I do not own American Horror Story: Freakshow.
I doubt Ryan Murphy would even recognize it now.
Wherever You Are
Welcome Home
"Annabel!"
"Patrick!"
"We're so glad to see you!"
"Welcome home!"
Rib-cracking hugs.
Cheek-smooching kisses.
From the Tattler sisters anyway.
Jimmy Darling, the father, hung back.
Let them have their moment.
Finally . . .
"Hi, Daddy."
Inner-cheek gnawing uncertainty.
"Hey, Annabel."
Quiet, uncharacteristic reserve.
"I'm sorry if I disappointed you, Daddy, I-"
Gush of anxiety.
"Annabel-"
Burst of genuine love and reassurance.
"No, no, Annabel, no . . ."
Daddy dimpled smile, outstretched arms.
". . . no . . ."
Glinting hooks in the blazing Florida afternoon sun.
"I've just . . ."
Voice choked with tears.
". . . never seen you so all grown up before."
And a little girl in her daddy's arms once more.
And it was the Tattler sisters and the orphan boy's turn to hang back.
Let them have their moment.
Until . . .
"Hey, Patrick."
"Sir."
"Jimmy."
"Jimmy."
Knowing smile from a man who'd lived a lot of life.
Welcoming nod since an incoming hook might have induced an unnecessary trigger of panic.
"Good to see you again, Patrick. We're glad you're here."
"Thank you."
Another moment as the father kissed his daughter's blondish head.
"Well, what's say we get out of this heat and have some iced tea? Unpack later?"
"Sounds good."
"And bring the pup. He looks like he could use some water."
"Come on, Sam."
Tail wag. Happy trot.
And the family . . .
Wonder what the neighbors are thinking.
Oh, who gives a damn.
. . . all together again.
In Florida.
Iced teas all around, sugared to tooth-aching perfection.
"When did you get a new chair?"
"Oh, when was that delivered?"
"Last week, I think?"
"Wow. You guys never buy anything new."
"Well, we didn't want anyone to have to sit on the floor."
"Unless you want to."
"Yes, unless you want to."
"Oh. Okay. Thanks."
And it was nice.
And she was grateful for their judgement-free, welcoming love, and warm acceptance.
Unemployed knocked up daughter comes home with unemployed boyfriend.
Parents buy chair, provide iced tea.
Daughter bloated and grateful.
But another layer, one hidden further down inside, buried deep enough in her well of emotions so none of them would ever know it-
They're buying . . . furniture. Well, that's . . . permanent.
Moment of quiet.
Broken by-
"So how are you feeling, darling?"
Concerned Ma-Ba.
"Oh, uh, okay. Tired."
"Well, you look wonderful."
Lying Ma-Da.
"Thanks."
Destroying my entire life suits me then, okay.
"How far along are you?"
"Uh, two months? I'm not exactly sure."
"You haven't been back to the doctor?"
Hell no.
"Not since they started talking about abortion and adoption."
Stunned silence. Pale faces. Suddenly trembling tea.
"Well . . ."
Cleared throats, resolved faces, determined smiles.
. . . we'll just start from scratch then, won't we?"
Back in Colorado?
"Okay."
"- room!"
Pause.
Hang on-
"My bed looks different."
"We got you a new one!"
"That twin bed just wasn't going to be big enough!"
"Patrick needs room too!"
"Especially with a baby on the way!"
The last word practically sung.
As if I could forget.
Silence from Annabel.
Patrick smile.
"Thank you, Mrs. Walkers."
There were other differences too.
Extra towels ready in the bathroom.
Additional chair in the living room.
More food in the cabinets, more milk in the fridge.
And more smiles, more excitement, and more joy all around.
From the Walker elders.
Sam, the car-free dog.
And . . .
"So, what do you think, guys? Think we can pull this off?"
Sure, we'll be just like the freaking Waltons.
"Yeah, Mr. Walker, it's great, thank you."
And there's John-Boy.
"Jimmy."
"Jimmy."
And of course good ol' Pa.
. . . Patrick the orphan boy who just wanted a better life for his unborn offspring.
"Annabel!"
"Hey, Aunt Lucy."
When did she start getting old? Oh Jesus, I'm depressed.
"You look so wonderful! How are you?"
"I'm good."
"I'm so glad. You look wonderful."
Why does everyone keep saying that? It doesn't make it true.
"Thanks."
"Hello, Patrick! It's so nice to see you again."
"Hello, Ms. Barrett."
"I'm so glad you both are here. There is no better family than this one right here."
"Oh, Lucy, don't make me cry-"
"Well, it's true! Patrick, did they tell you about how they saved my life?"
"No, they wouldn't, would they? Well . . ."
Oh god. She's going to make him do that not-cry thing.
"- and meatballs for your first night home, Annabel!"
"It was always your favorite!"
Yep, 'cause I was going to get fat anyway.
"Yeah. Cool. Thanks."
"This garlic bread is delicious, Mrs. Walker."
"Well, thank you, Patrick. The recipe is so easy."
"Would you show me?"
"Sure!"
Do you think he really means it, Sister?
He seems to. Look at how happy he is.
What about Annabel?
Well, pregnancy is hard. And she's had a long trip.
"Can I have some more meatballs there, girls?"
"Of course!"
"Wow, you sure are packing them away tonight, Jimmy."
"Yeah, yeah, they're awful good."
And they were.
But . . .
"Darling? Are you . . ."
"Jimmy, what-"
"Daddy! Are you feeding meatballs to Sam?"
Guilty double amputee caught in the act, meatball dangling from one hook.
Ecstatic under the table canine eagerly awaiting yet another morsel.
"Well, just a little, he really likes-"
"Daddy, no! He's gonna shit like crazy everywhere now!"
"Oh, sorry-"
"Annabel!"
"- store tomorrow, Patrick!"
"Oh, cool. That sounds great!"
"What about you, Annabel? Should I show him the ends and outs of the grocery store business?"
"Yeah. Sure."
Joy.
Scruffy Sam the Sublime's digestive system hadn't begun its onslaught by the time . . .
". . . both and there you have . . ."
. . . The Facts of Life rolled around.
So that was something, she supposed.
"Tootie, where do you think you're going?"
Colorado, I bet. Lucky little twerp.
"Big day."
"Yeah."
"You comfortable?"
Not as comfortable as I was in Colorado.
But sure.
"Yeah."
Quiet.
Breathing.
"Are you okay?"
Hell no.
"Yeah."
Patrick Pause.
"Annabel-"
No doubt heart felt concern suffocated in a nauseating fog of -
"Good grief, Sam-"
. . . smelly, air-permeating . . .
"I told Daddy."
"I know. He didn't realize-"
"I guess he will now."
"Yeah."
. . . dog . . .
See? His butt doesn't like Florida eirher.
Can we go home now?
. . . farts.
So you might say Annabel's not handling this well.
And you'd probably be right.
But it will get better.
Eventually.
Thanks to brigid1318 and midnightrebellion86 for previously reviewing and thanks to creepy camp for adding your support to this story! Exciting! :)
