The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix
THE FINAL GIRL SUPPORT GROUP II
A cotton ball sheep says, Jesus Loves Ewe!
A trio of very skinny ghosts rising from the grave proclaim, Ghosts are scary . . . but not the Holy Ghost!
He is Risen!shouts a multicolored tangle of Magic Marker scribbles.
That one gives me pause. All of us in group have a complicated relationship with the idea of resurrection.
We should be sitting in a circle, but the five of us sit in a ragged C because none of us will ever put her back to a door again. Dani has her arms crossed, legs spread, sitting cowboy stoic in front of a wall of orange-and-black construction paper jack-o’-lanterns and hissing cats. She’s the last person on earth who needs a reminder that Halloween is coming.
Marilyn has her legs crossed, Starbucks in one hand, new purse in her lap because she won’t let it touch the floor. She told Julia it cost $1,135, but I don’t believe her. You can’t charge that much for a faux purse, and Marilyn would never let leather touch her skin.
“It’s hard for me to focus if I haven’t eaten,” Heather is saying in her never-ending, I-haven’t-slept-since-1988 monologue, leaning forward, hands flapping around. “Because of my low blood sugar.”
Apparently, today’s argument will be about snacks.
Julia sits in her wheelchair, clearly bored, drumming her fingers on her wheels, wearing an ironic World’s Greatest Dad T-shirt, staring at a large, wrinkled drawing of a flying man with his arms held straight out at his sides that reads, “Jeshus is sad dead alive.”
I used to think it was weird that we met surrounded by Sunday school art, but now it’s become the first thing I look at every month after checking my sightlines and my exits. Not because the artistic self-expression of a bunch of potential murder victims interests me in the slightest. I’m looking for warning signs: pictures of exploding guns and bloody knives, boys drawing themselves as neckless monsters with triangle fangs tearing their parents in half. I’m looking for signs that one of these kids will grow up to be my enemy, to be another one of the monsters that tried to kill us all.
“If you ate before group,” Dr. Carol suggests, “maybe that would help?”
Dr. Carol, the only one in the room who can bring herself to put her back to the door, sits in the mouth of the C, like she has for the past sixteen years, posture perfect, pen poised, notepad resting on one knee, treating Heather’s snack obsession with the same care and concern she applies to everything we say.
“That’s off my schedule,” Heather says. “As a recovering addict, maintaining a schedule is important to my sobriety and I have to leave the home early because, you know, the cops took my license and I haven’t gotten it back yet, so it takes me longer to get here because I think it’s important not to be late. Adrienne doesn’t have that same level of consideration, apparently.”
“I’m sure Adrienne has a good reason for why she’s running behind,” Dr. Carol says.
“I’ll be surprised if Adrienne shows up at all,” Julia says. Clearly she saw CNN, too. “Has anyone talked to her? I tried to call but it went to voicemail.”
“I imagine she’s turned her phone off,” Marilyn says, then makes a face like she smells shit. “The press.”
Marilyn refused to do any press conferences or give anyone an exclusive after her crisis, arousing the wrath of every reporter in America, and then she married into a mega-rich politically active Republican family, so she’s gotten it the worst over the years, but we all know the feeling. The phone that never stops ringing until you finally pull it out of the wall; the reporter you’ve never seen who calls you by your first name and pretends to have gone to high school with you so convincingly you start to believe them; a distant cousin showing up at the hospital, all full of concern, with a tape recorder spinning inside her bag next to a check from the National Enquirer.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate to discuss Adrienne’s situation with anyone but Adrienne,” Dr. Carol says. “I’m sure we’ll talk about it when she gets here. In the meantime: How do people feel about Heather’s concerns?”
There’s an awkward moment as we all wait to see if anyone’s going to take the bait, but no one does. We’re final girls. We’re good at escaping traps.
“I’m just saying,” Heather says, filling the awkward silence. “I have certain needs, and since I don’t have the advantages all of you do, then I would really like us to have some coffee, some cookies, something, because this big bare room is depressing.”
She’s really not going to let this go, but that doesn’t surprise me. We’re the women who kept fighting back no matter how much it hurt, who jumped out that third-story window, who dragged ourselves up onto that roof when our bodies were screaming for us to roll over and die. Once we start something, it’s hard for us to stop.
“I don’t mind what Heather brings,” Marilyn says, her bracelets dancing as she waves her Starbucks cup with its dark red lipstick print on the lid. “Bring a pizza. But can we please change the topic?”
“That’s interesting,” Dr. Carol says, although she’s the only one who thinks so. “Does anyone else feel the way Marilyn does?”
