Part Twenty - Get Happy

The backyard was a mess. The washing basket lay on its side, clothes half-hanging from the line, some already blown into the dirt. The Spring breeze, once warm and comforting, now felt harsh, its gusts too sharp against Patty’s clammy skin.

She had meant to finish the washing. Really, she had. But instead, she had slumped to the ground, back against the post. She couldn't remember how long she had been sitting there but long enough for the world to blur. Long enough for the grief to settle like wet cement in her chest. Long enough for her mind to whisper: "You should have done more." or "You should have saved her."

The edges of her vision darkened, her head lolling forward as she fought to keep her eyes open. Then—a shadow.

A sharp intake of breath, "Dear me, Patty! What have you done to yourself?" A pair of strong hands gripped under her arms, hoisting her upright.

She blinked blearily, the world spinning, the scent of perfume and gin and something undeniably expensive filling her senses. Betty Knight.

The unmistakable voice, sharp yet oddly gentle, rang through her haze, "Look at the state of you," Betty muttered, dragging Patty toward the house, half-carrying, half-scolding. "If you were any more pathetic, I’d be tempted to leave you there."

Patty groaned, her head throbbing, limbs weak, “Go away!”

“Oh, sure,” Betty huffed. “I’ll just leave you to marinate in your own misery. Sounds like a fabulous plan."

Patty was deposited onto the couch, a cold rag pressed to her forehead.

Betty disappeared for a moment. There was banging in the kitchen, the sound of water running, dishes clanking.

Patty closed her eyes, the room tilting. When she opened them again, the living room was… different.

The curtains were drawn back, letting in light. The coffee table, once littered with half-drunk glasses and abandoned books, was clear. And Betty?

Betty was standing in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, looking annoyingly pleased with herself, "You really let the place go, darling," she remarked, rolling up her sleeves. "I mean, I knew you were unhinged, but this? This is downright tragic."

Patty let out a bitter laugh, rubbing her temples, "You didn’t have to clean."

"Someone had to," Betty shot back, picking up a stray shirt from the floor. "And clearly, it wasn’t going to be you."

Patty exhaled shakily, shame creeping up her spine. Her house had never been like this. But Myra was gone. And no one seemed to give a damn.

Her husband hadn't waited until she was cold in the ground before moving that woman into her house. He was shamelessly parading her around town like Myra never existed. He got his happily ever after at the cost of Myra's life. The world just didn't seem fair.

Seeing them smiling and laughing was what really lead to Patty's spiraling mental health. They were the reason behind her latest behaviour. She should have done more to keep her friend here. And not lose her life over him.

Betty plopped down beside her, crossing one leg over the other, studying her carefully, “Alright, enough self-pity,” Betty declared. “You’re too easy like this. I need more of a challenge.”

Patty stared at the tidy room, then at the woman beside her, who—despite her usual haughty tone—had softened just enough to make Patty’s throat tighten.

She wanted to deflect. To push Betty away. But she was so damn tired. So, she told her the truth, “I can’t stop thinking about her,” Patty admitted, her voice thick with exhaustion. “I should have done more. I should have…” She shook her head. “I should have saved her.”

Her fingers trembled as she fished into the pocket of her housecoat, pulling out the familiar small pill bottle. One pill. Maybe two. Just to take the incessant pain away.

She went to pop one of the pills into her mouth when Betty roughly slapped her hand causing the woman to drop it, "Those aren’t going to bring her back, you know. Nothing will.”

Betty’s eyes narrowed—and then they flicked to the small pill bottle in Patty’s hand. In a flash, Betty lunged for the bottle, but Patty yanked it away, staggering to her feet.

"Patty! Give them to me!"

Patty held them close to her chest, stumbling slightly, "You don’t understand," she slurred. "I need them. Now more than ever."

Betty’s eyes flashed with fury, "Your gluttonous friend needed her diet pills, too," she spat. "Look how that turned out."

Patty flinched, a flash of pain crossing her face, "Don’t you dare talk about Myra," she snarled, trying to shove past Betty, but Betty was quicker.

