Max shrugs, leaning her head against the window. “It’s not a big deal. It’s always little stuff. The store couldn’t even call the cops on me. The police would’ve laughed them off if they got a call about two stolen deodorants. Probably even fined that buzzkill manager for wasting their time.” 

“But it’s not just two deodorants. You’ve done this a lot.”

“And I repeat, it’s stuff we need. You stole,” Max reminds her. “You stole Neil’s wallet because we needed that cash to get out of Hawkins. Then you stole leftovers from the bistro. I stole what I stole because it was stuff we needed to have. We can’t not have deodorant, Mom. Or soap, or peroxide, or toothbrushes…” 

She decides she’ll stay quiet about donating some of her five-finger-discounted haul to the resale shop. 

“Just because we needed it?” Mom is close to pleading. “Not for any other reason?” 

“Uh…no?” Max raises a skeptical brow. 

“I’m worried about you, Max. When Billy started shoplifting, it was small things too. A new baseball glove, snacks, pocket knives. Then it was his teacher’s purse, the neighbors’ car ornaments...” Her mother swallows. 

“Yeah. I remember,” Max admits. 

She remembers Neil beating Billy for stealing more than she remembers the scattered assortment of things he stole. She remembers the boom of Neil’s shouts and the belt cutting through the air. She remembers Billy grinning defiantly with bloody teeth and teary eyes, a premolar missing and a hyena laugh of a cackle that rung more like a sob. 

“Maybe I should’ve brought it up before. I didn’t want to encourage bad behavior, but oh.” Mom sucks air between her teeth and rolls to a stop at the sign, turning in her seat to face Max fully. “Is this a cry for help?” 

“No!” Heat burns in Max’s cheeks. 

There are no cars. Mom could drive on but she doesn’t, reaching out to tentatively pat Max’s shoulder. 

“You hold back sometimes, sweetheart. You keep it to yourself when you’re hurting and press it all down inside. I’m afraid it’s something we have in common.” 

“But I’m not…” 

Mom inclines her head, stare softened but knowing. 

Max groans and thunks her head back against the seat, tossing up her hands. 

“Fine. Okay, I mean, sometimes I do.” When she’s wrapped up in memories of living with Neil, losing Billy, the friends she’ll never, ever see again and all the crazy stuff they went through together. “But I promise stealing doesn’t have anything to do with that. I wasn’t trying to get attention and I wasn’t trying to cry for help. I just wanted to pick up some stuff we needed at home. It’s not like we have a lot of money and taking stuff saves us a few bucks here and there.” 

Mom studies her for a long moment and slowly bobs her head. Squeezes Max’s shoulders before she puts both hands back on the wheel and taps the gas.

“I believe you.” 

“Finally.” 

“But I would like you to make an appointment with your school counselor, okay?” 

“Come on.” 

“I mean it. You’ve been through so much, Max. I suspect even more than I know.” Her mother slides a wary glance her way. “We didn’t talk much in Hawkins.” 

“We talked every day,” Max argues, even though she understands what Mom really means. 

They didn’t have the conversations that they should’ve had. Real conversations. The kind that they’re getting better at having now. But Max never would’ve been able to tell her about The Upside Down, or what truly happened to Billy. 

“I wasn’t who you needed me to be back in Hawkins,” Mom continues softly. “I wasn’t who I needed myself to be, either. It was difficult to have important talks when we were both walking on eggshells all the time. There were so many days I just wanted you out of that horrible house. So many days I looked past you to keep my eyes on Neil, to watch his every move before I even thought to make any move of my own.” 

“…I know.” 

“I want you to see the counselor,” Mom reiterates. “I want you to be okay.” 

“I am okay.” Usually. Now. Most of the time. Probably. 

“I think it would do you good to unload in a safe space. With a professional. Of course you can talk to me, about whatever you want or need, but I’m…I’m just me. And I’m not sure if I could offer the kind of guidance that the professionals are there for.” 

Max chews it over, lightly bops her head back against the seat as her thoughts scurry like ants. 

“I will call the school to make sure that you go,” Mom adds with a stern touch that informs Max this is not a negotiation. 

