tw; dysfunctional family situations
viewer discretion advised.

songs:

i don't play - kool keith
coconut - harry nilsson
hey boy hey girl - the chemical brothers

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January 2000, Present Day

The Moreno Household

Torrance, CA

It is a little after one in the morning when Izabela Moreno wakes up in a puddle of her own urine. The five-year-old cracks her hazel eyes open, noticing a familiar squishing sensation in her Minnie Mouse bed sheets. She lets out a soft grunt as she sits up straight, back against the white headboard of her bed. Birdy, the family Himalayan cat, stirs at the girl's sudden scuffling, and lets out a silent yawn that bares all her teeth.

Izabela, who is addressed lovingly as "Izzie" by her parents, rubs the sleep out of her eyes with her chubby knuckles. Vibrations from her dad's cabinet speakers shake the floor, even though the sounds are coming from the basement two floors below Izzie's bed. Obnoxious laughter, clinking glasses, and the dropping of profanities are almost just as loud as whatever record is currently spinning on the turntable. Izzie swears she can hear her mother's airy voice above the rest– the one voice that promises comfort, security...

The one voice that she does not want to be scolded by.

Reality hits Izzie, and the preschooler begins to dread talking to Mama or Daddy about her current dilemma. She does not wish to disrupt her parents' festivities downstairs, but she can't not tell someone about her "accident"; these "accidents" have been happening more often with each passing week, and no one has an answer as to why or what is causing them. Her mother is always very patient, and never gets upset over the frequent bed-wettings. Her father has recently learned of the issue, therefore he is not aware of how to handle it. Though she knows her mother will be far from angry with her, she still feels guilty for what would be the fifth accident in the span of a week.

Despite her worries, Izzie decides to be the type of "big girl" her daddy always encourages her to be when times are tough. Birdy is fully awake at this point, hopping off the bed with a meow. Izzie rolls her featherweight frame off the mattress, and plants both feet firmly on her beige carpet. Her piss-soaked pajamas hit the cool air, and it sends a sharp chill through her body. She grimaces a little when she realizes that the hem of her thermal shirt is also wet.

Regardless, the five-year-old swipes her stuffed koala named Bongo off of her bed and waddles out the door. She pads her way down the hall, passing her parents' bedroom and the guest bathroom she refuses to use. The feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin makes her itch. Her eyes begin to water; she cannot tell if it's from her current state of anxiousness... or from the smell of ammonia wafting off the wet fabric.

She slips down the flight of stairs, past the vast array of framed photographs lining the wall. Photos displaying her mother's smiling baby-blues and wild strawberry-blonde curls, as well as her father's dark features and kind eyes. They look happy, arms around each other in warm embraces. And in almost every photo, their pride and joy– their own blessing in disguise– Izabela sits between them with her black Shirley Temple ringlets and toothy grin always stretched over her round cheeks.

But one cannot be fooled, for two of the bright, wide smiles frozen in time are merely for show. Camilo and Jezebel Moreno are not happily married. All but their young daughter are well aware of this woeful fact. There was a time when they had been, but those days are drifting further away as time passes.

Izzie Moreno reaches the bottom of the steps, turning to her right and skidding her way through the downstairs hallway. She finds herself in the living room. The television is still on, screening some nighttime talk show with a host as old as time itself. Bowls of pretzels and empty bottles of beer are strewn across the coffee table, remnants of the party upstairs that occurred prior to being moved down in the basement. The dark-haired child tosses her stuffed koala bear on the loveseat, dismissing any level of personal protection he has to offer.

Izzie makes a beeline from the family room to the kitchen. A familiar, large figure lingers nearby poking his head in the refrigerator. The burly man retrieves a tray of homemade fudge sliced into precise cubes. Izzie's mother had told her earlier not to touch the delicacy, for it contained peanuts (which Izzie has a terrible allergy to) and something else she dared not to say to her daughter. Izzie had to admit, the squares even smelled a little funny.

The large man sends a smile in the young girl's direction. "Hey, shawty! What're you still doin' up?" The man, her father's best friend called Stephen, greets jubilantly. His eyes are glassy, and the goofy smile on his face stretches from ear-to-ear. Izzie does not reciprocate the positivity.

