Mickey - The View From Here PART TWO - Gallavich

What Day Is It?

It was hard to keep up with all of the Gallagher bullshit. I guess Lip had a buyer for the house, but it didn’t work out. Debbie couldn’t be more pleased. While Ian tried to explain to her for the 50th time that selling was for the best, I grabbed an empty box and went to work claiming two of almost everything from the kitchen.

“What are you doin’?” Debbie wondered protectively.

“I’m just getting shit for the new apartment.”

“What?” she replied as her claws began to emerge.

“Yeah. Two, uh, plates, two bowls, two spoons,” I listed off as my hand fell over a random prep utensil before I examined it. “Whatever the fuck this thing is. What is this thing?”

Debbie began to advance on me in a panic. “That’s my potato masher! Put that back.”

“All right, Mickey--" Ian started.

“What?” I shot back. “You must own at least some of this shit.”

 “Yeah, we can get our own spoons,” he pointed out.

After some bickering, Ian insisted I put back what I had taken.

“I thought we were getting shit for the apartment,” I complained.

“Yeah, clothes, my bed, sheets. Come on, let’s get the bed,” Ian ordered.

Debbie sipped her coffee in quiet triumph while I glared back.

“I’m comin' back for that fuckin' potato thing,” I vowed before heading upstairs to help Ian.

In our old room, Ian sighed and flashed me some side-eye. “Maybe don’t talk about murder in front of my family?”

I arched a confused brow. “Who was talkin' about murder?”

My husband rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. “You laid out a plan to kill Frank,” he reminded me.

I hesitated, unsure I was in the wrong. “That ain’t murder. It’s a mercy kill, you know? Help the drunk old fuck. It’s more than I did for Terry.”

“So, Terry didn’t deserve a bullet to the head but my dad does?” he questioned heatedly.

I rolled my eyes and scoffed. “Are you fuckin' serious right now? One, Terry got his in the end anyway. Murdered by a bitch you hired. Two, Frank isn’t even your fucking dad.”

Ian shook his head to himself. “You can’t do that. Yeah, my mom fucked around on Frank with his brother. But he’s the one who raised me.”

I had to laugh. “Fuck that. Fiona raised you.”

After a moment of thought, he said, “I don’t wanna argue. It just…they aren’t used to that kind of talk, my family. They might think you’re serious or…I dunno.”

“I’m not doin' shit. If you go with my plan I ain’t gonna be the one pulling the trigger. That’s up to you guys.”

“We’re not killing Frank,” Ian asserted.

I shrugged and motioned to his old mattress. “Whatever, man. We takin’ this or not?”

Together we carried the ratty mattress down the stairs and outside. I wanted to cover my nose the whole time. This thing must have been with Ian since he was a kid, soaked through with the various disgusting fluids of the human body. Probably some food and drink as well.

“Your mattress smells like ass,” I told Ian.

Displeased with my complaining, he promised, “we can also buy a new mattress.”

I grinned. “Nah, too many good memories stained into this one.”

As we carried the mattress to the ambulance, Ian wondered as casually as he could, “hey, you know what the day is? Twentieth or 21st?”

“Fuck should I know?” I replied, hoping he couldn’t see the worry on my face. Had he really forgotten what today was? Was I the only one that had been planning for a month so we could celebrate with our loved ones a final time before everyone dispersed to live their own lives no longer under the same roof? Pathetic as it was, I had been counting down the days, hoping I planned everything right.

But evidently, Ian hadn’t.

Whatever, I thought to myself. It’ll just make the surprise all the better.