When you’ve been in a room with the same six people for sixteen years, you know what they’re going to do before it happens. Like a chemical reaction, if certain conditions are met, certain outcomes will take place. Right on cue, here comes Julia.
“I think people eating and drinking in group is a form of deflection,” Julia says, because she can’t pass up a chance to argue with Marilyn. “Marilyn’s Chai Soy Big Gulp is a prop that shows us she’s distancing herself from group.”
“I declare,” Marilyn fake-marvels in her flat Texas accent. “How do you come up with these things?”
“Two sessions ago you complained we were trapped in the past,” Julia says.
Marilyn looks at each of us.
“Well, does anyone think this is as necessary as it used to be?” she asks. “The way we snipe and peck, I feel like we could all use a vacation. Isn’t the point of therapy that one day you don’t need it anymore?”
I feel my lungs cramp and I count breaths—seven in, seven out, keep it slow, keep it steady. She doesn’t mean that. Group is the center for all of us, even Dr. Carol. Her self-help empire is built on the work she did with us back in the nineties, but the reason we’re in this church basement and not one of her swank, camera-ready clinics is that this is our shared secret, our one safe place free from the stalkers and the superfans, the reporters and the profile writers. How can Marilyn talk so casually about giving it up?
“Some of us can’t afford a vacation,” Julia slings back. “Not everyone married for money.”
“Bless your heart,” Marilyn says. “Isn’t that exactly what your ex did?”
That’s low, even for Marilyn. Julia was still learning how to live with her wheelchair when she married her physiotherapist. I understand the urge all too well. Someone comes along saying they’ll save you and you throw yourself into their arms and let them make all the decisions. You can only hope that by the time you come to your senses they haven’t done too much damage. In Julia’s case, by the time she woke up he’d sold her franchise rights, cleaned out her bank accounts, and left her with nothing.
“Is this how group’s going to be today?” Julia appeals to us. “Slinging insults? Picking at old wounds? There’s no reason we should act this petty. We’re powerful, strong women. Dani’s resourceful and self-sufficient, Marilyn’s got more money than all of us put together, Adrienne’s practically a Nobel Peace Prize candidate . . .”
“What award are you accepting, Meryl Streep?” Heather asks. “Because I am going to suffer a serious relapse if you start reciting your bio again.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything about myself,” Julia says, wounded.
“You were building to it,” Heather says.
“Think what you want,” Julia says, crossing her arms, leaning back in her wheelchair.
Heather throws herself forward so her chest is on her knees, one hand raised like she’s swearing on a Bible.
“I will pay you twenty dollars if you can look me in the eye and swear that you were not about to start listing your degrees.”
“This is what I’m talking about,” Julia says, appealing to Dr. Carol. “Instead of using our energy productively, we undermine each other. Group has gotten hijacked by personal conflict. It’s counterproductive.”
“Twenty dollars,” Heather repeats.
“You don’t have twenty dollars to bet,” Julia replies.
“I’ll borrow it from Marilyn,” Heather says.
“ ‘Borrow’ isn’t the word I’d use for what you do,” Marilyn says.
“Don’t you dismiss me!” Heather explodes. “I’ve handled crap you can’t even dream about! I’ve dealt with some higher-level astral bullshit that would make you drop a log in your satin panties.”
“Cool it,” Julia says to Heather.
“I don’t need you, of all people, defending me,” Marilyn tells Julia.
“Yeah, Julia,” Heather says.
“You watch your step,” Marilyn tells Heather.
“Okay, let’s step back and assess,” Dr. Carol interrupts. I wonder if she prescribes herself something to take the edge off these sessions. At least no one’s talking about snacks anymore. “Did anyone else notice how quickly the conversation between Marilyn and Heather about snacks turned personal? Does anyone have any thoughts about why that happened?”
If Adrienne were here we’d actually be getting along. When she’s in the room, we all feel like we have to live up to our reputations.
“It was a joke,” Heather mumbles.
“Stop being dramatic and buy yourself a Starbucks before you come,” Marilyn says. “Caffeine is an appetite suppressant.”
“Some of us can’t afford rich-people coffee,” Heather says. “AA always has free coffee and cookies. Why don’t you buy me a Starbucks card? You owe me, anyway.”
“Ladies—” Dr. Carol begins.
“What, exactly, do I owe you?” Marilyn asks.
“You screwed me on that All-Stars of Horror deal,” Heather says. “I had everything set up and you came in and wrecked it. How’m I ever going to pay you back if you keep screwing up my business deals?”
“Who’re you kidding?” Marilyn asks, rolling her eyes. “We both know you’re never going to pay me back.”
