After shooing everyone away from the bathroom so she can have a bit of privacy with her jar, her duffel bag, and her phone, Tiff takes a seat on the closed toilet lid, pulls out a couple of plastic jars she uses for this kind of thing, and, thanking the universe around her for that bit of foresight, reaches for her phone where she left it on the edge of the tub.
There's only one notification of note: a text from Bloodsaw that just says "Call me. Now." Tiff very much isn't going to do that, but it's nice to see that they're adjusting to the new phone just fine; she calls her aunt instead.
Esther's voice is more tired than it was before, which Tiff supposed makes sense. It's getting late. "Tiff, honey. I feel like it's been forever since I last saw you."
"Ha-ha. Hello to you, too."
"You didn't have to check in, you know."
"I know." She snaps on an extra pair of gloves and reaches for her wet specimen jar-making tools. It's one of the projects she brought with her, anticipating more investigatory downtime. "Jar time."
"Are you making another jar? Oh— Who am I kidding? Of course you are."
"You're going to hate this one."
"I don't doubt I will. I take it this means you helped that Elton person you mentioned? And you're away from the situation for now?"
"I did— and that situation is over. Don't worry about it." She lifts the specimen from the original jar and turns it over for a little assessment.
"I have questions."
"I may or may not have answers."
"What did you do, honey?"
"Uh— Well—" She pauses to look away from the flesh in her hands and the jar she'll have to rinse. "There's a lot of ways to answer that question."
"Give me a list, then." Esther pauses and, through her own evident fatigue, makes the observation that, "You sound really worn out. Are you alright? Would you rather tell me when you get home?"
"No." She isn't going to have time, she thinks. What if something goes wrong? What if she never actually goes home? "I guess I'm just kind of tired. And worn out."
"I guess you are, honey." She chuckles like she does when she's looking at Tiff with bewildered admiration. "I guess that makes two of us."
"I'm not sick."
"I never said you were sick."
"Good. Because I'm not sick."
"I believe you— and, yes, I know I should 'believe you because it's true.'"
"Good. Because it is."
"So what did you do, then?"
There's an expectation in her aunt's voice that she doesn't know how to parse. Tiff pauses, syringe still in the specimen's scrotum. "You know. Same old. A necromancer sent us to the Bone Zone—"
"Excuse me?"
"A pocket dimension. Got attacked by a bone snake. Portal went wrong. Pushed myself too hard on the third portal. Fought the necromancer. Kepler dealt his finisher. Cauterized the wound. Performed an urostomy." She shrugs. "Normal Tiff shit, I guess."
"I'm sorry, you—" Tiff can hear the gears turning in her aunt's head as well as she can hear the rustling of someone sitting up on the couch. "You— Is that what's in the jar? That poor man's dick and balls?"
"He's not some poor man." Tiff sets the specimen down and turns on the faucet to rinse out the jar. Having some sort of methodology in place when her head is so light seems to be helping. "He was going to keep trying to kill me so he would have a near-infinite necromantic energy source at his fingertips."
"Oh god, Tiff—"
"He didn't want his genitals. He didn't want them back. I asked him when I was doing the urostomy. You could ask Dr. Deseret— she was there. He just spat on me again, so I had Kepler run upstairs for a second jar." She pauses and chooses to clarify, "The first one was for urine. To be clear."
"God, Tiff." There are a thousand emotions she can read in those two words. Astonishment. Disappointment. Regret.
"I'll feel guilty about it later, I promise." Maybe she just doesn't have the capacity to care right now.
"It's not that I want you to feel guilty. It's more that..."
"That what?"
Esther sighs in the way she always does. "So much happens to you all the time."
"Speak for yourself. You got a space STD and you're still Chosen."
"Well— Hold on— Just because it can be transmitted through fluids doesn't mean that I have an STD, much less one I want to talk about with my kid."
"How did you get it, then?" Tiff doesn't wait for the beat of telling silence. "So— I'll be home in maybe four days."
"Four days? Is there more to do, or are you just sticking around for something?"
"Yes."
"Tiff, that's not an answer."
"It kind of is."
She lets it hang in the air for long enough that the words catch in her throat like grapes and her aunt has to prod, "Well, why is it the answer?"
"I'm not— Oh." Tiff giggles. "You're not going to like this."
"Try me."
"No, I mean it. It's— I— Boris Covington was acting as a portal to that in-between extradimensional space, and I did what I always do."
There's an accusation there when Esther asks, "Jumped through?"
"No, reached out to what came through. It stabbed me, just a little, and then, you know, it's going to be fine, but—"
"Tiff."
"It's not like I'm dead, I'm just—"
"Tiffany May."
"I'm not dead! It's fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure. We're going to fix it in a minute.
"Well." Esther pauses, hesitates, and ultimately says, dead serious, "As long as you're going to be okay, I have some news."
"Shit." Tiff frowns and fiddles with the wad of toilet paper she was using to wipe out the jar. "What is it?"