“Fine,” Max relents. “I’ll go see the counselor.” 

“Thank you.” 

“But what about you?” 

“Hm?” 

“Like you said, the holding back thing…it’s something I get from you. Maybe you should find a professional to talk to, too.” Max knows her mother has been through a lot as well. With Neil. With Billy. With the move and the money situation. Juggling so many jobs and shouldering boatloads of guilt. 

“Oh, Max.” Mom blinks owlishly and cracks a slight smile. “High school guidance counselors are free. Professionals for grownups are a tad pricier. If I booked an appointment, it’d be a pretty penny we don’t really have to spare.” 

Max considers this, lifting her head and peering at Mom sidelong. 

“Alright. Well, how about I ask the counselor about stuff that I think effects both of us, and I pass the advice or guidance or whatever along to you?” 

Mom tips her head to the side, humming in her throat. “As long as you're comfortable with it, I wouldn’t say no to that.” 

“It’s a deal then.” Max supposes talking to someone isn’t the worst idea ever. Opening up to a stranger is rather daunting, but like Mom said, the counselor is a professional. They’re there to help and they must hear fucked up shit all the time. 

Opening up isn’t easy, but. Max has done plenty of things that weren’t easy. Facing down her volatile stepbrother at the Byers place, setting her boundaries with a bat and a shout. Saving the town from interdimensional nightmare beasts most normal people's peabrains couldn’t even fathom. Burying Billy when he sacrificed himself to one and having the courage to rebuild with Mom once they left his father after the fact. 

When they get home, her mother brings out the ironing board, setting up in the living room and heaping clothes upon the sofa until there’s a messy mountain of fabrics in the middle of the cushions. 

“Um…are you going to do all that ironing?” Max gawks from the kitchen, popping a straw into an apple juice fetched from the fridge. 

“No.” Mom grins cheekily. “You are.” 

Max balks, nearly snorting juice out of her nose. 

“You were caught shoplifting today, young lady,” Mom says, tone rigidly reproachful as she wags her finger. 

“We needed deodorant!” 

“Understandable intentions or not, your actions were wrong. An extra chore is not an unreasonable punishment.” 

“Look at all that laundry,” Max protests, jabbing her apple juice toward the mountainous heap of clothing. “It’s going to take forever!” 

“Then you’d better get started.” Mom clicks her tongue, unwavering. 

Max finishes her juice and crunches the box, tossing it in the trash can with an aggravated huff. Resigned, she plods into the living room, peeks at the press iron to see if it needs water. It does, so Max fills it up before she plugs it in. Mom brings in some wire hangers and sets them on the coffee table, still wearing that cheeky look. It’s pretty childish but Max still sticks her tongue out the moment her mother’s back is turned. 

Max starts at the top of the mountain, plucking up one of Mom’s business casual blouses and laying it flat on the ironing board. She presses the soleplate to the shirt with a firm hand, slowly smoothes the wrinkles out. Doing it right takes longer than just a skim over the fabric but Mom won’t let her do a half-assed job, Max knows. Her mind wanders as she slogs through the tedious chore, attentively smoothing and steaming each garment before hanging them up. 

Mom’s across from her in their small, still semi-singed kitchen, wiping the refrigerator handle with a damp rag when they both hear the knock at the door. Mom gives a little jump as Max’s shoulders tighten with an immediate tension. They lock eyes and Max suddenly has a bad feeling she thinks her mother shares too, an apprehensive tug in her gut. 

“Are you, ah, expecting anyone, Max?” Mom asks. 

“No…you?” Max realizes she’s still holding the steam button down on the iron, pressing so harshly the pad of her finger hurts. She quickly releases. 

“No.” 

Another series of knocking. Punitive, authoritarian. The way the cops pound on drug dealers’ doors. 

In this moment, Max realizes Neil Hargrove is at their door. She does not know how she knows, only that she does. Her body goes on high alert, awareness sparking along every nerve. 

Across from her, Mom drains pale. She tightens her grip on the cleaning cloth until her knuckles are blanched. Max watches her posture go stiff as the damn ironing board before her, perturbation limpid in her gaze. 