She grabbed Patty by the wrist, twisting it just enough to loosen her grip. The bottle clattered to the floor, pills spilling across the floor.

Patty gasped, diving for them, but Betty caught her by the shoulders and shook her.

"Patty! Stop it! You wretched woman," Betty snapped, her voice sharp and cutting.

Patty thrashed, but Betty was stronger, pushing her back against the wall, "Let me go!" Patty screamed, fighting against her, but Betty held firm. And then—a slap.

A sharp, quick strike across Patty’s cheek. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t violent. It was meant to break through the fog. Patty froze, her chest heaving, her eyes wide.

Betty’s grip eased slightly, but her face was hard, furious—but not unkind, "You listen to me, Patty Love," she said, voice low and deadly serious. "This behaviour is going to ruin you just like Mrs. Jennings. Just like every other woman convinced that being a mother, a wife, a woman in this world is too much—so here, take this, numb yourself, make yourself smaller and quieter and easier." Patty stared at her, chest rising and falling fast. Betty leaned in, her voice soft but firm, "You are not small. You are not weak. And I will not sit here and watch my most delicious rival in years become a pale imitation of herself."

A single tear slipped down Patty’s cheek, her whole body trembling.

Betty exhaled slowly, brushing a strand of hair out of Patty’s face, "Now," she said, voice calmer. "You’re going to pick yourself up, and you’re going to let me help you. Because if you keep going like this, you won’t come back." Her sighed, “I know only too well how easy it is to just let everything go and let this darkness take you over. I almost let it win…but you wouldn’t have met such a woman of quality such as I.”

Patty sniffled, swallowing hard. Then, slowly, she nodded, “But they help!”

Betty tilted her head. “Perhaps in moderation but not like this. Look around you! How are they helping in this moment.”

Patty stilled. The laundry half-hung on the line. The empty dinner table. The marriage slipping through her fingers. Her children, watching from the sidelines.

Patty swallowed hard, “I’ve been fighting with Freddie. His at his wits end over my behaviour,” Patty let out a sharp breath, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Just because his dinner wasn’t ready and waiting for him once…well maybe more than once…he got into a huff.” She sneered, “I am not the one keeping a dirty secret for so long. I should be the one in a huff.” Patty sighed, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t know if I can fix this.”

Betty took a long breath, then patted Patty’s knee—once, twice, "Well, that just proves that our dear Fredrick isn’t as perfect as we think.” She smiled, a tinge of warmth, “You’ve been through a shocking ordeal…losing a friend like that. All us women can relate. We’ve had to put up with the actions of men our entire lives.” She sighed, “I say, lucky Myra! The poor dear is out of this nonsense leaving us to carry on regardless. Now," she said, voice calmer. "You’re going to pick yourself up, and you’re going to let me help you. Are you willing to let me?”

Patty sniffled, swallowing hard. Then, slowly, she nodded.

***********

The kitchen air was thick with the scent of cooling tea and the faint bite of dish soap. Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, catching the dust in the air, giving everything a soft, hazy glow. Patty sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around her barely touched cup, while the small pill bottle rested between her and Betty like an unsaid truth.

Betty had been watching her carefully, letting the silence do most of the talking.

Finally, Patty spoke, "I started taking them when I was seventeen," she said, almost absently, turning her cup in slow circles. Betty’s brow lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. Patty inhaled sharply. "After James died… after he ran." Her fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain. "I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. I kept having these… dreams. About him. About my father. His temper. The way the walls would shake when he was in a rage." Betty’s expression didn’t change, but something in her gaze softened just a fraction. "I was sent to look after Aunt Meg," Patty continued. "At first, I thought my mother just wanted me gone but she was saving me. My mother was giving me an escape."

Betty exhaled quietly, "And Aunt Meg?"

Patty let out a small, humourless laugh. "She had her own stash. Meg called them ‘little helpers.’ Said every woman needed a little something to take the edge off."

"And you believed her."