"Let me— Let me— Hold on. I have to figure out how to say this."
"Are you pregnant?"
"I am not pregnant."
"I'm just asking because— it wouldn't be the first time—"
"Tiffany May, I am not pregnant."
"Okay! Okay. I'm just saying, it wouldn't be the first time Aunt Zlob got someone pregnant—"
Esther sighs, long and deep.
Tiff knows what that means. She can't keep herself from grinning. "What huge mistake did you make this time? Did you get married again?"
"You know that's not legal, honey."
"It should be."
"Yeah, but it isn't."
"If I don't have another parental figure to acclimate to, then what? What's the news?"
Another sigh. "I'm running for mayor."
She almost drops the jar. "Mom, what the hell."
"Mom?" Tiff can practically hear Esther's eyebrows rising into the stratosphere. "Again?"
"Ignore that. I'm woozy. You're running for— Fuck, you're running for mayor?"
"I'm running for mayor," she confirms.
There's only one question to ask: "Why?"
"There's a lot to it."
"Then act like me and explain way too much."
"Well, you know Ivan Cunningham." The 'you broke into his house several times and stole his golf cart' goes unsaid. "He was up to his antics again."
"Why did you go to a school board meeting when you were sick, auntie?"
"Hey, now. Quit that. I'm supposed to worry about you."
"The problem child can worry about the problem adult."
"That is, of course, the answer— someone needs to call him on his shit."
"So you're running for mayor?"
"He was going on one of his anti-trans rants again. Morally, I can't let that slide. And with Andy here..."
"So you're running for mayor." Tiff nods. It makes sense now. "What does that mean?"
"It's like moving. It's one of those things we'll figure out as we go along."
"Fuck. You know I hate that."
Her grin is audible through the speaker. "And yet you keep doing it."
"I don't really have a choice."
"You always have a choice, Grapenut."
"Not in this, I don't." Tiff sighs. She spins the screwdriver in her hand. "I'm getting through it, though. You know. Dragged a local guy into it with me."
"Make good decisions, Tiff."
She wrinkles her nose. "Ew. Gross. Come on."
"I know, I know. Wouldn't be fair to your husband, either."
Tiff doesn't say anything. She freezes, like all the blood left in her veins. The thoughts don't even form all the way.
The silence is an invitation to speak. "Come on, Tiffy. Don't think I didn't figure it out."
"H— How?"
She breathes in deep and lets it out in a way Tiff knows is upsetting the bedsheets. "They told me, honey."
"Fuck. I told them not to."
"I know, I know. They only told me because you didn't show up for that thing you were supposed to do with Denny."
Oh, god. The cabin. They were supposed to finish up and show off the cabin today. Denny's going to be so pissed.
"We're getting divorced, you know," Tiff mutters.
"I'm aware." There's a smile in her voice. "I'm proud of you, you know. I'm glad you know what you want."
"Yeah, okay. Love you, too." Her hand slips from under her chin and she smacks the counter with her cheek. She jolts back up and mutters to herself, "I'm not dying."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm— That was for me. A sentence for me."
"You said it out loud."
"Yeah, I guess so— And I guess it's why I called. I'm not dying. I just got stabbed a couple hours ago, and I'm just... running out of blood."
"Honey." Esther's voice is laced with years of unshakeable no-duh. "That's what dying is."
"No, no, it's not like— It's not like you, or like Mr. Mathew. He dropped to the ground and came back. I didn't die and come back. I didn't die. But— You know. I'm still kind of human. Organ failure is still a possibility so—" She screws the lid onto the jar, finally finished with what she has been doing this whole time. "I don't know. You can see my heart. It's not ideal, but I think we have a way to fix it. My bag is in the Bone Zone because Boris took it there, so I can't fix it myself— and I don't think I would, because my ribs are a little broken. The other way is going to take three days. And then I want to steal his books."
There's the telling silence. Her aunt is angry at her; her aunt is regretting every kind thing she has ever done for her; her aunt is just saying, "Goddammit, Tiff."
Knowing she's about to descend into panic mode, she discards her safety goggles on the edge of the tub and pushes her glasses up into her hair. "I just— I had to tell you because, even if I'm not going to die about this, it's kind of jarring to see someone walking around with their heart out, and I'll have to figure out another way to fix it— It's going to work. I don't doubt that it's going to work, but— I'm going to be unconscious for three days, either way. And I had to warn you. And I'm— I'm sorry. I love you. See you in four to five business days."
Before her aunt can say anything— express disappointment, rescind the I'm proud of you— Tiff hangs up. She pushes the jar closer to the middle of the counter.
That's all there is. She can't put this off any longer, right? Tiff swallows the lump in her throat, turns off her phone, and opens the bathroom door. Ellis and Melvin are there; Elton, notably, isn't. That's fine. They can do this without him. Maybe they should.
"I'm done with the jar. We should do it now."