Fuck this horror film, Eve thought. Fuck all horror films. The final girl may live, but she’s stripped of so much by the time the credits roll.
The knowledge of Adam’s suicide blared in her head like a too-loud announcement in a department store. That he claimed she was the cause was maddening beyond comprehension. She was not responsible for Adam’s loneliness; similarly, she was not responsible for Frank’s happiness, or Paul’s recovery.
Ja-cob MARLEY, Eve thought in amazement. They weren’t responsible for my success or fulfillment either.
Eve looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost midnight.
“I’m upset to hear that you’ve taken your own life,” Eve said. “But I’m going to shut the door now. I’ll see you with the others momentarily.”
“The others?” Adam’s voice was a pathetic whimper, but he stepped over the threshold and onto the balcony.
Eve flung the slider shut, and pulled the curtain across the glass.
STAVE FIVE
THE END OF IT
On the television, the telephone rang. A moment later, the phone on her nightstand did the same.
“Jesus,” Eve said. “I really wish that would stop happening.”
She considered letting it ring, then wondered how she’d explain three dead ex-boyfriends on her balcony if it was her sister calling to say she and Michael were coming to Eve’s place after all. She sprang for the phone. “Hello?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” Jack’s tone left little doubt as to his lingering anger. “Listen, I can’t talk. I’m just calling to tell you that I’m at Clayton’s, and Greg and Jeff are here. Jeff was telling me about a few friends that are looking for a graphic designer. He said they’re willing to pay upwards of a hundred bucks an hour, so I told him for that kind of money—”
Eve placed the phone down on the bed. I allowed each of them to take so much from me, and did nothing to raise myself up in return. If I marry Jack tomorrow, it will be like throwing myself under the murderous clown’s hacksaw. Like pitching a tent on the banks of Crystal Lake. I’ll only have myself to blame...
Eve peeked around the edge of the curtain. The three spirits had convened. She hurried to the closet, pushed her wedding dress to one side, and felt around until her fingers brushed a coarse swatch of fabric.
Before they’d picked a date for the wedding, Jack had wanted to go out for Halloween as Star Wars characters. Eve had ordered Rey and Finn costumes off the internet; Jack had sneered when they’d arrived.
“The Force Awakens is not Star Wars,” he’d said. “I meant original Star Wars, like Han and Leia Star Wars. You think I’d go as the pussy sidekick to your chick character?”
Eve dressed quickly, pulling the wraparound scarf around her head and chest, and lowering the eye mask. She left the curtain closed and the movie on, stole across the room and down the stairs.
As she crossed the yard beneath a cover of fog, she heard a commotion from above.
“Is that her?” Paul asked. “It’s midnight now.”
“That’s not her,” Frank said. “That woman’s dressed for Halloween.”
As evasive as Rey escaping her assailants on Jakku, Eve slunk down the street. Let the spirits of those from her past wander and want for, as she had. Tomorrow, Jack could wander around the altar looking for her, too.
From now on, I survive the final act on the basis of my own abilities. The only one responsible for my successes or failures is me. That’s a promise.
When Eve had turned the corner, heading in the direction of the downtown bars, Frank took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and said, “Did the ghosts in Dicken’s tale get to revel in the knowledge of their success?”
“I’m not sure,” Paul replied, “but earning propitiation was even sweeter, knowing we did our part to make her happy.”
Adam smirked. “I still think if she’d chosen anyone, it would have been me.”
Frank, Paul, and Adam’s auras flickered, and in the moment before they disappeared, they smiled, for they knew, though she would have no further interactions with Spirits, that as far as honoring her promise to keep Halloween by subverting the very final girl tropes she so despised, Eve would be better than her word.
LIQUID HANDCUFFS
Nicole Price spun into the office like a tornado having amassed substantial debris and flopped onto the threadbare fabric chair the same way she did every week: heavily-mascaraed, sweatpants-clad, and reeking of cigarette smoke. Her long black hair was strung through an elastic band in a gravity-defying poof, and the coiffure surged and crested in the squalls of her third-generation-Italian-induced hand gestures.