Neil Hargrove is at their door and Mom knows it too. 

More knocking. Max wants to scream from the top of her lungs, howl like a bloodthirsty werewolf. 

“Don’t answer it,” wobbles out of her throat, a squeak of a volume so feeble, maybe her mother can’t even make out what she said. 

Mom’s already walking that way, putting a trembling hand on the railing. Max sets the iron down and follows right behind. They pad down the steps to get to the front door, the only thing standing between them and their worst nightmare. 

Her mother peers through the peephole and in a hushed, crumbling voice, confirms that it is indeed Neil on the other side. 

“I know you’re in there, Susie Q,” he chimes sunnily, as if he’d heard her whisper through the rusted steel of the door, as if he can hear the very breath catching in their throats. “Open up, I just want to talk.” 

“W-Well, I d-don’t want to talk to you!” Mom exclaims, frightened, stupefied, and vexed all at once. “If you don’t leave, I will call the police!” 

Max doesn’t know when she grabbed her mother’s arm, squeezing so tight she fears she’s cutting off her circulation yet unable to bring herself to ease her ironclad grip. 

“Susan. I am the police,” comes the reply, cool and amused. “See, we have a lot to catch up on. I’m not the same man I was when you left. I’ve turned over a new leaf, found a new purpose in protecting my community.” 

She and her mother exchanged stunned glances. 

“If that’s true, then hold your badge up to the peephole,” Mom demands. 

“Proudly…” 

It feels as if the floor has turned to quicksand beneath Max’s feet. 

“…go ahead, take a look.” 

Mom peers through the peephole and her face falls in despair. 

“Open up,” Neil repeats. “I’m not here to cause trouble, I promise. I brought dinner.” 

“Don’t,” Max whispers, begging. 

“I have to,” Mom sounds as if she’s going to burst into tears and unlocks the door anyway. 

Max’s heart sinks into the pit of her roiling stomach as her mother turns the knob. Time seems to move in slow motion.

Her mother opens the door. Neil Hargrove stands before them, clean shaven and in uniform. Max can understand why Mom couldn’t make that part out on the first peek through the peephole, because he has a leather jacket on over the blue shirt. Jacket’s thicker than Billy’s old one, a patch on the shoulder. He’s carrying several large paper bags in each hand, savory scents wafting through the air. 

Max has no appetite whatsoever.

“It’s been a long time. I thought a reunion like this called for a fancy meal. It’s the least I can do for dropping by without any notice.” 

“I certainly would’ve preferred notice,” Mom says, clearing her throat. 

Neil’s broad billboard of a grin falters for the space of a millisecond. 

“I stopped at a nice restaurant and ordered us pepper-crusted prime rib, creamed spinach, maple sweet potato chunks, and sautéed mushrooms. It wasn’t cheap, but you ladies are worth better than hamburgers and fries.” 

“Why are you here, Neil?” Mom places a hand over Max’s still clutched around her arm. 

“I told you. I just want to talk. You owe me that, Susan. You took off on me, stole from me, and disappeared in the night with no warning. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that you betrayed me, but I'd be a liar if I claimed I didn't know why. I like to think we'd both be able to let bygones be bygones, if we could just go upstairs and talk like adults over this fine meal.” 

Mom pats Max’s hand. 

“Alright, honey,” she says, that terrifyingly vacant demure smile Max always despised sliding back onto her lips smooth as butter, perfectly practiced to placate. “You head up first. I’m going to help Neil, take a couple of the bags so he can get ahold of the banister.” 

“Appreciate it, Susie.” 

This cannot be happening. 

This cannot possibly be happening. 

“Go on, Max,” Mom prompts mildly. 

Of course it’s fucking happening. 

Max jogs up the steps, hand gliding over the railing. Her heart races, head spinning like a top. She can’t believe he found them. She can’t begin to comprehend how. 

“Cute little place you two have here,” Neil announces as if he’s been given a tour when he’s only one tactical boot over the threshold of their dwelling proper. 