Patty rubbed her temple, feeling the ghost of old exhaustion creep in, "I was seventeen. I was desperate." She glanced down at the pill bottle. "And the thing is… they worked. I stopped dreaming. Stopped thinking so much. I got through the days without feeling like I was drowning in everything that had happened."

Betty leaned back, considering her, "And then you got married. Had children. Kept taking them."

"And it helped." She gestured vaguely around the house. "It made everything… smoother. Easier. Like I could step into this perfect little world and stay there. Like I was the star of my own damn sitcom."

Betty gave her a long look, "And now?"

Patty exhaled shakily, "Now, I don’t know who I am without them."

Betty tilted her head, "Then maybe it’s time you find out."

Patty looked at her sharply.

Betty didn’t falter. "I’m not saying stop altogether. I’m saying… cut back. One when you need it. Not to get through the day. Not to make things easier. Just when it’s a really bad day."

Patty swallowed, uncertainty crawling up her throat, "What if I can’t do it?"

Betty smirked. "Then you’ll take one. And only one. But maybe, just maybe, you’ll start to realize you don’t need them as much as you think you do."

Patty studied the bottle in front of her. Then, slowly, she pushed it away. Not far. Just enough. She wasn’t ready to let them go completely. But maybe, for the first time, she was willing to find out who she was without them.

*********

There was one final part to Patty’s recovery. Patty let Betty drag her from the house on some errand. For the first time, Patty couldn’t stop looking at the vast blue sky feeling optimistic until she arrived at their destination.

The small, darkened room smelling of burnt lavender and something older, heavier, clinging to the air like a second skin. The walls were lined with mismatched fabrics, their once-rich patterns now faded and curling at the edges, as if they had absorbed too many whispered secrets over the years.

At the center sat around wooden table, draped in fraying velvet, a crystal ball perched ominously in the middle.

Patty crossed her arms tightly, eyes narrowing at Betty, “This?” she said, voice flat. “This is what you’ve brought me to? I thought there would, at least, be a jazz musician.”

Betty, utterly unbothered, slid into one of the chairs with the ease of a woman who had nothing to prove, “Oh, don’t be so provincial, my dear,” she purred. “You might learn something.”

Patty sighed sharply, about to turn on her heel when the beaded curtain at the back of the shop rippled ominously.

A woman stepped through, her movements slow, deliberate. She was tall, wrapped in layers of gauzy silk, her dark hair piled high and threaded with golden chains. Her eyes—black and endless—settled on Patty like she had already seen inside her.

Patty fought the urge to shiver.

The woman lowered herself into the chair across from them, placing delicate fingers over the tarot deck resting on the table, “You have come seeking answers."

Patty rolled her eyes, “Why else do people come to places like this?”

Betty nudged her hard in the ribs, flashing a sly grin, “Be polite, dear.”

The woman—Madame Noelle, according to the fading sign by the door—smiled slightly, unbothered by Patty’s skepticism. She closed her eyes, hands hovering over the deck, the room shifting somehow, the air thickening.

Patty told herself it was just the dim lighting. Just the scent of old incense swirling thickly in the air.

Then—Madame Noelle’s eyes snapped open. She studied Patty carefully, like she was peeling her apart from the inside, “There is someone,” she murmured. “Someone who lingers near you. A friend… gone too soon…The woman with the double M.”

Patty’s stomach twisted. She whispered, “Myra May…her middle name.”

Betty’s smirk faltered.

Madame Noelle’s fingers ghosted over the deck before flipping over a single card. The Three of Cups, "A woman who laughed much but carried burdens she never spoke of," she said.

Patty’s fingers curled in her lap. Her throat felt tight. She could almost hear Myra’s cackling laughter, almost see her standing by the kitchen counter, fretting over whether or not to have another slice of cake.

Patty swallowed, “Her death notice was in the paper.”

Madame Noelle studied her, then tilted her head, “She wants you to know she heard you.”

Patty blinked, “Heard me?”