“Oh... my... God,” she said by way of starting the session, tarantula-leg lashes batting up and down as her eyes moved over the screen of her cell phone, “I have so much to tell you.”
Condensation dripped from the large iced coffee in her hand, and she paused to drink from it. The Sharpie scribbling on the side of the cup identified the beverage as Xtra lite/ Xtra sweet, and Nicole visibly crunched on a mouthful of sugar.
She placed the still sweating cup on the floor by her feet—Ugg boots, though it was well into June—and focused her attention on the woman sitting across from her for the first time since entering the room.
Olive Holton crossed her legs at the ankles and fingered the pearl necklace dangling above the collar of her silk blouse. She smiled indulgently and raised an eyebrow, indicating she was ready for Nicole to begin.
“Did you know that Dunkin Donuts’ straws are the exact same shade of orange as the syringes from the Rite Aid down the street?” The expression on Nicole’s face suggested she was envisioning the less benign of these items. “When I told my last counselor this, she said I shouldn’t go to Dunks anymore because it could—and I quote—trigger me to use.” She rolled her eyes.
“I was like, what are you, stupid? I go to Dunks every morning before I get my dose, and every afternoon before my shift. Come up with a new coping skill, or relapse prevention plan, or whatever other psycho-babble-bullshit you want, but do not threaten my caffeine fix. She didn’t appreciate that too much, but I mean, what the fuck!” Nicole thrust her hands out in a coinciding what the fuck? gesture. Droplets of water flew from the side of the cup and splattered on the floor.
Olive nodded thoughtfully. “You were still using when you were working with your last counselor. It sounds like she had ample cause with which to make her suggestion, no?” The question was confrontational, but Olive’s tone was kind. Olive had established a strong enough rapport with Nicole to know that her patient would respond agreeably to this tactic.
Nicole pawed at the air as if she were slapping Olive on the back. “You got me there. But that’s why I like you.” She grinned. “You call me on my shit.”
Olive gave a noncommittal wave of her hand; Nicole’s gesticulations were sometimes catching. “I’m not calling you on anything, just looking at things from a different angle. You might be able to fake a drug screen once or twice, but you can’t fake your whole recovery. You’re doing very well now, anyone can see that.”
Olive watched Nicole to register how she would take the praise. She tried to be direct with her patients, to avoid both clichés and academic jargon. To date, she had never told a patient she was going to administer a series of cognitive behavioral therapy questions to uncover automatic thoughts, but sometimes she worried she was too informal with them or laid on the positive reinforcement too thickly.
Olive’s worst fear was that she would engage in some type of behavior a patient could perceive as indicative of the differences between her, the counselor, and them, the patient. The clinic’s treatment module already stipulated the use of the word patient over client, a lesson in semantics Olive was less than thrilled with. She supposed patient was better than addict, and was sure those less sympathetic to the disease of addiction (or those convinced addiction wasn’t even a disease) could come up with worse. It was why she’d framed a print declaring Appeara
nces can be deceiving and hung it on her office wall. In short, Olive did not want unconditional positive regard to come across as condescension.
In Nicole’s case, she needn’t have worried.
“I soooo appreciate you being real with me. It’s crazy how understanding you are of everything: the lifestyle, the cravings, having to abandon old friends, how hard it is sometimes. All the shit that comes with getting clean.” Nicole paused, worrying a large obsidian ring on her middle finger. Even in moments of quiet, the girl’s hands were always moving.
“It’s almost like you’ve been through it.”
Olive shifted in her chair.
Nicole continued, “Everyone says you’re the most understanding counselor here, and I’m glad I got you.”
Olive let her gaze rove, and found a small piece of plastic on the scratched-up surface of her desk. It looked like the bottom corner of a sandwich baggie, but was likely a byproduct of the new package of appointment cards Olive had torn into that morning. Olive stared at it, transfixed by its presence there. She watched as it quivered in the wake of her exhalation.