"Stef, where is Daddy?" She croaks, her meek voice sleepy and hoarse. She rubs one of her eyes with a closed fist as a yawn escapes her mouth. Stephen Carpenter balances the tray of grown-up goodies in his hand, using the free one to pick his beer can off of the island. He takes a long chug before giving the child an answer, happy to oblige. He does not seem to notice that the child's clothes are wet with urine, but Izzie is thankful for his ignorance.

"He's downstairs hangin' on your mama. C'mon, I'll take ya down there, homegirl," Stephen jerks his chin to gesture the direction he's headed. Izzie gazes down at her bare feet, then back up at Stephen. She gives him a small nod in response.

The pair start to make their way to the basement, Izzie following her father's bandmate close behind. Approaching the door to the lowest level, Izzie notes the sudden drop in volume music-wise, pulsating bass now replaced with mellow acoustic tones. Stephen struggles to steady the plastic tray of fudge as he hops down the steps, but manages to not drop any squares. The guitarist stops at the bottom of the stairs to notify the partygoers, "I got the goodies!"

Izzie almost snarls in aggravation, as she weaves around him to finally enter the room. 

The sea of adults congregating in the Morenos' basement lounge— known as "The Tiki Bar" due to its tacky Hawaiian decor and endless flow of alcohol— squeal in delight upon Stephen's delivery. That Harry Nilsson song about curing a belly ache is playing softly in the background. The young girl slithers her way through the bodies scattered through the room. She gazes up at the people gathered there to do nothing but sip "big-people drinks". Few faces look familiar to Izabela, only some can she point out by name.

She sees her mother's friend, a redhead the preschooler calls "Kimmy". Kimmy is in the corner by the pool table, preoccupied with some guy that is making her cackle like the hyenas Izzie once saw at the San Diego Zoo. Abe and Annalynn Cunningham, who Izzie considers her aunt and uncle, are sitting on the leather couch, gabbing away with foreign merrymakers. 

Izzie begins to feel a lead ball of dread settle in her belly. Out of all these people, she cannot seem to pinpoint where her parents are. They couldn't have left; this was their party, after all... right?

Just as she begins to consider an alternative, she hears a male voice say her father's name over the music. Izzie's ears prick up, similar to Birdy's when her mother offers the feline a can of wet food. Izzie turns her head to the right to spot her father's friend Chi Cheng standing near a hunched figure at the bar. A sense of relief washes over the young girl as she makes her way to the two men, her pajamas squelching.

Stephen was wrong, however; her mother is nowhere in sight, nowhere near her father.

Chi Cheng has vanished into thin air by the time she reaches the man who is sulking on a barstool. One elbow is propped up on the table whilst his forehead rests against his palm. His black hair shields his tired eyes from his daughter's view. His mouth is a thin dashed line, his cheeks seem hollowed and gaunt. Sitting all by his lonesome while the rest of the crowd seems to be having the time of their lives.

He doesn't even look like himself.

"Daddy," Izabela murmurs, placing both of her little starfish hands on his left knee. She gives his leg a light shake. This causes Camilo Moreno to raise his head and brush loose strands of hair away from his face. His eyes are rimmed-red and bloodshot, his pupils so large his irises have disappeared. He scrubs a hand down the side of his face, scratching a stubbled cheek.

"... w-what are you doin' up, baby girl? It's late," he inquires as he swipes his glass of what looks like water off the bar to take a drink. He throws his head back, gagging slightly as the liquid runs down his throat. Izzie curls her lip slightly; she didn't think water tasted that bad.

The girl offers an explanation: "Daddy, I need help."

"What'sa matter, baby?" Her father slurs, raising a thick eyebrow in her direction. He sets his now-empty glass back down. Camilo reaches out, sweeping a few corkscrew curls away from his daughter's face.

Her gaze falls to the floor as she admits her fault under her breath, so low that barely any sound escapes her lips. Camilo does not react, however. Instead he turns his attention to a friend of his they call "Crook" approaching, greeting him joyfully. The two men begin conversing, but Izzie can't comprehend a word they're saying; her ears are ringing.

Slightly panicked, she gives her dad's leg another shove. When he doesn't respond, she tugs on his red Willie Nelson t-shirt. "Daddy," she stresses. "I nee—"

Camilo cuts the child off, lifting a hand to signal his distaste. He hisses, "Izabela, go get your mama. Daddy's busy."

