The transition from a stationary infant to a mobile toddler is universally heralded as a joyous milestone, a triumph of human development. For the sixty-year-old soul trapped within the obnoxiously radiant, golden-haired form of Sunshine Addams, it was nothing short of a grueling, deeply undignified military campaign.
In her previous life, walking had eventually become a chore of a different nature. She remembered the sharp, biting ache of arthritis in her knees, the stiffness of her lower back on damp mornings, and the sheer, exhausting effort required to carry the heavy mantle of her own depression from the bed to the kitchen. Her old body had been a cage of failing cartilage and bruised skin.
This new body, by contrast, possessed an infuriating elasticity. Her bones felt like rubber, her joints loose and uncoordinated. To possess the sharp, tactical mind of an adult while operating a vessel that routinely forgot how to maintain a center of gravity was a daily humiliation. When she tried to stand, her chubby legs bowed beneath her, and she would invariably collapse onto her heavily padded, velvet-diapered bottom with a soft, undignified thump.
But staying stationary was no longer an option. The Addams manor was not designed for the sedentary.
To crawl across the floors of the estate was to navigate a gothic labyrinth of active hazards. The heavy, moth-eaten Persian rugs often concealed ancient trapdoors whose iron hinges groaned with hungry anticipation. The suit of armor stationed outside the library had a nasty habit of stepping off its pedestal to stretch its greaves, frequently nearly stepping on her tiny, crawling fingers. And then there was Kitty Cat. The family's "house cat" was, in reality, a fully grown African lion with a penchant for batting at anything that scurried across the floorboards.
If she wanted to survive, she needed elevation. She needed to walk.
Gomez and Morticia, ever the uniquely attentive parents, had noticed their golden child's frustrated attempts to pull herself upright against the heavy mahogany furniture. In true Addams fashion, they decided that what their daughter needed was not a gentle, encouraging hand, but a life-or-death incentive.
It was a bleak, wonderfully overcast Tuesday afternoon when Gomez orchestrated the event.
The grand foyer had been cleared of its usual hazards, only to be replaced by a custom-built, motivational obstacle course. Gomez stood at the far end of the long, shadowy hall, practically vibrating with manic excitement. Morticia stood a few paces away, her hands elegantly folded over her narrow waist, watching with an expression of serene, deadly anticipation.
"Place her at the starting line, Lurch!" Gomez commanded, his voice booming into the vaulted ceiling, sending a flock of roosting bats fluttering into the higher rafters.
Lurch, moving with his usual glacial, lumbering gait, carried Sunshine to one end of the foyer. He set her down gently on the cold stone floor. "Uuuuuurrrrgh," he groaned, which she had come to translate as a polite, Good luck, little one.
Sunshine sat on the floor, her bright golden curls catching the dim, flickering light of the wall sconces, looking utterly absurd in her stark black lace dress. She peered down the length of the hall.
Between her and Gomez lay a path lined with snapping, antique bear traps, carefully spaced to allow a small child to pass only if they possessed perfect balance. On either side of the traps, Grandmama had sprinkled a generous layer of finely ground itching powder, harvested from the most virulent of poisonous flora. To make matters worse, a metronome ticked loudly near Gomez's feet, counting down the seconds before a hidden mechanism in the walls would release a volley of blunt-tipped, but heavily bruised, wooden arrows.
"Come, my little Sunbeam!" Gomez cheered, withdrawing a long, wicked-looking rapier and waving it enthusiastically. "Embrace the peril! Defy gravity and conquer the gauntlet! The sweet embrace of victory—and perhaps a mild concussion—awaits!"
You are completely insane, Sunshine thought, staring at her father. You are all deeply, structurally insane.
She looked at the bear traps. The iron jaws were rusted but looked ferociously sharp. In her past life, a setup like this would have induced a full-blown panic attack. Her former husband had often set emotional traps, waiting for her to step out of line so he could snap his own jaws shut around her self-esteem.
But this wasn't an emotional trap. It was a purely physical one. It was honest. It was straightforward. If she stepped on the trigger, it would hurt. There was no gaslighting, no manipulation, no moving the goalposts. It was a simple matter of geometry and balance.