“You all right?” Nicole asked.
“Hmm? Oh. Yes, of course, I was just thinking. West Street Neighborhood Health Center is the first facility I’ve worked at that had a non-disclosure policy. I agree that it’s odd. I would think the doctors that own this network of clinics would want to reduce stigma and promote good recovery role models for their patients, but I don’t make the rules. I do try my best to be understanding.” She gave Nicole a pointed look. “I do understand.”
Olive steered the session in a new direction. “How’s your mother doing?”
“Eh, the same, more or less. I tried to convince her to hire a cleaning service to go over once a week, you know, to help her out some, since she’s basically living in squalor. She should be using her disability for food and clothes and other essentials, but she spends all her money on drugs, so a cleaning lady would be a step up. Anyone else would have lost their housing by now, but, well, you know the deal. The state won’t evict someone who’s HIV positive, and my mom thinks her diagnosis is an excuse to keep up the self-regulated opioid cocktail in lieu of her Retrovir.”
Olive pursed her lips. Nicole’s mother had been a patient at West Street for several months before she’d been kicked off for non-compliance. “I’m sorry to hear that. That you’ve managed to stabilize on your dose enough to stop using, while still living with your mom, it shows how committed you are to your recovery.”
Nicole shot her a conspiratorial look. “That’s what I couldn’t wait to tell you. I’m not going to have to deal with it anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got my own place! It’s a one-bedroom on Revere Beach, with a parking spot and laundry in unit, and it’s absolutely perfect.”
“That’s great news! How did you find the apartment?”
“You know Jill, that bartender I’ve mentioned before? She’s on during my weekend shifts? Her boyfriend, Andy, has a unit in the same building and is tight with the building manager. Andy talked him into waiving last month’s rent and a security deposit, so all I needed to come up with was the initial grand. He told him I had a solid job and wouldn’t be an issue in terms of paying, and the manager agreed to it. I knew hooking Jill up at tip-out night after night would pay off!”
“Do you have pictures?”
Nicole slid her chair forward to scroll through an album highlighting the apartment’s amenities. The unit was clean and bright, and Revere Beach was right across the street from the complex’s front door.
Many of Olive’s patients lived on or around Revere Beach. Olive hadn’t understood how waterfront property could be so cheap prior to an explanation from her six o’clock patient, Eugene Salvestri: “Revere Beach? You mean Needle Beach?”
Nicole scooted her chair back and beamed at Olive. “I told you. It’s perfect, right?”
“It really is. The fact that you have guaranteed parking is key. I know you hated searching for street parking when you got out of work late, especially when you had to pick up Eddie from whatever chaos he was engaged in. Speaking of Eddie, how’s he taking all of this?” Olive struggled to keep her tone neutral.
Eddie Vance. The most abrasive, manipulative patient on the clinic and Nicole’s long-time boyfriend up until two weeks ago, the chip on Eddie’s shoulder was as large as the fuse on his temper was short. Eddie had probably been good-looking once, but years of hard living and harder drugging had given his features a pinched look that somehow grew more severe when he smiled. Fortunately, this brand of facial expression was a rarity.
Nicole sighed and threw up her hands. “You know him. I’m not giving in this time. I thought there was a chance I was getting the apartment when I broke up with him a few weeks ago and purposely said nothing. Not only am I not speaking to him, I’m not even telling him I moved. He’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten one of his derelict friends to drive him to my mom’s looking for me already.”
Nicole wrung her hands. Her words were confident but it was obvious that severing her ties to Eddie had been rough. During a session two weeks ago, when she’d divulged to Olive that she’d ended things with Eddie, Nicole had teared up despite her best efforts to keep her carefully-coated lashes intact.
“How do you think he’ll react when he finds out you have your own place?”
Nicole gave her a wide-eyed look of horror. “Um, terribly. He’s going to go into full manipulation mode, try to talk me into taking him back. You know how often he stayed with me at my mom’s; it was like five or six nights a week. Maybe more. It’ll kill him to know I finally have my own place and he can’t reap the benefits.”