He follows Mom into the kitchen, where they set the bags on the counter. 

“Looks like we had a little accident though.” 

“Yes,” Mom says, tone light as if it could be a joke even though Neil fucking Hargrove is here and it’s the furthest thing from funny. “I failed to educate Max on the dangers of grease fires. She tossed water on a flame while I was out and it became a blaze. But she wasn’t hurt and that’s the most important thing.” 

Neil laughs jovially. 

“Water on a grease fire! Well now, you little featherbrain, you’re lucky you didn’t wind up flambé!”

“…yeah,” Max mumbles. “So lucky.” 

“Have you got a hug for your old man?” Neil spreads his arms wide in the middle of the kitchen, waiting, and bile crawls up Max’s throat. 

Mom meets her gaze behind his shoulder and bobs her head, encouraging Max to comply. Max’s blood boils hotter each step she pads across the threadbare carpet. She isn’t sure who she’s more pissed off at. Neil for being here, or Mom for falling so easily back under his control. 

Max pauses a footstep away from him, her stare magnetically pulled to the gun on his hip. Neil blinks, notices her noticing. 

“Don’t worry your pretty head about that, Maxine. Safety’s on now. That gun’s reserved for bad guys only.” Neil winks at her charmingly.  

Max doesn’t smile back, but closes the gap between them, numbly embracing her former stepfather.

Christ. Neil with an official license to kill. As if he wasn’t terrifying enough before. 

“I’ll start setting the table,” Mom pipes in. “But I’m afraid Max won’t be eating with us.” 

Neil releases her from the hug and glances between them with a raised brow. “No? Why is that?” 

“She’s being punished. Maxine attempted to shoplift today, so there will be no dinner for her. She won’t be leaving the living room at all, not until she’s ironed every wrinkle and crease out of each article of clothing on that sofa.” 

“Shoplifting? That’s serious, Maxine,” Neil declares, putting his hands on his hips and fixing her with a stern stare. “Shoplifting is a crime.”

“You can save your breath, Neil. The store manager already lectured me and so did Mom.” Max defiantly crosses her arms. 

Mom might’ve slipped right back into passivity but Max refuses to do the same. She will not let this man feel welcome in their home. He was never her 'old man,' as he’d called himself. Always a sorry excuse for a stepfather— any kind of father. 

Because for every time Neil lifted her on his shoulders so she could see the fireworks better, there were five nights where his fuse was the firework and Max had to flee, fearful he'd blow up in her face. Left shaking in her bed from the sheer possibility. Because for every new vase or knickknack Neil bought Mom, there were ten he’d smashed against the wall, ten times her mother's fingers bled as she was left to pick up the pieces. Because this fancy dinner too, is camouflage for dark intentions and Max senses it with every fiber of her being. 

“Max, be polite,” Mom warns, and Max doesn’t miss the way her eyes flicker to the gun on Neil’s hip, but isn’t sure if her mother is afraid Neil will actually shoot her, afraid of the mere threat, or simply afraid of the power it represents. “Neil is…Neil is our guest tonight. If I hear another rude word out of your mouth, you will be ironing every sock, every scarf, every dinner napkin we own. Do you understand?” 

They don’t own any cloth napkins. Max’s lips part as she realizes that’s precisely the point. Her punishment started in earnest but Mom is only reinforcing it for show.

Mom wants to keep Max busy so she doesn’t have to sit at the table with Neil. 

“I’m impressed, Susan,” Neil says in the tone of someone who’s just watched an old dog perform a trick. “You’ve finally learned the importance of disciplining children.” 

A memory flashes and fizzles in the duration of two heartbeats. Billy on the floor, snarling at Max to go away between coughs as he rubbed the brinjal band bruised into his throat. 

“Yes, well…you, um, recall what a handful Max can be.” 

“Indeed I do. I’m sure she’s been pushing boundaries, taking advantage of not having a man around the house to back you up.” 

Hatred as hot as the grease fire scorches in Max’s belly so ferociously, she’s surprised she doesn’t incinerate with it, render herself a pile of ashes. 