The sudden change in her father's tone takes her aback, causing the girl to blink a few times to make sure she has comprehended what she's heard. Camilo resumes having his conversation with Crook, who almost takes no consideration of the small child lingering closely. Just the two childhood pals, talking about work and other things nobody else but them cares about. Izzie almost finds it hard to breathe.

She pipes up again, "Daddy—"

"Izzie," he reacts sharply, mimicking her emphasis. "I told you to go find Mama."

Izabela furrows her dark eyebrows at him, a deep crease forming in between them just like her father when he forms a similar expression. Rather than bursting into tears like she normally would, she obeys her father's wishes. Izzie lets out an irritated huff before leaving Camilo's side in search of the woman who birthed her.

The soft oldies tune dies down; someone replaces the record with some fast-paced, electronic number that causes almost everyone in the basement to hop to their feet. The bass rattles the cabinet speakers placed in the four corners of the room. Izzie pushes her way through any tight spaces she can find in between the anonymous sweaty bodies that glisten like glazed doughnuts.

A slender, dainty woman in a figure-hugging black slip comes into view, and the five-year-old breathes a sigh of relief. Her mother's body moves fluidly with the club music, hips shaking and arms flailing towards the sky. She takes a sip from her plastic party cup as one of Camilo's college-aged roadies named Walter wraps an arm around the blonde's small waist. The pair laugh and move rhythmically to the bass. Izzie feels even sicker than before.

Jezebel Damone-Moreno is completely unaware of her young daughter watching her dance with a man that is not her daughter's father nor her own husband. Izzie inches her way forward, hoping to tear Mama's attention away from her awkward dance partner, who seems to be sweating buckets. 

Walter pulls Jezebel even closer to himself, but she does not do anything to break from his hold. She takes another long drink from her Solo cup. Brushing the sandy hair out of his eyes, Walter whispers something in her ear, his mouth dangerously close to her throat. Jezebel almost chokes on her beverage as she lets out a loud cackle.

Izzie finally works up the courage to intervene. The child waddles to her mom's side, and gives her slim hip a gentle push. "Mama..."

Jezebel's entire demeanor changes from carefree party girl to concerned mother with a flick of a switch. The woman instantly discards all interest in her attractive dance partner, bending down at eye level with her daughter. Her words roll off her tongue awfully slow. "Izziiieee babyyyy, what're you doin' up? Is'so late," Jezebel asks with a giggle. 

Though her speech is slurred, her voice is calm and subdued. Her gaze envelopes Izzie like a warm blanket. Suddenly Izabela feels a bit better... but the girl still fumbles over her words as she tries to concoct an explanation. 

She doesn't even get a legible word out before her mother notices her sagging, wet night clothes. Her ski-slope nose wrinkles slightly at the smell radiating off Izzie's clothes. Rather than becoming upset, Jezebel leans in closer to her daughter, closing the gap between them. She speaks softly to avoid anyone (like Walter the terrible dancer) overhearing their conversation, but loud enough for Izzie to hear over the music. "Did you have 'nother accident, hon?"

Izabela can smell the grownup drink on her mother's breath. She feels her cheeks grow hot at Jezebel's question. Nevertheless, the child bows her head, nodding in defeat. The blonde woman stands up straight— teetering ever so slightly— and holds her free hand out to the little girl. She passes her plastic cup to Walter for disposal.

Jezebel wiggles her fingers at Izzie, her gaudy wedding ring glistening in the low basement light. "C'mon, I'll get'chu all cleaned up, bay-bay."

The tiny girl accepts her mother's grip. Two-thirds of the Moreno family ditch the Tiki Bar, barging past partygoers and bounding up the steps (Jezebel lacking more balance than her daughter for obvious reasons). The booming music grows very soft as Jezebel closes the basement door behind her. 

They stagger through the kitchen, the family room— where Izzie snatches Bongo from his previous spot on the sofa— through the main hallway, and finally to the staircase leading to the second level. Izzie abandons her mother's grasp, running ahead of her in her squishy pajamas. Jezebel discards her kitten heels and chases after the preschooler on unsteady feet. She stumbles on one of the steps, falling to her knees on the hardwood.

