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The fire at the Black Spot didn’t kill Rich Santos. So much for sacrificing himself to save his fair maiden, Rich remembered thinking during his month-long coma in the Derry General Hospital.
Marge visited him every day after defeating It. Squeezing herself into a semi-comfortable position in the hard plastic chair by his bedside. She read to him, talked to him about what he was missing at school, did her homework, and complained about their teachers to him. But sometimes she wouldn’t speak at all, and just watch his small chest move up and down with an occasional wheeze coming from his throat.
Those days were the worst. In those days, Marge could do nothing but stare while holding back the tears bubbling up in her throat. Seeing her knight like that, with tubes protruding from his lungs to assist with his breathing.
‘His breathing would be fine if you had died instead.’ A distant voice, that sounded suspiciously like Patty Stanton, in the back of her mind whispered to her during those days. When all that could be heard was the ambient sounds of medical devices keeping Rich alive.
The day he woke up, Marge vowed never to leave his side again. To somehow gain a sliver of his bravery by proxy.
“Mom!”
And that included staying in Derry and marrying him.
Marge took a deep breath and put down the potato peeler clutched in her right hand, mentally preparing herself to deal with whatever chaos her son decides to throw at her that day.
Ricardo Santos Jr. (but he would kill you if you called him anything but Richie) was a very… active child. But he didn’t use that surplus of energy in sports; gym was his least favorite subject. He chose to spend his time riding his bike with his friends or in the garage with his dad banging so loudly on the drums that the neighbors called to complain.
Or, his favorite hobby, annoying Marge while Rich was at work.
Richie ran into the kitchen, stumbling over his shoes that he quickly removed on his journey to his mother. “Do you know what I did today?” He parked himself beside her, leaning his scrawny elbow on the counter in front of him.
“No, but I have a feeling I’m not gonna like it.” Marge turned to look at him and let out an obnoxious sigh. His nose had dried blood around his left nostril, and his right glasses rim was cracked. It looked like he got into a fight and lost, but judging by the wide smile on his face, Marge figured that wasn’t likely.
“Rock war!”
“What?!” Richie laughed at her response. He maneuvered his body so that he could jump on the countertop.
“Yeah, we found this kid getting beat up by Bowers at the creek,” Marge shivered at the mention of another Bowers family member. But Richie was either too excited to notice or simply oblivious. “And this girl, Beverly, just ran up and decked him in the face with this big ass rock!”
“Language.” She lightly scolded, but she knew it was no use. He was his mother’s child after all.
“And then Bowers said some pretty messed up stuff about Bev and Ben, we met him the other day, frickin’ screamed and threw another rock at the kid! And then there was an all-out rock war!” He flung his body backwards dramatically with his hands in the air in exclamation. His jean shorts slipped on the linoleum as he moved, almost falling off the counter. Marge flinched forward to catch him, but Richie caught himself in time. “We won, of course.” He added, attempting to appear nonchalant as he leaned on the microwave.
“Oh, well, congratulations.” Any other parent would probably be concerned, but Marge had cleaned so many wounds off this kid, the emergency room knew the Santos’ by name at this point; she was just happy nothing was broken and that her brave boy was standing (sitting, really) here with a triumphant smile on his face. “Are you hurt?” Marge reached out to grab his face and inspect it further. Only superficial scratches, nothing that can’t be fixed with a little alcohol and a cotton swab.
“You should see the other guy!” Richie giggled and pushed Marge’s hand away.
“Ok, well, wash up! Dinner will be ready soon.” She turned back towards the pile of potatoes and picked the peeler back up.
“No way!” Richie jumped down. “I gotta show Dad!” He gestured to his face before running off. Marge opened her mouth to protest, but ultimately dropped it with a sigh. Turning back around to continue making dinner.
Richie was the apple of their eye. He was definitely spoiled, being an only child and all that, but Marge and Rich felt that even being alive to see their son was a miracle in itself. After having him, they were too busy even to consider having another. Though Marge secretly hoped for a baby girl, once Richie got old enough, and lost some of that energy.
But, from the looks of things, that wasn’t gonna happen anytime soon.
The front door of the suburban home creaked open, and heavy boots shuffled on the small mat near the umbrella carrier. Marge smiled, anticipating Rich’s return.
A few months after high school, Rich started as a mechanic’s assistant downtown. And now he is the manager and pretty close to the old man who owns the place, selling it to him when he retires. For the first couple of years of their marriage, Marge was a housewife. She spent her days cleaning their humble home and caring for Richie. But now that Richie was in school and spent almost every waking moment outside with his friends, Marge was looking for something to occupy her time. Maybe it was time for Lily and her to finally start that book club they’ve been talking about for ages.
Arms loop around her waist from behind. Marge had been so caught up in her own brain that she had forgotten he was home. Without turning around, Marge smiled to herself. “Ew, you smell like diesel.” Despite this, she turned her head to look Rich in the eyes. His face was inches away from each other, letting Marge get a good look at his aged face that she loved.
He had grown a lot since that spring. The fire and fuzzy memories of a creepy clown barely left a scar; the only proof of those foggy memories ever existing was the faint slice lines on Marge’s right eyelid. She didn’t even remember what exactly happened that day, only that Rich tasked himself with changing her bandage and cleaning her eye for the next couple of months while she healed.
Rich was taller than her now, but not by much; his chin came up to the back of her head without heels on. Despite this, Rich loved lording his height over her. During their wedding ceremony, he had dipped her during the kiss, catching Marge off guard. She would have stumbled and fallen if not for the strong grip he had on her waist and back.
The man behind her decided not to answer. Just closing the distance and sweetly kissing Marge on the cheek before burying his face in the crook of her neck. “How was your day?” He asked, resting his chin on her shoulder and lifting his eyes to hers. His rough stubble pressed against her skin.
“Eh, pretty standard. Thankfully, I got all my errands done before Richie got home.” A loud crash from the bedroom above them directed their attention from each other to their son. “Oh! And Richie got into a rock fight.” Marge stepped back from her husband and placed a hand on her hip while the other held herself up on the counter.
“Oh,” He thought about his next words carefully. “Did he win?” Rich had the same wide-eyed expression he had had since they were kids. Even the growing wrinkles on his face didn’t stop him from looking like that innocent knight who saved her all those years ago.
Marge was about to answer when loud footsteps rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen. For the first time since that morning, Rich got a good look at his son’s, now battered, face. She cocked an eyebrow and turned her expression from Richie to Rich. “You should see the other guy.” She parroted his words with a giggle.
“Dad, look at my face!” He excitedly ran up to Rich and stood on his toes to present his bloodied face to the older man. Rich leaned down to inspect it, hand on his chin in faux ponder.
“Nice!” He praised, ruffling up Richie’s hair with his oil-slickened hands. Marge would normally chastise him for that, but she found it in herself not to care at the moment. Only smiling at her son and husband. “I think thats gonna scar.” He nudged Richie’s cheek with his thumb. The boy barely contained a flinch as he did so. Rich pulled away with an apologetic smile.
“You think?” That big smile was back on his face, cheeks red at the praise.
“Definitely, and chicks totally dig scars!” Rich shot a glance at Marge, who promptly rolled her eyes with a blush and looked away. He looked back at his son with a small smile. “It shows them you’re brave, like a knight of sorts.”
Marge looked at their small family with nothing but adoration and love in her eyes. Clutching her fists at her chest, she felt her heart swell.
Oh, what could have been…