Mom gives her one last, quick warning look and busies herself setting the table. Pulling the plates from the place they’ve been stacked on the counter since the cabinet was too charred to continue storing them. Refilling the napkin holder Max made in wood shop with paper napkins. 

Max shuffles to the living room and resumes ironing as Neil pulls something else out of one of his paper bags, the bag that Max only now notices looks a little different than the others, slimmer but taller, with red ribbon handles instead of rigid paper ones. 

“I almost forgot. These are for you.” 

Cellophane crinkles as Neil frees a bouquet from the bag and thrusts it out to her mother. A pretty display of white tulips, orange tulips, and pink carnations. Max almost gags at the sight, isn’t sure if the steam floating around her is from the iron or her fuming ears. 

“Oh, Neil, you shouldn’t have,” Mom murmurs as she takes the flowers, more fretful than fond. 

“I thought it’d be—“ 

“You really shouldn’t have,” Mom cuts him off, raising her voice an octave. “These are lovely and I-I appreciate the thought, but we aren’t together anymore. It simply isn’t appropriate for me to accept these. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea.” 

Her mother crams the bouquet back into the paper bag. Max nearly drops the iron in shock. Isn’t sure whether to be proud of Mom or worried for her. Mom never interrupted Neil. Mom never interrupted Neil because it was a dangerous thing to do. 

Neil is evidently just as incredulous as Max. For a minute it’s as if he’s short-circuited because he doesn’t do anything at all. Blinks at her mother like he’s looking at a mirage, something too shimmery and surreal to be real life. 

“I was hoping we could talk about that, Susan,” he says eventually, tone infused with just a tint of irritation Max thinks that anyone who didn’t know him would miss. 

“Uhm, let’s…let’s sit down first. Eat this wonderful feast you’ve brought while it’s still hot.” Mom begins opening containers, slicing the rib roast. “Ooh, it smells divine.” 

Max clenches her teeth around the swear words she wants to screech. She carries on with her chore, working her way down the clothes mountain as Mom and Neil take their seats at the table. Smoothing wrinkles from garments and laying them over the back of the sofa once hanged, to be put into their closets later. After Neil leaves. Please, please, please let Neil leave. 

“I understand why you abandoned me,” Neil starts shortly, pointedly derailing her mother’s attempts to keep the conversation grounded in casual small talk. 

Their place is so small, Max is all of fifteen feet away. By the proximity of her presence alone, she should be part of this conversation. But Neil talks as if she isn’t here at all, sitting in the chair with its back squarely to Max so he can consider her unseen as well as unheard. 

“I wasn’t always the best husband to you, Susan. I lost my temper when I should’ve had more patience. Many days I raised my voice when I shouldn't have. Times I let myself be provoked too easily. Things I said too harshly.” 

“Let’s be clear, Neil. I don’t want to get back together.” Her mother lowers her fork, a mushroom speared upon the tines. “I’ve moved on.” 

“Susan, you explicitly told your daughter to be polite, so I’m having trouble understanding why you can’t do the same,” Neil blusters, setting his water glass down hard enough to rattle Max’s napkin holder. 

“I am not being impolite, Neil, I am being honest.” Mom’s voice quavers slightly, but she holds her head up. “I do not want to rekindle our relationship. I’ve moved on—“ 

“You’ve moved on from the man I used to be,” Neil speaks like a teacher correcting a misspelled word on the blackboard. “I’m not that person anymore, Susan. I’ve changed. I came all this way for you. Please let me say my piece.” 

A burning scent jars Max out of her stupor. Her attention was so devoted to the adults that she left the iron down too long. She picks it up and scrunches her nose at the scorch marks on her white gym shirt. 

“After my son died, I lost myself, I’ll own up to that. I pushed you away.” 

Max’s eyes snap right back to the dinner table. Neil isn’t seriously trying to make excuses for himself, is he? 

“My world went dark when my son died.” 

As if Billy’s world wasn’t dark because of him. As if he didn’t cause Mom or Max their dark days, and thought himself entitled to do so all the while. 

