Final Girls(17)

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.

“Do you work?” she asks.

“Yes. I’m, uh—”

I’m stalling, which I always do before telling someone my flighty, fanciful job. Especially someone like Sam, who carries an aura of lifelong poverty. It’s evident in the runs in her fishnets, her duct-taped boots, her hard eyes. Desperation hums off of her like radio waves, shivery and intense.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says. “I mean, you don’t even know me.”

“I’m a blogger?” It comes out sounding like a question. Like I have no clue what I am. “I have a website. It’s called Quincy’s Sweets.”

Sam offers a polite half-smile. “Cute name. Is it, like, kittens and shit?”

“Baked goods. Cakes, cookies, muffins. I post pictures and decorating tips. Recipes. Tons of recipes. It’s been featured on the Food Network.”

Jesus. Bragging about the Food Network? Even I want to smack myself. But Sam greets it all with a laid-back nod.

“Cool,” she says.

“It’s kind of cool,” I say, finally wrangling my voice to a lower register. “It can be fun.”

“Why cakes? Why not world hunger or politics or—”

“Kittens and shit?”

This time, Sam’s smile is full and genuine. “Yeah. That.”

“I’ve always liked to bake. It’s one of the few things I’m good at. It relaxes me. Makes me happy. After—” I hesitate again, for a very different reason. “After what happened to me—”

“You mean the Pine Cottage Murders?” Sam says.

At first, I’m surprised she knows the name. Then I realize it’s natural that she would. Just like how I know about The Nightlight Inn.

“Yes,” I say. “After that, when I was living at home, I spent a lot of time baking things for friends and neighbors. Thank you presents, really. People were so generous. A new casserole every night, for weeks.”

“All that food.” Sam lifts her fingers to her teeth, gnawing at the cuticles. The sleeve of her leather jacket slips, revealing dark ink at her wrist. A tattoo, hidden just out of sight. “It must have been a nice neighborhood.”

“It was.”

Sam catches a hangnail in her teeth, tugs it off, spits it out. “Mine wasn’t.”

Silence follows as questions flicker in my mind. Personal ones Sam might not want to answer. How long did the barbed wire keep you against that tree? How did you get loose? What did it feel like plunging that drill bit into Calvin Whitmer’s heart?

Instead, I say, “Should we talk about what happened to Lisa?”

“You make it sound like we’ve got a choice.”

“We don’t have to.”

“She killed herself,” Sam says. “Of course we do.”

“Why do you think she did it?”

“Maybe she couldn’t take it anymore.”

I know what she means. It is the guilt, the nightmares, the lingering grief. Most of all, it is the gnawing, unshakeable sense that maybe my survival wasn’t meant to be. That I’m nothing more than a desperate, wriggling insect destiny forgot to squash.

“Is Lisa’s suicide why you came out of hiding after all this time?”

Sam levels her gaze at me. “What do you think?”

“Yes. Because it rattled you as much as it did me.”

Sam stays silent.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” I say.

“Maybe,” she says.

“And you wanted to finally see me in person. Because you were curious about what I was like.”

“Oh, I already know everything about you,” Sam says.

She leans back onto the sofa, finally allowing herself to get more comfortable. She crosses her legs, the left boot thrown casually over her right knee. Her arms unlock from her sides, spreading like wings across the cushions. I perform a similar unfolding. My arms fall from around my chest as I lean forward in my chair.

“You’d be surprised.”