The psychic’s gaze darkened, sharpened, as if she were listening to something beyond the veil of the room, "You spoke to her, didn’t you?" she murmured. "In the dark, the night before her funeral."

Patty’s blood ran cold. She had. Drunk and miserable, whispering into the quiet, I should’ve done more. I should’ve saved you. Her hands trembled.

Madame Noelle’s lips curled slightly, "She says you were always a darling for taking on burdens that weren’t yours to carry." Patty swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry. Madame Noelle’s eyes gleamed, “She says you’ll believe her when I tell you this.” She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, "The secret to a no-fail sponge cake is a tablespoon of custard powder in the batter."

Patty’s entire body stilled. Her breath hitched violently in her throat. Only Myra would know just how obsessed they had been in knowing her secret ingredient. Something she had sworn up and down she would never reveal to another soul.

Betty, watching the scene unfold with a keen, feline amusement, lifted a perfectly sculpted brow, “Oh,” she purred, grinning over her wine-red nails. “Well, well, well. Nothing like a delectable treat to bridge the two domains.”

Patty shot out of her chair, knocking her knee against the table in her haste. She ignored Betty’s mocking delight, ignored the way her stomach churned with disbelief, ignored everything except the rapid pounding of her heart.

Madame Noelle simply smiled, gathering her tarot cards, "She’s at peace, Patricia," she murmured. "And she wants you to be, too."

Patty exhaled shakily, wiping at her eyes before turning sharply on her heel. Betty chuckled, tossing a few crisp bills onto the table before following her out.

Once outside, the sun was bright, too bright, but Patty breathed it in deeply. She felt… lighter. The grief was still there. It always would be. But for the first time in a long time, it felt just a little easier to carry.

*********

The house was quiet—not in a cold, uneasy way, but in a way that felt settled, at peace. She found Freddie in his study, hunched over his typewriter, fingers moving with purpose as he finished an article. Another story had taken the place of Riley Carrington.

She leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment. He hadn’t noticed her yet. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight, but not in frustration—just focus. A long exhale, a final clack of the typewriter keys, and then—he stopped.

Freddie sat back, rubbing a hand over his face, finally noticing her presence, “You’re staring,” he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Patty smirked. “You’ve been at that for hours.”

He gestured at the stack of pages in front of him, his mouth twisting. “It’s done.” He turned to face her with a satisfied smile upon his face, "Dr Baxter will be finished after this little expose." He took her hand, gently, "Do you know he is now being investigated? And not for the first time. Those diet pills had been condemned by many in the medical profession."

She raised a brow, “When did all this happen”

"During your...situation."

"Oh! You mean when I was losing my mind?"

"Yeah. You missed a lot." He sighed, looking down at the words he’d spent so long piecing together. “Because it’s more than just a story. It's a warning to other doctors who hand out pills for a kick back." Freddie leaned forward, rubbing his hands together, struggling for words. “Phil’s back,” he said finally. “After the accident… after all this time, he’s finally back in town.”

Patty felt a strange, unexpected relief. She had wondered when this moment would come, “Have you spoken to him?”

Freddie nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “And I feel like a bastard because… I was relieved to see him. Even after everything.”

Patty let out a breath. “Freddie…”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been feeling so guilty, Patty. For wanting to see him. For—” He stopped himself. “I don’t even know what I want. I just know I feel… split in two.”

Patty took his hands in hers, gently, firmly. “You don’t have to explain it to me, Freddie.”

His eyes flicked to hers, searching for judgment—but there was none.

“I’ve been reminded, in the last week or so,” Patty said carefully, “just how fragile life is.” She exhaled, squeezing his hands. “I don’t want you to feel such conflict. We’ve held off this talk long enough.”

Freddie’s shoulders tensed, but he nodded, waiting.

Patty inhaled, steadying herself, “I want you to be free.” Freddie’s breath hitched, his hands gripping hers tighter. “But,” Patty continued, “we still have children to raise. And I don’t want to break their world apart before they’re ready.”

Freddie let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. “So… what are you saying?”

