Page 18 of Final Girls

We stare at each other a moment, each of us assessing the damage to the other. I get the feeling Sam has also read up on me, because she eyes my stomach first, then my shoulder. I, meanwhile, sneak a glance at her leg, trying to remember if there was a noticeable limp when she crossed the street.

Thoughts of Lisa slide into my head.We’re a rare breed, she once told me.We need to stick together.

Now that she’s gone, no one else can understand what we’ve been through. Sam and I are the only ones. And while I still don’t fully comprehend why she’s come out of hiding simply to see me, I find myself giving a reluctant nod.

“And so we have,” I say, my voice still dulled by surprise. “Would you like to come up?”

•••

We sit in the living room, not drinking the coffee I’ve set out in front of us. I’ve since changed out of my running clothes into blue jeans, red flats, and a turquoise blouse. A splash of color to counteract all of Sam’s black.

I perch on a straight-backed chair upholstered in purple velvet.Stiff and punishing, it’s more for show than for sitting. Sam is on the antique sofa, looking equally as uncomfortable. She sits with her knees together, arms tight at her sides, trying to make small talk, which clearly isn’t her forte. The words come out in short, intense bursts. Each one is like a cherry bomb that’s been quickly tossed.

“Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“Looks big.”

“It’s not bad. We only have the two bedrooms.”

I cringe as I say it.Only.As if I’m somehow deprived. Judging from the bulging knapsack Sam brought with her, I’m not sure she hasaroom.

“Nice.”

Sam shifts on the sofa. I get the sense she’s trying hard to resist kicking off her boots and spreading herself across it. She looks as uncomfortable as I feel.

“Not that this place is small,” I say, the words spilling out in a desperate attempt not to sound like I’m spoiled. “I understand how lucky I am. And the spare room is nice to have when Jeff’s family comes to visit. Jeff. That’s my boyfriend. His parents are in Delaware and his brother, sister-in-law, and two nephews live in Maryland. They like to visit a lot. It’s fun having kids around sometimes.”

I love Jeff’s family, all of them as catalogue-perfect as Jeff himself. They all know about Pine Cottage. Jeff told them as soon as it was clear things between us were getting serious. Those solid, middle-class Protestants didn’t bat an eye. His mother even sent me a fruit basket with a handwritten note saying she hoped it would brighten my day.

“What about your family?” Sam says.

“What about them?”

“Do they visit a lot?”

I think about my mother’s one and only visit. She invited herself, using the excuse that she was going through a rough patch with Fred and just wanted to get away for a weekend. Jeff saw it as a good sign. Naïvely, I did too. I thought my mother would be impressed with thenew life I had created. Instead, she spent the entire weekend criticizing everything from the clothes I wore to how much wine I drank at dinner. By the time she left, we were barely speaking.

“No,” I tell Sam. “They don’t. What about yours?”

“Same.”

I once saw Mrs. Boyd in an interview on20/20shortly after the world realized Sam was missing. She was a scrubby thing, with red blotches on her skin and two inches of dark roots seeping into her bleached hair. During the interview, she came across as jarringly unsentimental about her daughter. The hard set of her jaw made her voice mealy and unkind. She looked tired and rubbed raw. Even though Sam has that same weary air about her, I can see why she wanted to escape such a woman. Mrs. Boyd resembled a house roughed up by too many storms.

My mother is the opposite. Sheila Carpenter refuses to let anyone see the wear and tear. When I was in the hospital after Pine Cottage, she showed up each morning in full makeup, not a hair out of place. Sure, her only child had barely escaped a madman who slaughtered all her friends, but that was no excuse to appear unkempt. If Sam’s mother is a fixer-upper, mine is a suburban McMansion rotting on the inside.

“Last I heard, you sort of vanished,” I say.

“Kind of,” Sam says.

“Where were you all those years?”

“Here and there. You know, just laying low.”

I find myself sitting with my arms locked across my chest, hands buried in my armpits. I pry them out and fold them primly on my lap. Within seconds, though, my arms have assumed their original position. My whole body thirsts for a Xanax.

Sam doesn’t notice. She’s too busy tucking her hair behind her ears to give the apartment another vaguely critical once-over. I’ve decorated the place with an emphasis on shabby chic. Everything is mismatched, from the blue walls to the flea-market lamps to the white shag carpeting I purchased ironically but ended up loving. It is, I realize, the apartment of someone trying to disguise how much money they really have, and I can’t tell if Sam is impressed or annoyed by that.

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