And suddenly, the sixty-year-old woman realized something profound: she was not afraid.
She placed her tiny, dimpled hands flat against the freezing stone floor. She pushed. Her rubbery legs wobbled in protest, the muscles burning as they attempted to support her weight. She locked her knees, swaying precariously for a moment.
"Look, Tish! She stands! Like a tiny, golden titan!" Gomez whispered, lowering his rapier in awe.
Sunshine took a deep breath. She didn't look at her parents. She looked at the first bear trap. She lifted her right foot. The world tilted dangerously. Her arms flailed out in an instinctual, jerky windmill motion to catch her balance. She slammed her foot down, just an inch to the left of the rusted iron trigger plate.
She paused, breathing heavily, a bead of sweat forming on her forehead.
She lifted her left foot. The metronome ticked loudly, echoing off the stone walls. Tick. Clack. Tick. Clack. She swung her leg forward, clearing the jagged teeth of the first trap, planting her foot firmly on the safe stone beyond it.
"Magnificent," Morticia breathed, a rare, genuine smile curving her blood-red lips. "She moves with the grim determination of a condemned man walking to the gallows."
It was an apt description. Sunshine was not walking with the joyful, bouncy wobble of a toddler discovering mobility. She was walking with the stiff, hyper-focused rigidity of a woman navigating a minefield, her eyes locked onto the floor, plotting every single centimeter of her progression.
Step. Sway. Plant.
Step. Flail. Recover. Plant.
She bypassed the second trap. Then the third. The itching powder stirred slightly in the draft created by her movements, dusting the hem of her black dress, but she ignored the faint prickle against her ankles. She was entirely in the zone. It was a strange, intoxicating feeling. For the first time since her rebirth, she felt entirely in control of her own physical destiny.
As she neared the end of the gauntlet, Gomez dropped to his knees, throwing his arms wide open. "Yes! Come to Papa, you beautiful little anomaly! Claim your perilous triumph!"
Sunshine cleared the final bear trap. She stood just three feet away from Gomez. But as she looked up into his manic, loving eyes, a sudden, stubborn wave of contrarian independence washed over her.
She had spent sixty years walking toward men who demanded her compliance. She had spent a lifetime doing exactly what she was told, following the paths laid out for her by people who thought they owned her.
She stopped. She swayed on her tiny feet, her golden curls bouncing.
Gomez blinked. "Sunshine, querida? Just a few more steps."
Instead of walking into his arms, Sunshine pivoted a hard ninety degrees to her left. Her target was no longer her father. It was a low, heavy oak table sitting against the wall, upon which rested an open, remarkably dusty grimoire bound in what looked like pale, leathery skin.
With three more stiff, Frankenstein-esque steps, she reached the table. She slapped her tiny palms onto the oak surface, anchoring herself, and peered over the edge at the runic text covering the pages. She couldn't read a word of it, but it looked gloriously dark and complicated. She let out a satisfied, babbling sound and patted the terrifying book.
Silence fell over the foyer, broken only by the ticking metronome.
Gomez slowly lowered his arms, looking utterly bewildered. He turned to Morticia.
Morticia's dark eyes were wide, shining with an emotion that bordered on absolute reverence. She glided across the floor, effortlessly bypassing the bear traps, and knelt beside the table. She looked from the dark grimoire to her bright, golden-haired daughter.
"She ignored the applause," Morticia whispered, her voice trembling with dark ecstasy. "She rejected the embrace of her loving father to seek out the forbidden knowledge of the dead. Oh, Gomez. Her hair may be the color of a sickeningly cheerful sunrise, but her soul... her soul is as black as pitch."
Gomez threw his head back and let out a booming, triumphant laugh. "A scholar of the macabre! A tiny, golden heretic! We must celebrate, Tish! Lurch, prepare the hemlock tea!"
Sunshine gripped the edge of the table, her little legs shaking with exhaustion, but a profound, cynical satisfaction settled in her chest. She had taken her first steps. Not for them, but for herself. And in this beautifully twisted universe, her defiance wasn't punished; it was worshipped.
She offered the grimoire a toothless, vicious little smile. Toddlerhood was going to be exhausting, but for the first time in her existence, she was calling the shots.