Patty met his gaze. “I’m saying that we can be our own kind of family.”

His brows furrowed. “And what does that mean?”

Patty gave a small, tired smile, “It means we take care of each other,” she said simply. “We raise our children together, we keep our home intact… and when they’re grown, we’ll revisit what we are.”

Freddie stared at her for a long moment. Then, to her surprise, his face crumpled just slightly—relief, guilt, gratitude, all tangled together.

“You’d really… do that?” he murmured.

Patty squeezed his hand again, “This is what someone does for love.”

Freddie let out a breathy chuckle, rubbing his face. “I don’t deserve you.”

Patty smirked. “No, you don’t.”

He laughed softly—a real laugh, for the first time in weeks. Then, quieter, he added, “I don’t want to hurt you, Patty.”

Patty exhaled, her fingers tracing along the edge of the table, “You won’t,” she said. “Not if we make this work, together.”

Freddie’s jaw tightened. “And Phil?”

Patty shrugged. “That’s your choice to make.”

Freddie was silent for a long moment, then nodded. Patty squeezed his hand one last time before finally letting go. They weren’t perfect. They weren’t what they used to be. But for now, they were enough. And that was all that mattered.

And she had handled it without the use of her pills. Finally feeling totally present in the conversation.

********

The competition hall buzzed with energy, the sharp scent of polished floors and burning rocket fuel lingering in the air. Rows of tables lined the auditorium, each displaying carefully constructed projects, complete with notebooks full of equations, blueprints, and detailed explanations.

Lizzy stood by her table, arms crossed, her foot tapping impatiently. Her rocket—sleek, silver, and deceptively simple-looking—sat ready on its launch stand, her calculations laid out in neat, precise handwriting for the judges to examine.

Across from her, David Ashford was adjusting his own rocket, a bulky, complicated contraption with far too many wires and an exhaust system that looked suspiciously over-engineered.

Their eyes met.

Lizzy smirked. "You sure that thing isn’t just going to explode on the launchpad?"

David arched a brow, smirking back. "Funny. I was going to ask you the same thing."

Patty, watching from the sidelines with Freddie, pressed a hand over her mouth to hide her grin.

"She’s enjoying this," Freddie murmured.

"She lives to mess with boys," Patty whispered back.

The first round of evaluations began, with students explaining their design choices, chemical compositions, and trajectory adjustments.

Lizzy straightened her posture, chin up, as the judges approached.

One of them—a distinguished-looking man in a tweed suit—leaned in, scanning her notes. "Tell us about your propulsion mechanism, Miss Love."

Lizzy didn’t miss a beat, "I designed a hybrid chemical mix using a combination of household-based oxidizers and fuel sources," she explained. "It increases thrust while maintaining stability. Most people go for brute force to get height, but the trick isn’t just going up—it’s controlling the descent, too."

One of the judges nodded approvingly.

David, standing nearby, rolled his eyes dramatically, "Oh, please," he said, stepping forward. "We all know height is what gets the win. If your rocket doesn’t reach the highest point, you might as well be throwing a paper airplane."

Lizzy turned, eyes gleaming with challenge. "If it burns too hot and fast, it’ll spiral out of control. Let me guess, you sacrificed control for power?"

David grinned, completely unbothered. "Gotta take risks to make history, Loveless."

The judges chuckled at their back-and-forth, clearly entertained by the lively rivalry. One of them gestured to David’s project. "Alright, Mr. Ashford, let’s hear about your design."

David clasped his hands behind his back, standing confidently, "Simple," he said. "Maximum acceleration, high-powered fuel, and a reinforced structure to withstand the forces."

Lizzy snorted, "In other words: You built a cannonball."

David smirked, "And you built a fancy kite."

The judges exchanged amused glances.

Freddie whispered to Patty, "They’re like an old married couple."

Patty nudged him. "Shush. This is her battlefield."

Lizzy huffed, but her lips twitched, unable to stop the thrill of the competition from creeping in.