Heather goes ballistic, and I tune her out. We all do. We’ve heard every single one of her monologues before. How dare Marilyn slight her honor? How can she possibly suggest that the solemn word of a junkie who has smoked, snorted, and shot up every chemical on the planet is not legally binding? How dare Marilyn imply that Heather’s word is not the verbal equivalent of an ironclad contract drawn up by a team of lawyers?
Heather’s always on the hustle. She doesn’t bother me and Julia because she knows we don’t have any money, and she’s given up on Dani because there is no way to make Dani do anything Dani doesn’t want to do, but she’s constantly coming at Adrienne and Marilyn with projects, licensing deals, collaborations, appearance opportunities. The bottom-feeders of this world long ago learned that Heather is our weakest link.
“I know that money is a stressor for several of you,” Dr. Carol says. “Can you help me drill down on this, Marilyn? Or what about you, Lynnette?”
“Um,” I say, caught off guard. “Adrienne’s twenty-six minutes late.”
“How is that making you feel?” Dr. Carol asks.
“Anxious?” I try.
“Look,” Julia says. “Why are we talking about money? Marilyn thinks group doesn’t serve a purpose anymore, and when we spend half the session deflecting over snacks I can’t disagree. What’s wrong with us? When did we get so petty?”
“I just want,” Heather says, taking a deep breath, “someone to bring coffee and cookies. Period.”
Dr. Carol is preparing to address the Great Snack Crisis of 2010 when Dani interrupts. She’s usually cowboy-silent, so whenever she talks we listen.
“I have something to say,” Dani says. “Then you can go back to snacks.”
“Or not,” Julia says.
“This is my last session,” Dani says. “I’m terminating.”
There’s a long, horrible pause.
Dani is one of the original final girls, along with Adrienne and Marilyn. Losing her would change the group, and the group hasn’t changed in forever. We did Clinton’s impeachment and 9/11 together. We were here for each other after Columbine and Virginia Tech. When gay marriage got legalized in Massachusetts we all chipped in and bought a nice little Beretta Nano for Dani, and even had it engraved with her and Michelle’s names. When they rebooted Marilyn’s franchise and she went into hiding, she still flew into L.A. once a month to come to group.
But over the last couple of years Dr. Carol has started ending a few minutes early, Marilyn has started having less patience for people, Julia has become pushier about her politics, and I get the feeling that if it wasn’t for Heather some of us would have terminated a long time ago. But there’s always been an unspoken agreement that we have to keep coming, no matter what, because this is the only consistent, dependable thing in Heather’s life.
Surprisingly, it’s not Heather who takes it the hardest.
“I knew it was a sign when Adrienne was late,” I say, and then I cover my face to get some kind of privacy because I can’t go to the bathroom alone.
“Oh my God,” Heather says. “She’s totally crying.”
“I’m just surprised,” I say, wiping my shirtsleeve across my eyes. “These are tears of surprise.”
“I’m sorry,” Dani says softly to me.
I shrug, but I want to scream. I want to scream, You’ve ruined it! You’ve ruined everything for everybody! Marilyn’s phone starts buzzing deep inside her purse. We used to have a strict “phones off” policy, but that’s another thing we’ve let slide over the last few years.
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s fine. Let’s change the subject.”
Marilyn’s phone keeps buzzing and I want to yell, Answer your phone! Just answer it because if you don’t you’ll be wondering who called for the rest of group! If you’re going to leave it on, you might as well answer it!
“You look like you have something to share?” Dr. Carol says to me.
“No,” I say. “I don’t have anything to share. I just . . . I just don’t think Dani understands the consequences of what she’s doing.”
“It’s a two-hour drive each way,” Dani says.
A digital xylophone plays and I shoot Julia a look and hold it until she silences her phone. Am I the only one who pays attention to the no-phones rule anymore?
“What do you think the consequences are?” Dr. Carol asks.
How can they not see it? Julia sits in her wheelchair with her grad student politics, her hipster bangs, and her ironic T-shirts, right next to Marilyn, who looks like a big, brunette, camera-ready Texas housewife on some reality show. Heather is all stick limbs, knobby elbows, scabby knees, barely held together with the clothes she’s scrounged out of a donation bin, and Dani looks like Bruce Springsteen if he were a woman. None of us belong in the same room together.
“It’s pretty obvious,” I say. “I don’t think I need to spell it out. I mean, it’s pretty clear to me. Dani’s going to leave, and eventually Adrienne’s going to stop showing up. Marilyn and Julia hate each other, and one of them will stop next, and that’ll be all the excuse Heather needs to go back on drugs. Then who’s left? Me? If one of us leaves we’ll all fall apart. Maybe not in one session, or two sessions, or even three, but eventually this will just be a big empty room full of folding chairs and wall art. I mean, that’s pretty clear. It’s no big deal, it’s not like it’s a problem, I mean, I get that everything ends, and we all have to move on, and sixteen years is a long time, but I just feel like someone should spell it out. Someone should explain to Dani exactly what it is she’s doing.”
