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“MoonPie?” My mom calls in surprise, walking out onto the porch followed by my dad. They haven’t changed much since the last time I saw them. My mom is beautiful for a woman her age, with long white-grey hair, big blue eyes, and a small frame. You can tell she takes care of herself, eats right, drinks water, and exercises—or in her case, does yoga regularly. My dad’s age is starting to show, but he’s still handsome. His hair is still thick, and is now greying around the edges, but blends in with the blond. His skin is dark from the Arizona sun, and his body is firm from working outside daily in his garden or on the house.
“Morgan,” my dad whispers a second later with worry etched in his tone, and I look across the hood to see that Morgan has gotten out of the car and is staring up at the front porch at both of them.
“Oh my,” my mom gasps, stepping down the stairs, only to pause on the last step and cover her mouth with her hand.
“Can we go inside?” I ask, slamming my door, probably a little harder than I need to, but I’m angry. I’m angry they didn’t care when I told them that Morgan was missing. I’m angry they didn’t send out the troops like most parents would and search for their troubled daughter. But I’m pissed they left all of this to fall on my shoulders while they pretended like everything was hunky-dory.
“Come on, we just sat down for dinner,” my dad mutters, his eyes going hard in a way that’s surprising. My parents are passive; they’ve always have been passive, never letting much of anything bother them, so seeing the look of anger and disappointment my dad is directing toward Morgan is more than a little startling. “Do you have any bags?” he asks, turning his eyes to me.
“No,” I tell him, gaining a nod before he takes my mom’s elbow and leads her inside. Following behind them, I take Morgan’s hand and head in, letting her know silently that she’s not alone.
My parents’ house looks the same as it did when I was a kid. Three long steps lead to a large covered porch that has been white-washed every winter since I can remember. On one side of the porch is a hammock big enough to hold two people, a two-seated white wicker couch with brightly colored pillows, a wicker coffee table with a large metal plate full of different sized candles, and a bright red outdoor rug, where my mom always does her yoga.
Walking through the front door is more of the same vibe. The living room is small, but is done in bright floral colors with live plants on almost every flat surface. The kitchen is old but well kept, the wood topping the counters is the type you would find on a cutting board. Instead of cabinets, there are open white shelves holding dishes, and more plants, but these are herbs and things my mom cooks with. Stopping with my dad, I notice the round four-seated table is set for two, with a big covered pot in the middle. One of my mom’s big things has always been family dinners around the table, and even with my sister and me long gone, she has still stuck to that tradition.
“Get two more plates, Maisy,” my dad orders my mom, who hasn’t looked at my sister or me again. Nodding, she goes to one of the shelves in the kitchen and grabs two more plates, along with silverware.
“I’m not hungry,” Morgan tells Dad, and his head turns, his eyes pinning her in place then dropping, taking her in, and I know he sees what I see when I look at her.
When his eyes meet hers again, I can see his unchecked anger as he commands, “You’re gonna eat.”
“Okay,” she whispers, shifting on her feet.
Dropping her hand, I take a seat. I know she’s as surprised by Dad’s behavior as I am, but I have to say I’m happy this is his reaction. When my mom comes back to the table a second time, she has two glasses full of water and sets them both down before taking a seat.
When my dad sits, Morgan does the same, and my mom opens the large pot in the middle of the table. Scooping out some kind of rice and vegetable mixture, she places some on each of our plates, the whole time avoiding looking at Morgan or me directly. I have no idea what that’s about, but it’s starting to annoy me.
No one says anything. I don’t really eat; I push the rice mixture around on my dish, but am happy to see Morgan clean her plate and take seconds. My dad, who is across the table from me, is glaring at his food like it’s the cause of all the problems in the world, and my mom is doing much like me, moving the food from one side of her plate to the other.
“Can I stay for a few days?” I ask. I don’t know why that’s my question, and not, ‘What the heck are we going to do about Morgan?’ but that’s what comes out, and that’s when everyone’s eyes come to me.
“You know you can, MoonPie,” Mom whispers, and my dad grunts something I can’t decipher, with a nod.
“I thought you would be going home to your boyfriend,” Morgan chimes in, but her words sound almost accusatory when she says them. Pain rushes through me at the thought of Sven, but I ignore it, because now isn’t the time to have a breakdown, and I know once I really let myself think about him, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.
“You live with a man?” Dad asks, looking at me.
I really, really want to kick Morgan under the table for opening her big, fat mouth, but instead, I just mutter, “Something bad happened and—”
“What happened?” Dad asks, and I feel Morgan tense at my side, but I’m not going to lie for her. If one good thing came from Sven’s story, it’s that you can’t protect the people you care about by covering for them, and I’m done covering for Morgan.
“Morgan stole some money from a guy. He came looking for her and found me. He roughed me up and—”
“What?” Dad hisses, turning to look at Morgan as Mom whispers, “Oh my,” at the same time.
“Is this true?” Dad asks.
“I know it was wrong.”
“You know it was wrong?” Mo
m repeats in disbelief.
“I…” She drops her voice. “I know I messed up. I—”
“I gave her the money to pay him back.” I cut her off. “Hopefully it’s done and we can move forward with getting her the help she needs,”
“I want help,” Morgan says softly, and I find her hand under the table and give it a squeeze then drop it.
“What are you on?” Dad questions, and I freeze, because Morgan has never been honest about that. She’s never told me straight out what kind of drugs she’s taking and has always denied using, even when she’s been picked up by the cops and taken in.
“Crack mostly, prescription drugs when I can’t get enough money for a fix,” she tells us, and my body sinks back into my chair.
“You’re gonna go through withdraws. You ready for that?” Dad asks, and she wraps her arms around herself and nods, dropping her eyes to the table.
“Star,” Mom calls, using Morgan’s nickname, and my sister’s eyes go to her, and this time they’re wet. “We love you. I know we’ve mostly let you girls find your own way, but we love you and your sister.”
“Why?” I ask, and Mom’s eyes come to me.
“Why what MoonPie?”
“Why have you let us find our own way?” I ask as tears burn my eyes and my throat aches as I swallow the tears back.
“You girls have always been smart,” Dad cuts in, and my eyes go to him and my brows draw downward.
“No, I was a kid. Morgan was a kid when we left home. Yes, we were both eighteen, but we didn’t know much about the world outside of this place, only what friends told us and what we saw when we were at school. Neither of us were at all prepared for the real world, and you both just left us to find our way.”
“You did okay for yourself,” Mom argues, and I close my eyes and let out a frustrated breath.
“I didn’t, not at first anyway. I was free to make choices, and a lot of them were bad ones.”
“You never said anything,” Dad defends, and I shake my head.
“Even if I wanted to ask you guys for advice, it would take days to get word to you.”
