Leaving the House Where We Grew Up

Initiation

His right eye was the first to open, taking that initial unsure step back into the realm of the living. As it adjusted to the environment, the other eye followed suit. Together, they crawled up the walls of the room until finally reaching the hint that gave it all away: multi-colored Christmas lights, a celebration of wonder that never came down.

'I'm in Mabel's room,' Dipper realized. 'Am I in heaven?'

Before he could even consider it as a genuine possibility, the events that got him to this point started flooding back: the depression, the pills, the booze. The mere thought of the second ingredient made his stomach turn and his head, as well, pounding with relentless ire.

'Nevermind. This must be hell.'

"Fuck," Dipper groaned, covering his eyes with a clammy palm. Even the five-watt LED bulbs feeding the holiday extravaganza around the ceiling were too bright.

"Good morning, bro," he heard Mabel call to him. Turning to the left, as slowly as possible so as to not further aggravate his ailing head, he confirmed that she was not in bed. Flummoxed, he shifted back to his right and spotted the source on her bedside table: their old baby monitor.

"I'm down in the kitchen fixing something up for your head. I'll be right there," she said in a soft, calm manner. Whether she actually felt those inclinations or it was simply a ruse to keep his hangover from getting worse, he didn't care. The less he had to think about, the better.

A couple minutes later, her heard the door open and in she walked. Carrying a small tray that the kids would used to bring their mom breakfast in bed on Mothers' Day, he picked up aromas, although he wasn't sure what they hinted at. Reaching the side of the bed, Dipper carefully sat up, using a conveniently placed pillow to cushion his back against the headboard.

"All right, Dippity-Dipperson," she said, quietly.

"Mabel. What time is it?"

"About six AM on Saturday," she replied, almost as if she had the answer loaded and ready to go.

'Almost a whole day gone.'

"Now," she said, turning to the spread before him. "I looked up the best way to tackle a hangover and found a million different answers. However, each of them hit the same ingredients: carbs, salts, and, yes, a little alcohol."

"Seriously?" Dipper asked, eyebrow arched. Looking at the tray, he guessed that the tomato juice must be the culprit.

"Yes, you're basically detoxing and need to ease out of it. The toast will help your stomach, as will the crackers. The bacon does a bit of everything, and you need to get this bottle of Gatorade down, as well." She had astutely run through everything on the tray; now the challenge for Dipper was getting an appetite.

"You probably don't feel like eating any of it, but it will help. Please, take it slow. I have cleaned up enough barf to last me a very long time," she said frankly, making Dipper wonder what was running through her mind.

'Was she angry? Was she scared?'

"Mabes, what happened? I mean, I kind of remember, but there's so much I want to talk-"

"Shhhh," she cooed. "We have plenty to discuss, mister. It wouldn't be fair to either of us to try that right now. There will be time for that."

Reaching into her back pocket, she cleared her throat while producing the good-bye note he had left her. The sight made Dipper swallow hard, feeling both bashful and embarrassed, despite the fact that he had left it for her in the first place.

"Who knows? By the time we get around to it, you might not stink so bad," she teased.

"Oh...sorry," he sheepishly responded, understanding she wasn't exactly wrong, picking up the aroma himself.