Izzie whips back around at the loud thump of her mother falling to the floor. "Mama, are you okay?"

Jezebel lets out a honk of laughter before using the railing to pull herself up. "I'm okay, baby. I'm okay..."

Back on wobbling feet, the blonde woman follows behind her daughter. The pair finally reach the top of the steps. Izzie begins to walk towards her parents' bedroom door in hopes of using their bathroom, but Jezebel quickly puts a stop to her antics.

"Girl, you are not takin' a bath in my bathroom. You're gettin' one in your bathroom." Jezebel staggers to the doorway leading to the half-bath. She reaches in to flip the light on and gestures for Izabela to enter, a single blonde eyebrow cocked upward.

The preschooler grumbles, curling her lip at the thought of using the guest bathroom. It's meant to be her bathroom but she hates using it. She hates how cramped and boring the small washroom is; her parents' is vast and is always stocked abundantly with toilet paper and good-smelling soaps. Alas, she abides her mother's commands, toddling past her.

Jezebel begins to draw a bath. She tears back the plastic shower curtain, turns the knobs to the desired degrees, and plugs the drain. The water begins to fill the tub. Izzie plops down on the toilet seat, her mother sitting on the lip of the bathtub. Bongo the koala lays on the floor next to Izzie's feet. Jezebel sticks her hand in to test the temperature. She retracts as she finds the water suitable. She dumps in some Mr. Bubble for good measure, and watches as white foam forms atop the water.

Now only the two of them (with the addition of Birdy, who just happened to slither in), Jezebel speaks openly about the current issue. She lets out a sigh and lends her daughter a smile. "Oh, my Izabela Penelope. What are we gonna do with you?" She chuckles over the rushing sounds coming from the faucet.

"I'm sorry, Mama," Izzie murmurs. Jezebel's teasing grin is quickly replaced with a frown. Her slurred speech briefly turns back into the competent motherly-tone she typically upholds.

"Baby, I'm just kidding. Accidents happen. It's okay, you're not in trouble."

Izzie is quiet for a moment before apologizing once more. "I'm sorry I made you leave the party."

"Oh, no, baby, don't even worry 'bout that," Jezebel scoffs, leaning forward and running her digits through Izzie's ebony tendrils. "The party was gettin' boring. I'd rather hang out with my girl, anyway."

"What about Kimmy?"

"Oh, she was busy with some boy. You know how Kim is," Jezebel rolls her eyes playfully. 

"What about Daddy?" Izzie inquires. Jezebel's jaw sets, and she breaks eye contact with her offspring. The woman shakes her head vigorously.

"He's too busy with friends," she replies grimly. Jezebel shifts so she is facing the shower knobs. Birdy paws past, rubbing up against Jezebel's tanned leg. Mama shuts the water off and turns her attention back to Izzie. "Come on, let's get those clothes off ya and get'cha all clean."

Izzie hops off the toilet seat and stands in front of her mother. She raises her arms as Jezebel helps her shuck off the piss-drenched night shirt. The little girl then steps out of her wet pajama bottoms and panties. Jezebel tries her best to help her climb in the tub in her intoxicated state. Izzie hisses through her teeth at the hot water sending pinpricks through her skin. Her mother picks up the soiled pajamas and drapes them on the towel rack attached to the wall. She retrieves a washcloth from the cupboard.

"Is that why you were dancing with Walter?" Izzie mutters out of nowhere. She claps her hands together, causing a small explosion of Mr. Bubble foam to shoot every which way. 

Jezebel spins around on her heels to look at the girl. "What, babe?"

"Daddy was with his friends, so you were dancing with Walter," Izzie acknowledges. Her mother exhales, dragging herself back to the edge of the tub. The inebriated woman kneels down nearby, hanging her spidery arms and head over the lip. She rests her cheek on the porcelain. She dips a hand gingerly into the soapy foam, dropping the washcloth into the bath water.

"Your daddy didn't want to dance with me," she responds softly. "I asked him to, but he wouldn't."

"Why not?" Izzie frowns. That damned crease forms between her eyebrows, and it reminds the blonde woman more and more of the man she married.