“You don’t think he’d do anything dangerous, do you?” Olive asked.
Eddie had been spoken to by staff several times, warning him to keep his distance from the other patients and reminding him of the clinic’s no-tolerance policy for threatening behavior. Eddie had taken to whistling at Nicole when he passed her in line for his dose, and sneering at Olive when she came into the lobby to collect her patients for session. He was convinced that Olive was responsible for Nicole breaking up with him and blamed her for the subsequent drying up of his transportation, living situation, and singular money source.
Nicole frowned while she fiddled with her hair. “Eddie talks a lot of shit but that’s all it is. He showed up at Giacomo’s two nights ago demanding to see me, and Bobby had to kick him out. He told Eddie not to show his face in the North End again or he’d beat his ass.”
“I don’t think showing up at your place of employment constitutes mere talk,” Olive said. “Can you have someone walk with you to your car at the end of your shift?”
“Bobby has one of the bussers or dishwashers walk the girls out every night. I’m not worried. Eddie’s way too much of a pussy to stand up to Bobby; after Bobby told him to kick rocks, Eddie slunk away with his tail between his legs. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be surprised if Eddie does something to salvage his wounded pride. But it’ll be petty and childish, like egging Bobby’s car or prank calling the restaurant.”
“Where were you when Bobby was kicking him out?”
“Jill saw him from the bar upstairs and warned me he was on his way in. I hid in the kitchen.” She picked up her coffee but didn’t take a sip.
Instead, she gave Olive a hard look. “I’m done with Eddie Vance. It was less difficult to put down heroin than it was to get rid of him. I had no idea how much he was keeping me stuck in the insanity until we were done. I feel like I dumped the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla on my back. It’s fucking fabulous.”
“It’s too bad that rather than joining you in recovery, he’s content to continue using and ultimately, to lose you,” Olive said. “Do you think there’s any chance this will be a wakeup call for Eddie? That he’ll use it as a catalyst for change?”
“Eddie has been kicked off of every other methadon
e clinic in the city prior to West Street. He won’t ever stop using. Eddie loves the lifestyle too much.”
Olive knew she should refrain from discussing the details of another patient’s treatment; it was always a tightrope walk when working with someone who had a family member or significant other on the clinic in terms of confidentiality issues, but Olive’s next statement was a blatant violation of HIPPA.
“The Medical Director and nurses are aware that Eddie uses methadone not as it was intended, but as a substitute when he can’t get his hands on heroin and wants to keep from getting sick. His drug screens make no secret of that.”
If this admission by Olive surprised Nicole, she didn’t show it. “I’m afraid things are going to get worse,” Nicole said. “I heard through the clinic grapevine that Eddie’s got a new connection. Some dealer that sold to three people in as many weeks, all who overdosed, one fatal. People are saying this guy’s got fire on his hands, that the guys that handle it before him have been sprinkling a little fentanyl fairy dust into the supply.” Nicole shuddered; Olive wasn’t sure if it was in hypothetical anticipation or revulsion.
Olive typed out a quick note before turning back to Nicole. “Not to sound callous, but that’s Eddie’s problem. Or at the very least, Eddie’s counselor’s problem. My concern is you.”
Nicole smiled and nodded, but she was twirling the obsidian ring on her finger in continuous, rapid circles.
“Seriously, Nicole,” Olive caught her patient’s eye, “you were unhappy with the situation you were in, so you took the necessary steps to change it. Nothing is more intimidating than change, and not only did you break one bad habit, you put down arguably the most addictive drug on the planet. Now that you’re clean, my guess is that you’ll be pretty much unstoppable. Speaking of which, did you start at Yard House yet?”
In addition to working at one of the most popular Italian restaurants in the North End, Nicole had recently been hired at one of the busiest bars near Fenway Park.
Something Borrowed, Something Blood-Soaked Page 6