“I wasn’t coping, I gave up on myself.” Neil sighs heavily, runs his hands back through his hair. “I should thank you for leaving me, Susan. It was a wakeup call.” 

Max grinds her molars so violently, it’s a marvel they don’t turn to dust in her gums, her knuckles painfully tight around the iron handle. 

Shut the fuck up, Neil. 

But he doesn’t shut up, he just keeps spewing all this bullshit that makes Max want to tear her hair out.

Neil's words steamroll right over Mom as she becomes a porcelain doll in her own creaky kitchen chair, eyes blank and lips painted shut. 

“I wasn’t a father anymore, I wasn’t a husband anymore, either. I realized I needed to find purpose again. That’s when I joined the force. They were hesitant at first, to tell you the truth. I was a little long in the tooth compared to most of the recruits, but the Hawkins department was a man down and you know me, Susan. I keep myself fit and active because I don’t believe in laziness. Only life’s losers take the path of laziness.” 

Neil was always pretty physically fit, yeah, except for when he stopped showering and grew that fugly muskrat beard. The workout equipment Max had always thought of as belonging to Billy had technically belonged to Neil. She just thought of it as Billy’s because her schedule overlapped more with her stepbrother’s than her stepfather’s, and Billy was usually the one using it while she was around. But if he didn’t wipe it down before Neil used it next, he’d get yelled at and boxed around the ears, even though Neil never wiped it down after he worked out himself— no, when Neil worked out, he left the wipe down to Mom. 

Total bullshit to say he doesn’t believe in laziness. Neil may have kept himself in strong physical shape, but he was lazy in too many other ways to count. Never helped her mother clean the house except once a year, annual March spring cleaning. Couldn’t even tidy up his own TV tray. Never cooked a dish ever, not even when Mom smashed her fingers in the car door and had to make dinner (and dessert) one-handed. Even with her fingers bandaged, Neil had had the gall to complain about the burnt pie crust. Neil had made Billy do all the outdoor chores, like mowing the lawn or cleaning the gutters. The day Billy slipped off the ladder, Neil barked at him to shake it off, get right back up and keep going until the job was done. 

You’re the laziest piece of shit I’ve ever met, Max wants to holler in his ear. 

“I am not the man I was before,” Neil vows like a white knight pledging fealty. “Joining the police force gave me my purpose back. I may not have been able to protect my son from what happened to him, but I could protect my community. If you give me another chance, Susan, I will dedicate every day to protecting you too. Come back to Hawkins with me and I promise that I’ll be the man I was supposed to be for you all along. I will make sure that every morning you wake up feeling cherished the way you deserve, knowing how much I care about you and Maxine.” 

Something inside Max just snaps. 

Or maybe it doesn’t.

Because Max isn’t lost in a blinding red fog of fury. Max knows exactly what she’s doing as she crosses the floor, iron in hand, electrical cord dangling behind. Neil’s back is still to her, all his attention on her mother as he awaits the sickly sweet reply he expects her to give, contentedly chewing the fancy food in his mouth. Max seethes with silent outrage, boiling again with a torrid hatred there is only one thing left to do with, and she is acutely aware of what that thing is. 

Mom’s always had this way of not looking at the stuff she doesn’t want to see. It’s something about her that drove Max crazy for the longest time. How Mom’s eyes could drift away from whatever ugly or frightening sight she didn’t want to be in her world. How Mom’s eyes could avoid horrible things specifically because she couldn’t deal with how horrible they were. For the very first time in memory, this trait of her mother’s comes in handy. 

Max raises the clothes iron right behind Neil’s head and Mom does not look at her, doesn’t even glance, as if Max is invisible. This is a blessing. Because if Mom glanced at Max, then Neil would glance at Max. But Mom keeps her perfectly empty porcelain-doll-glazed gaze focused on Neil, and so his gaze remains focused on her. Eager for her to agree to be his wife again, to tell him everything he wants to hear and swoon right into his arms. 

Max bashes the iron into Neil’s skull. Ceramic crunches as the blow smacks his face down into the dinner plate, pepper crusted prime rib and creamed spinach squelching moistly. Max strikes him again, letting everything out with that werewolf howl of rage she repressed before. 

