big hug before she left, willing whatever reserve of strength I had to her. I don’t know how she does it.
The Rainbow was comfortingly unremarkable. From the brown-tiled floor to the mauve leather seats to the potted plants in the corners, from the smell of weak coffee and pancakes to the middle-aged waitress with magenta lip liner and a tendency to call everyone “Hon,” it was exactly the sort of place I used to go after concerts, or when my friends and I were too young to go to bars. Even though I didn’t feel like eating, I scanned the menu. All the familiar items were there: breakfast skillets, pancakes, turkey club sandwiches, French dips, grilled cheese, patty melts. I found that strangely reassuring.
We talked gaily about shoes and handbags, but the conversation kept falling flat. Our eyes were all bloodshot, and the corners didn’t crinkle when we laughed.
“Maybe we should talk about it,” I said.
“About what?” Tish asked.
“About the elephant in the room. Lisa.”
“She will come back and haunt you for calling her fat,” Sasha said, even though her full lips only half-smiled. We all shared a laugh, which felt good and a little disloyal.
“Seriously,” I said. “Should we talk about it?”
There’s a big difference between being a friend and being a therapist. You can’t be objective about your friends, so you can’t really decide when they need to be pushed or challenged. You also can’t just listen without thinking about what you need out of the relationship. However, I can still tell when people need to talk, and the girls needed to talk.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” burst Ronnie.
“I can’t sleep,” Frenchie said. “I have such bad nightmares…”
“I do too,” Pip assured her quietly.
“I think I had a panic attack in the car last night,” Sasha said, wrapping her arms around her broad shoulders. “I just couldn’t breathe.”
“I’ve been on a martini and Snickers ice cream bender every night,” Tish confessed, idly stirring her coffee. None of her glittery red lipstick had transferred to the cup. I wondered how. “I watch tearjerker films and cry until I can sleep.”
“I wish I knew when I was going to cry,” Trixie said. “I have these crying fits. They come out of nowhere and I can’t stop. I’ve had to take the week off work.”
“No one I know has ever died before,” Frenchie said. “I was feeling like… I don’t know, like I’m nuts.” She paused. “You guys, I’m scared to go back to the theater.”
“Me, too,” Pip said.
Several other girls chimed or looked agreement. I still hadn’t spoken. My mind was churning away.
Bereavement, acute stress, PTSD doesn’t matter we don’t diagnose our friends wish I could fix it Tish’s perfect lipstick Ronnie’s bloodshot brown eyes I am here for you what was Kevin doing there is he for real Lisa’s sister so sad—
“We can’t let him take that away from us,” Tish said. “He already took Lisa. Is he going to take our show too?”
That startled me out of my reverie. I stared.
“But what if he comes back?” Trixie said.
“And how can we even walk into the dressing room?” Frenchie asked.
“It’s normal,” I said slowly, feeling the words out as I said them, “to feel a sense of trauma about the place. But if you look at the Darling Killer’s history, he’s never gone back to the same location twice.”
Hotel alley boat home theater.
“It’s creepy,” Pip shuddered. “I read the articles – it looks totally random. Like it’d be one thing if he preferred brunettes; I could dye my hair blonde and at least feel a little better. But it’s random.”
“It can’t be random,” I said. “All killers have a type. There’s something he notices, and it’s a big deal to him, even if we can’t see it.”
“How do you guard against something when you don’t know what it is?” Sasha asked, then shuddered.
“No one goes anywhere alone,” Tish announced.
The Rainbow was comfortingly unremarkable. From the brown-tiled floor to the mauve leather seats to the potted plants in the corners, from the smell of weak coffee and pancakes to the middle-aged waitress with magenta lip liner and a tendency to call everyone “Hon,” it was exactly the sort of place I used to go after concerts, or when my friends and I were too young to go to bars. Even though I didn’t feel like eating, I scanned the menu. All the familiar items were there: breakfast skillets, pancakes, turkey club sandwiches, French dips, grilled cheese, patty melts. I found that strangely reassuring.
We talked gaily about shoes and handbags, but the conversation kept falling flat. Our eyes were all bloodshot, and the corners didn’t crinkle when we laughed.
“Maybe we should talk about it,” I said.
“About what?” Tish asked.
“About the elephant in the room. Lisa.”
“She will come back and haunt you for calling her fat,” Sasha said, even though her full lips only half-smiled. We all shared a laugh, which felt good and a little disloyal.
“Seriously,” I said. “Should we talk about it?”
There’s a big difference between being a friend and being a therapist. You can’t be objective about your friends, so you can’t really decide when they need to be pushed or challenged. You also can’t just listen without thinking about what you need out of the relationship. However, I can still tell when people need to talk, and the girls needed to talk.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” burst Ronnie.
“I can’t sleep,” Frenchie said. “I have such bad nightmares…”
“I do too,” Pip assured her quietly.
“I think I had a panic attack in the car last night,” Sasha said, wrapping her arms around her broad shoulders. “I just couldn’t breathe.”
“I’ve been on a martini and Snickers ice cream bender every night,” Tish confessed, idly stirring her coffee. None of her glittery red lipstick had transferred to the cup. I wondered how. “I watch tearjerker films and cry until I can sleep.”
“I wish I knew when I was going to cry,” Trixie said. “I have these crying fits. They come out of nowhere and I can’t stop. I’ve had to take the week off work.”
“No one I know has ever died before,” Frenchie said. “I was feeling like… I don’t know, like I’m nuts.” She paused. “You guys, I’m scared to go back to the theater.”
“Me, too,” Pip said.
Several other girls chimed or looked agreement. I still hadn’t spoken. My mind was churning away.
Bereavement, acute stress, PTSD doesn’t matter we don’t diagnose our friends wish I could fix it Tish’s perfect lipstick Ronnie’s bloodshot brown eyes I am here for you what was Kevin doing there is he for real Lisa’s sister so sad—
“We can’t let him take that away from us,” Tish said. “He already took Lisa. Is he going to take our show too?”
That startled me out of my reverie. I stared.
“But what if he comes back?” Trixie said.
“And how can we even walk into the dressing room?” Frenchie asked.
“It’s normal,” I said slowly, feeling the words out as I said them, “to feel a sense of trauma about the place. But if you look at the Darling Killer’s history, he’s never gone back to the same location twice.”
Hotel alley boat home theater.
“It’s creepy,” Pip shuddered. “I read the articles – it looks totally random. Like it’d be one thing if he preferred brunettes; I could dye my hair blonde and at least feel a little better. But it’s random.”
“It can’t be random,” I said. “All killers have a type. There’s something he notices, and it’s a big deal to him, even if we can’t see it.”
“How do you guard against something when you don’t know what it is?” Sasha asked, then shuddered.
“No one goes anywhere alone,” Tish announced.
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