Marilyn’s phone buzzes again, an irritating punctuation mark at the end of my big speech.
“I need to be around Michelle right now,” Dani says. “I came to tell you in person out of respect.”
I think about staying home the first Thursday of next month. I think about my life shrinking to the size of my block, to the size of my apartment, to the size of my four rooms. I think about never seeing another human being who really knows me ever again.
“But after Michelle dies you’re going to be alone,” I say, knowing it’s the wrong thing to say. “You’ll need us then. You’ll come crawling back.”
“Okay,” Dani says, standing up. “I’m done here. You all know my email address.”
“Please stay,” Dr. Carol says. “There’s still half an hour. Can you at least tell us what led to your decision?”
Dani sighs and runs her hand through her gray buzz cut.
“When I turned fifty I started thinking that I’m closer to the end than I am to the beginning. I don’t want to dwell on my past anymore. I want to move on.”
“And you don’t feel like group is helping you move on?” Dr. Carol asks.
“This isn’t just about the past,” I burst out.
“Talk-back,” Dr. Carol warns.
I ignore her.
“What about us?” I ask. “We’re about the present, too. We’re friends, aren’t we? We’re all part of each other’s lives. This is about all of us. It’s about . . . about friendship.”
Dani looks around the circle, pausing at each of us, and Marilyn’s phone starts buzzing, buzzing, buzzing like it’s laughing at me, and I can tell Marilyn isn’t even focused on what’s happening, she’s just thinking about her goddamn phone. Then Julia’s hand jerks as her phone starts vibrating, too.
“All I see,” Dani says, “is a bunch of women I barely know who are obsessed with what happened to them in high school.”
“Who you barely know?” I ask. I can’t even believe she said that. “We’ve known each other for years.”
“What do we know?” Dani asks. “You won’t even tell us your home address. When’s the last time any of you asked me about Michelle? I’m tired of pretending this is something it’s not.”
“What about Heather?” I shout, and my voice bounces off the walls. Dani studies me, then turns to Heather.
“Heather?” she asks. “What about you?”
“I don’t know what that fruitcake is yapping about,” Heather says.
“She’s going to relapse,” I say. “You know this is why we all keep coming. Don’t you know how much she needs this in her life? Don’t you get that this is the one thing she can depend on? If you’re not going to stay for yourself, stay for Heather.”
Dani looks embarrassed. Marilyn plays with her purse. Heather pinches the skin on the inside of her wrists in a classic Heather pose, and none of them are looking at me except Julia, and she looks confused.
“I thought we all kept coming for you?” Julia finally says.
It’s a joke, it’s another one of Julia’s stupid jokes.
“For me?” I laugh, but it’s a strangled seal bark. “We don’t come here for me. Why would I need this? I don’t need this. I’m fine.”
No one’s saying anything, not even Heather, as if I’m the embarrassing one, and Marilyn’s cell phone starts buzzing again, and then Julia’s, and someone has to say something, so I turn to them and say what I’ve been dying to say for the last five minutes.
“Will you please answer your fucking phones?”
“I think we all need to take a pause and regroup,” Dr. Carol says. “What do you say, Lynnette?”
“I don’t need a break,” I say. “Dani’s the one who needs a break. This is how she pushes people away.”
“I push people away?” Dani asks.
“What do you call this?” I say. “You live in the middle of nowhere. Your nearest neighbor is ten miles down the road. You’re leaving group.”
“I’m married,” Dani says. “Are you?”
Julia tries to get involved because Julia likes to think she’s the most reasonable person in the room.
“You guys are talking past each other,” she says. “Dr. Carol’s right, let’s take a break.”
“Oh, stick it up your ass, Rollerderby,” I say, turning on her. “We only let you into group because we all felt sorry for you.”
Julia wants to say something, but Heather smells blood and climbs in the ring.
“Why don’t you take your own advice, Rain Man?” she says to me. “You’re not even a real final girl.”
I realize this has gone too far. I open my mouth to try to put everything back together when Marilyn stops me. When Marilyn stops everybody.
“My word,” she says, so slowly and softly that we all turn to stare at her staring at her phone. We all know in our hearts something bad is coming.
“Adrienne’s dead,” Marilyn says.
ACTH dumps into my bloodstream and activates my adrenal gland, my veins constrict like a net being pulled tight, my hands and feet go cold, my pupils pop wide and the room brightens, and my muscles tense, making the hair on my forearms stand up.
The monster got her. The monster finally got Adrienne. Any one of us could be next.