“Shut up!” She hits him again. 

“Shut up!” Again, more shattering ceramic.

Again. “Shut up!” Again. 

Again, again, again.

“Fuck you!” The scent of burnt hair wafts up as Max grinds the hot soleplate into the back of his bleeding head. “How dare you!” 

Neil’s hands grasp at the table, as if to heft himself up, or back, making ugly gagging noises as he chokes on his food.

Max knows now is not the time to wane. He’ll retaliate worse when he gets up, maybe even unholster that gun and blow her brains out. Max dug her own grave the moment she decided to hit him. She knows it in her bones and if he kills her, so be it, but she will not die compliant. Max brings the iron down over and over, like she’s trying to mash potatoes, her barrage so fierce a piece of plastic breaks off the bottom of the appliance and Neil's head smashes the dinner plate to slivers that jump and bounce off the kitchen table rattling with each impact.

“How dare you come here and try to do this to us again, you worthless, hateful fucking hog filth of a human being!” Now Max really is seeing some of that red fog of fury, blood spurting up beyond the phantasmic puffs of the iron’s steam. 

“You're abusive, I hate you!” She sears the soleplate into Neil’s cheek and flesh sizzles. “You’re a horrible person! Die, rot in Hell where you belong!” 

Still choking on his fancy meal, Neil pitches himself sideways out of the chair, crashes down hard on the kitchen tile. His head is all cut up and burnt, the imprint of the iron branded into his clean shaven cheek. Food smears his face, ceramic shards embedded, protruding from his skin like a particularly pathetic Pinhead from a bad Hellraiser ripoff. Max realizes his eyes are streaming. From pain, she thinks and then realizes, no— from pepper.

The pepper crust from the roast must’ve gotten in his eyes when his face hit the dinner plate. 

Neil rises on his knees and Mom rips the carving knife out of the roast, plunges it into his branded cheek. He screams what would be an unholy shriek if there weren't food clogging his airway, flailing for the handle through his watery eyes. Yanks it out and paws at his throat like an animal, like he can claw out the wad of food lodged inside, face swelling red. Max swivels from her hips, cracking the iron against his temple. She has tears on her own cheeks now, not from pepper, or sadness, but the bonfire bright anger blazing through her soul. 

“Fuck you! Fuck you, Neil! You ruined us, fuck you!” More plastic breaks off the shell of the iron and Max shrieks, refuses to relent, pounds the soleplate into his food smeared and bloody face so hard he tips back, falls back to the floor, head thunking against the tile. 

Neil kicks out, the hard sole of his tactical boot smashing right into Max's shin. Pain rockets all the way to her hip and she stumbles as she cries out. She falls down right across from him, another shockwave of pain shooting through the side she lands on, her head bouncing hard, her fingers sliding off the iron as the fall leaves her stunned, silver stars streaking her vision. 

Max is dead meat now, weapon gone from her hands, vulnerable on floor. Her former stepfather is going to kill her but he’ll never forget her. Not with the imprint of the iron burned into his face. 

When she gets her vision back, it’s her mother leaning into view, snatching the iron from the floor. She straddles Neil’s form, her knees pinned to his shoulders, making it harder for him to reach her, harder to unbalance her. Especially when he can't see, when he's still choking, distracted with his own weakening huk-huk-huk sounds. Mom continues what Max started without the curses she started it with, without any sound at all besides a fraught rush of breath. Smashes the clothes iron viciously into his face, his chest, his throat. Somehow, when Max was the one hitting, she didn’t realize how thick, how fleshy the sounds were. 

Mom gets in a wild spate of strikes before she presses the iron down on Neil's throat, both hands on the handle now, rocking forward a bit, putting more weight behind her as she presses even harder. Max slowly brings herself to a sit, reflexively clutching her aching shin as she watches. Neil’s face is pretty fucked up at this point. Blistery red burns, granola bruises and shallowly weeping gashes, violet from the lack of oxygen with the food blocking his windpipe, eyes as puffy as the bomboloni he’s probably been chowing down on since he became a cop. 

