To Heal All Wounds

Pool Party

Steve's parents had left him the house in Lock Nora to "do with as he pleased." Whatever that meant. Sometimes, Steve wondered if they didn't expect him to throw more of those massive ragers that he used to throw. They knew about them, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington had top-of-the-line security to protect their top-of-the-line amenities. His father used to check the tapes whenever he came home, making sure nothing untoward happened to his things. Steve never even bothered to hide his parties, nearly flaunting them in his parent's faces on those cameras. On particularly daring nights, he would lock eyes with the cameras and grin. And then, of course, there was the fact that Steve used the "emergency" credit card to fund those things.

They knew. The just didn't seem to care. Which, in retrospect, was probably why Steve threw them. Because somewhere, in the back of his jaded, teenaged head, he hoped that if he threw a big enough party, invited enough people, spent enough money, made a big enough mess, his parents would notice him.

The only time that happened was when someone broke into his dad's office and got into the good scotch. The kid had kicked down the fancy, hand carved, mahogany door, busted open the drawer on the heavy, also-mahogany deck, and then puked all over his dad's office. Mr. Harrington's wrath had been enough that Steve would rather die than allow that to happen again.

But now Steve was in his mid-twenties. Not old, at least in terms of years on this earth, but he sure had lived a lot of life for someone his age. The keg parties he used to throw felt more like memories of a movie he watched over and over again. Like a comfort movie that he flipped on every Friday just to fill the silence of the house. Occasionally, Steve though about selling the empty carcass, furnishings and all. It'd get him a fair amount, even in Hawkins' busted economy. He could add the money to the government hush money and the trust fund that his father had released to him when he'd all but cut ties with his son. Do something good with the money, like send the kids to college or buy himself and Robin a house in another town. A city. Someplace big and teeming with life. Someplace that didn't still reek of death and decay and all of the nightmares of another world.

But then someone had a birthday, or reached a milestone, or Steve got a wild hair up his ass and the house became useful again. He'd drive over the day before with Robin and Jon and Nancy and they'd throw all of the coverings off of the furniture. They'd sweep and mop and dust and refresh. They'd restock the bathrooms with travel sizes of fancy shampoos and conditioners and body washes, change the sheets and quilts on all of the beds in all of the guest rooms, and fill the kitchen with snacks and drinks and whatever else anyone who spent the night might want.

Because they were his family. They were Steve's family.

Family found.

Family chosen.

Family gathered and polished and repaired and resplendent in it's flaws and cracks. And he'd be damned if they went wanting for anything, and that included a place to party for the day, a pool to splash around in, food to gorge themselves on until they were fat and happy and sleepy, and a warm, soft place crash when the sun went down.

Joyce and Hoppper, as always, arrived about an hour before anyone else, bustling through the front door like the over-burdened parents they were. Hopper hefted a cooler under each arm, one full of burgers and hot dogs and brats to grill and then pack away in Steve and Robin's fridge as left overs, and the other filled with his beers that he bought specifically for him and shared with no one. He gave Steve a cursory nod and made a beeline for the grill on the patio like a man on a mission. Joyce, however, joined Steve in the kitchen, kissed his cheek, and began working along side him to set up the grab-and-go station on the island.

"Hey there, mentor," she gushed, unloading huge plastic bowl after huge plastic bowl of side dishes and various midwestern "salads" from the rolling tote she'd dragged in behind her. Dustin had specifically requested a 3 Musketeers salad which... Steve wasn't certain how chocolate pudding, Cool Whip, and candy bars was a "salad" but whatever. He helped her stab serving spoons into each bowl and arranged them from "healthiest" to "unhealthiest" which was a fairly relative terms since everything except the mixed greens and various cut vegetables were drowned in mayonnaise and ranch.