"Alright, Ashford," she said, stepping forward, eyes gleaming. "Let’s see whose theory holds up."

David grinned. "May the best scientist win."

And with that, the competition truly began.

*********

The auditorium buzzed with chatter, the excitement still crackling in the air as the winners were announced. Lizzy stood frozen, staring down at the second-place medal in her hands, her fingers brushing over the smooth, engraved surface. She had done it. She had placed above almost every other boy in the competition.

Patty’s laugh was light with relief, and before Lizzy could react, her mother had pulled her into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “Oh, Lizzy! Second place! And an invitation to Nationals!”

Freddie grinned, ruffling her hair, "Not bad for a kid without an engineer dad, huh?"

Lizzy huffed at the teasing but couldn't fight the smug smile curling at the edges of her lips.

Just then, a shadow fell over them. Lizzy turned, expecting gloating, resentment, something smug—but instead, David Ashford stood there, hands in his pockets, a lopsided smile on his face.

For the first time that day, there was no cocky edge to his expression, "Your design was brilliant," he said simply. "I watched your calculations—I never would’ve thought to adjust the slipstream like that. It gave your rocket way more control on descent. Really impressive stuff."

Lizzy blinked, caught off guard, "Uh. Thanks," she muttered, still wary.

David smirked slightly. "Who knows, one day, we might even be working in the same lab." He glanced at her medal. "I hope by then you’ve learned how to be a gracious second-place winner."

Lizzy scoffed, crossing her arms, "I’ll learn when you learn how to be a humble first-place winner."

David chuckled, offering his hand, "Fair enough."

Lizzy hesitated just a second, then shook it.

As David walked away, Patty watched her daughter closely, noting the way she didn’t scowl—not exactly.

Syd nudged Teddy, "That looks like the start of a beautiful nerdy rivalry."

Teddy smirked, "Or the first scene in a love story."

Lizzy’s sharp glare shot straight to him, "Shut it, Teddy."

Freddie chuckled, shaking his head, "I like that boy. Polite. Smart."

"Arrogant," Lizzy muttered.

Patty grinned, squeezing her daughter’s shoulder, "You’ll push each other to be better. That’s not a bad thing."

Lizzy shrugged, but there was a glint of excitement in her eyes.

The sound of a camera shutter clicking pulled Patty’s attention. She turned, spotting Phil standing off to the side, camera in hand, snapping shots of the winners.

Phil looked thinner than before, his face still pale from his accident, but he was here. And more importantly—Freddie was beside him.

Patty watched as the two men spoke quietly, nothing loud or dramatic—just low murmurs between old friends. She saw the way Freddie’s shoulders relaxed slightly, how Phil’s lips twitched into something close to a smile.

It wasn’t entirely mended, whatever had broken between them. But it was a start.

Phil glanced up, catching Patty watching them. She offered a small, knowing smile. Phil hesitated, then lifted his camera.

The flashbulb went off just as Patty burst into laughter, wrapping an arm around Lizzy. She could imagine the caption now:

"Local Girl Defies Expectations at Science Competition."

But more than that—this was a moment worth capturing. Her daughter, standing on the edge of something bigger. Her husband, mending what was broken.

And for the first time in a long time, Patty felt like everything might just be okay.

*********

The next morning, Patty woke up and reached for the bottle on her bedside table—only to stop, staring at it for a long moment. She set it back down.

When she walked into the kitchen, the world didn’t feel as bright, as soft-edged. The sunlight through the window was stark and clear. The ticking of the clock was too loud. And yet… she was still here. She had thought without the pills she would crumble, that the weight of her anxieties would crash over her like a wave. But for the first time in years, she wasn’t drowning in a sea of artificial calm.

She could feel. Really feel. The grief was sharper. The worry heavier. But so was the warmth of the morning sun. The rich scent of coffee. The sound of her children laughing outside.

She wasn’t the star of some neatly scripted TV sitcom anymore, where every problem had a tidy resolution by the end of the episode. But maybe real life wasn’t meant to be tidy. Maybe she could learn to live with that.

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