The First Thanksgiving

Posted on Sun Nov 28th, 2021 @ 5:35pm by Lieutenant Tate Sullivan Ph.D.

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
721 words - 1.4 OF Standard Post Measure

She wanted to run, but she knew she couldn't.

This wasn't entirely because of the corrections officers roaming all around her, although she knew if they were so inclined, they could drop her with one touch of their stun weapons.

Why they would do so wasn't clear to Tate Salinger, soon to be Tate Sullivan, and when her mother Ava had told her what they were capable of, she made no attempt to hide her rolling eyes. Tate may not have lived long chronologically speaking, but she was an eight-year old going on 30, and as much as she had been conditioned to rescue her mother, she knew she was a professional liar and manipulator.

It was Ava's ability to lie and manipulate that she would have Tate believe kept them both alive for as long as they had been. Even though the girl knew that to be true, she wasn't about to admit it aloud. She also knew it was her mother's drug use, history of violence and prostitution that had led to Tate being removed from her mother three times and Tate's young life and had now gotten her time in a correctional facility for what felt like an eternity.

Sheer rage and the underlying hurt, fear, and frustration kept her rooted to her seat in the prison's visiting room and later in the cafeteria, but not even that large hard pit of emotion was able to keep the adrenaline from flowing and reality from intruding, at least in the deepest parts of her mind where she sent information she couldn't un-know, but didn't want to acknowledge. She saw the lingering lascivious looks the guards gave the female prisoners like her mother and the exchanges of illicit goods taking place in the supposed hidden corners. One positive thing Tate had learned from her mother was to observe everything without being seen. After all, who would care about what the young daughter of an addict prostitute had to say?

Without knowing what future broken promises the woman across from her had actually offered this time, Tate sensed a lull in the conversation and the weight of expectation and two blue eyes boring into her. She needed to say something now and to bring her attention back to the room smelling of recycled air and a mixture of foods from all over the galaxy. In honor of the Thanksgiving holiday, the prison had arranged for not only its regular family visitation time, but also a special lunch between prisoners and their loved ones. It would almost seem normal were it not for the armed guards and the fact every one sitting at the utilitarian tables wore the same drab uniforms and expressions that were just this side of numb.

Before Tate could get a word out, however, a buzzer sounded signaling the end of the visit. Rough but not aggressive hands were steering her toward the exit, leaving Tate feeling not unlike someone who has been ripped away from an uncomfortable but desired dream by the sound of the chronometer waking her up, words still stuck at the back of her throat.

***

"Tate? Tate, are you okay?" Loving eyes searched the little girl's. Tate could see her foster mother, and future adoptive mother, was trying to maintain an expression that reflected more amusement than concern, but Tate was an old soul and could see through it.

She tried to smile, to bat the memory of the earlier visit to the prison away, but she realized her face was wet with tears. "I am thankful for my mother… My real mother," She added, suddenly resentful of the roof over her head, the delicious food before her with the shiny decorations and the quiet that came with enjoying a meal with just to other people instead of an entire cell block.

Despite being forced to grow up too fast, the young girl didn't quite understand where the desire to hurt her foster mother with her words had come from, but no they were out there, she wasn't about to take them back, almost challenging the former Starfleet medical officer to fall apart.

Without skipping a beat, Michelle Sullivan, foster parent and future adoptive mother, broke into a smile. "Well of course you are, sweetie, I am thankful for her too."


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