"Well..." Jezebel sighs. "I don't know. Daddy just likes to spend time with his friends at parties. Talkin' about the band and other boy stuff, that's all."

"But you were dancing with Daddy earlier when I was downstairs..."

Izabela is indeed correct. Before the party became rowdy and congested, it had actually been quite fun for the little girl. It had only been her, her parents, Kimmy, and her father's bandmates in the Tiki Bar at first. They had spent a majority of the evening listening to Donna Summer cassette tapes and drinking Shirley Temples that Kimmy garnished with paper umbrellas. 

Camilo had waltzed Izzie through the basement like the princesses she saw in Disney films, making her squeal as he tickled her sides. They danced to disco, with Chino encouraging her to "shake a tail feather!". The pair had a play fight on the floor; Mama even got involved, rolling in a ball on the floor with her and Daddy, all three howling with laughter until tears flowed from their eyes.

It is moments like this that Izzie cherishes most dearly; she wishes they could happen all the time.

Alas, Jezebel does not return the exchange. She fishes the blue washcloth out of the tub, swipes a nearby bottle of citrus-scented body wash, and pours some of the gelatinous liquid onto the terry cloth. She commences the scrubbing, cleaning all the "ick" from Izzie's soft, olive skin. Izzie sits quietly in the hot water in a fetal position, chin resting on her knobby knees.

Large hot tears begin to well up in the little girl's eyes. She senses the sorrow brewing within her mother at this precise moment; she acknowledges that her father did not give her a helping hand in a time of need. Izzie sniffs, trying her best to hide her emotions from Jezebel. But she does not succeed.

"Izzie, what's wrong? Is the water too warm?" Jezebel asks, halting her task of bathing the child. Izzie simply shakes her head, her curls swishing back and forth expressively.

Jezebel pleads, "Honey, talk to me, I can fix the water—"

Her proposal is cut short as a quiet sob escapes Izzie's cupid's bow lips. The girl isn't even sure as to why she's so upset; maybe it's exhaustion, maybe it is the water like Mama said, maybe it's something entirely different. Regardless, Izzie can't seem to bring herself to stop.

Her cries grow into full-on hiccuping sobs, shoulders shaking while she hugs her knees to her bare chest. She lets out a broken "Mama" before wiping her runny nose with her hand. Jezebel, taken aback by her daughter's sudden outburst, quickly pulls the drain plug and stands up to gather a towel.

"Izzie, baby, what is the matter?" Jezebel slurs with a voice full of genuine concern. She reaches into the tub, scooping the child up out of the water by her armpits. She doesn't care about the water that's dripping from Izzie's body onto her expensive velvet dress and onto the floor. She sets the child down on the tile. Izzie continues to wail and shiver, even as Jezebel wraps the cotton Sesame Street towel around her tiny frame.

"Izabela, talk to me, honey," Jezebel begs. "C'mon, you gotta tell Mama what's wrong."

She uses a corner of the towel to wipe tears from the little girl's chubby cheeks. Izzie continues to cry, her sobs coming out repeated and short like a scratched record. Jezebel feels tears of her own bubble up through her lids.

"Izabela, please," the woman implores. She gnaws on her lower lip in anticipation, waiting for the child to calm down and give her an answer. Jezebel figures it's guilt from wetting the bed; though she doesn't deem it as anything more than an "accident".

Izzie does not have an answer for her mother, however. Instead, the dark-haired preschooler simply launches herself forward, throwing her arms around her intoxicated mother's shoulders. The towel follows, wrapping both Jezebel and Izzie in this damp Elmo and Friends cocoon. The mother's teased-and-moussed locks stick to the little girl's damp arms. Izzie buries her face in the curve of Jezebel's neck, inhaling her Tommy Girl perfume and faint scent of perspiration. 

Jezebel gives in, snaking her arms around the damp, bare child that she birthed half a decade before. Her little star, the small speck of light in her dull life that was once flourishing— her beautiful Izabela Penelope.

Izzie instantly feels her muscles relax as Jezebel plants a kiss to the crown of her head. Jezebel nuzzles her nose into Izzie's hair, and sniffles just loud enough for Izzie to hear.

Her mother's arms are her sanctuary. This is the one place where Izabela feels safe, the one place she feels as though things are normal.

It is the one place she wishes Daddy would appear more often.