Neil doesn’t make a lot of noise now. There’s a few more weak, wheezy choking sounds and then there’s nothing. The scent of burning flesh is barely distinguishable from the aroma of the prime rib roast.

Until the moment burning becomes burnt. Somehow, it’s not ghostly puffs of steam anymore, but a thicker tendril of smoke rising from beneath the soleplate. 

“Mom,” Max says quietly. 

Her mother doesn’t seem to hear her. She doesn’t look over or move at all. 

Max stands up and grabs the knife her mother had used to cut the roast and then Neil’s cheek, the blood tacky along the blade. She crouches by his leg and jabs the sharp point beneath his knee, just to test. Max is ticklish behind her knees. She suspects most people are. 

Neil doesn’t respond at all. 

“Mom,” Max tries again. “You can move now.” 

“No, I need to be sure,” she murmurs. “Just…just give me a moment, Max.”

Mom's making sure if the chewed up mass of fancy meat obstructed in Neil's throat didn't already steal his breath, then the press of the iron will.

They need the certainty now. Too late to turn back. 

They both jolt at the sudden, piercing wail of the smoke detector. Neil, however, does not jolt. Neil’s throat is overcooked, maybe the food inside too. The smoke detector’s crying about it. 

Mom tentatively removes the iron. Skin sloughs off with it, revealing dewy rawness beneath. Max grabs the broom and beats the smoke detector into silence for the second time since they’ve lived here. 

Max looks to Neil on the floor, to Mom with the iron still in her hand. He mind goes from snail mode to speeding at a hundred miles a minute. 

“How did he find us, Mom?”

“I don’t know.” 

“What do we do now?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Did that really just happen?” 

“I think so.” 

“Are you mad?” 

“…not at you.” Her mother does the oddest thing. She slips into the kitchen, delicately treading the strip of tile between Neil’s form and the refrigerator. She swings the fridge door open and pulls a face at the noise of it bumping into his body. Then she puts the iron in the fridge and shuts it again. “Max, can you do me a favor?”

“Uh, sure.” 

“Can you take a peek out the window and tell me what kind of vehicle is in our driveway?” 

Max nods and does as she asked. It’s Neil’s old truck, same as before. Wait. Not exactly the same. He got new rims. 

“The truck.” 

Mom sighs in relief. “Thank goodness. I was worried it would be a police cruiser.” 

“Um. Yeah. That would be bad…err, extra bad...this still isn't good, Mom.” 

“No. No it isn’t,” Mom agrees. “We’re going to have to leave again.” 

Her mother throws a sheet over Neil so they don’t have to look at him. Once again, Max is packing her life into boxes and bags. Once again, she’s leaving friends and familiarity behind. It is what it is.

When they’re packing their boxes into the car, Max realizes she recognizes the ornament hanging from Neil’s truck rearview window. It’s Billy’s pendent, the moonlight glinting off the silver. Gasping, Max jogs over and opens the driver door. She hops up on the seat, shakily snatching Billy's pendent off and putting it around her own neck. She briefly touches her lips to the medal, like a superstitious baseball player kissing her lucky bat. 

This time, when she and her mother flee under the cover of night like murderers on the run, they genuinely are murderers on the run. 

For awhile they drive in silence. Eventually Max puts the radio on. When she begins to nod off, head against the window, Mom turns the volume down. 

“Max? Honey?” 

“...huh?” 

“You know I wasn’t going to get back together with him, right?” Mom’s gaze is rabbit nervous. “You know that I wouldn’t have reentered that relationship, no matter what he had to say?” 

“Yeah. I know.” Max stretches out a sleepy arm and squeezes her mother’s shoulder in reassurance. 

There was a time where she wouldn’t have trusted it at all. But that time has past. The worry that Mom would willingly go back to Neil died even before Max used the iron as a weapon. It was buried and decayed inside her by the time Mom finished him off. 

“Wherever we wind up, Mom, I think we’ll be okay,” she adds, giving an extra squeeze.

“Yeah?” Her mother breaths a laugh and sounds almost hopeful. “I think so too.”