The Support Group

The room was packed, just like it had been every Tuesday night since the group started meeting following the events of eight months ago. Many of the faces were of the regulars who had bonded over the incident – the tragedy – that had befallen them all. No one knew why it happened and certainly could not explain how it happened. But this group knew that they had to reckon with the aftermath, and it would be easier to do it together, so their numbers continued to grow.

Bonnie, a willowy woman always up for a shopping trip and brunch with the gals, opened the meeting with the same words of greeting and an invitation for attendees to share. It was amazing that after hearing one heart-wrenching story after another she still spoke these words with the same warmth and compassion as the first time. Maybe it was all her years in other recovery groups that gave her hope that these meetings would eventually find their own moments to celebrate. With that thought, an almost imperceptible smile played at the corners of her mouth as she watched the late comer slip into the room and take a seat against the wall.

“The events of January 16^th will forever be known as The Sticking, and that is what brings us together each week. We come to share our grief over how that day changed our lives, and we come to learn from one another as we try to live in this new reality. I invite you to share your story.”

The first woman to speak wore a baggy sweater and broomstick skirt that were both horribly out of fashion. The long-braided ponytail with the iconic headpiece instantly absolved the wearer of any fashion faux pas however.

“Hi, my name is Carrie. Yes, yes irony’s a gas,” she rolled her eyes as people stifled giggles, “Well, the good news is that a settlement for my wrongful termination claim was decided this week in my favor. Because, of course, I’m not at fault for being stuck in this slave Leia outfit from The Return of the Jedi. It’s my husband who decided to live out some childhood fantasy on the back of our car. Stupid stick figures – sorry everyone who is – a – literal – stick – figure. So far, I’m still clinging to one bright spot – my husband chose the Han Solo sticker for himself, instead of the Darth Vader, and now I get to live out my childhood fantasy. Oh! Sorry Brenda,” she added ruefully as she looked at Brenda whose husband will forever be a creepy heavy-breather. “Another piece of good news is that I have connected with a designer is creating a line of clothing that works with the Leia outfits instead of just hiding them under these hideous baggy clothes. If it weren’t for winter and 14-year-old boys, I might actually like to show off a little in this outfit.” With an air of triumph and a look of satisfaction, she took her seat.

“Who would like to share next?” Bonnie asked, turning to the rest of the group.

A tentative hand rose from a first Star Wars movie Leia in the crowd, “I-I-I will,” she stammered.

“Come on up and share your story, honey,” Bonnie beckoned like a kindly grandmother.

“Hi, my name is Rachel. This is my first time to share. I really identify with Carrie’s story, and not just because of the Princess Leia thing. I’ve been fighting to be taken seriously again as a lawyer since The Sticking. No one wants to listen to you deliver opening arguments with two Cinnabons stuck to your head. She punctuated her statement with an exaggerated hand gesture to her hairdo. “All the jurors just sit there trying to hide their laughter behind their hands – the prosecutors take potshots at my credentials and say I should go back to the Rebel Alliance – How is that a slam? She was a freaking general AND a princess. I even went so far as to try to shave my head – nope they just came right back. Oh, and these,” she held her arms out to her side to show the wide droopy sleeves that would be her only clothing option for the foreseeable future, “these are hazardous to your health. I almost set myself on fire while cooking dinner.”

“Fortunately,” she continued with a hint of uncertainty in her voice, “this outfit seems to launder and renew itself. Yippee! I’m so glad that whatever voodoo magic made all this happen decided to take care of laundry as part of the deal.” She paused as the madness of it all caught up to her. The worst part is my two boys,” at this she began to choke up, “who are now an Ewok and BB-8. I can’t even communicate with them anymore. I don’t know if their grunts and beeps are ‘I’m hurt’ or ‘I love you.’” With that she burst into sobs, and Bonnie quickly rushed to her side and put a comforting arm around her while inadvertently hitting her with shopping bags and guided her back to her seat.

Without missing a beat, the next to share filled the void. “Hi, my name is Myra,” the share began. However, this sharer would not have the pleasure of anonymity because everyone knew the cautionary tale of Myra Brinebeck, the world-famous undefeated tennis champ turned international tragedy when The Sticking took her arm. No one had given a second thought to car sticker maintenance, or the destruction that time, weather, car washes, and windshield wipers wrought on brittle and ephemeral discount adhesive vinyl until The Sticking and Myra’s story. You could still see the rash of folks who hurriedly worked to scrape off evidence of ever having any kind of sticker on their car, and every town now has some sort of ravine, hillside, or quarry filled with cars pushed over the edge.

“We met with the reconstructive surgeon again this week. His team thinks they have finally determined a way to help my son and will be able to reconstruct . . .Or would it be construct? He had a full face and head before all of this, but they are not reconstructing what was.” Myra was completely transfixed by this terminology riddle for a moment making the entire room hold their breath for a determination while she debated in her head. “Well, whatever it is, they are going to try to fix the part of his face that it is missing.”  The sound of the riddle’s defeat was clear in her voice and hung in the air as she took her seat.

The heaviness in the room didn’t seem to deter the next . . . person. . .from sharing. He pushed a stool behind the podium and easily hopped the two and half feet up. The next three minutes certainly changed the tone of the meeting and the energy of its participants, transitioning towards boredom and confusion as the bright yellow minion babbled on excitedly with the only coherent word being “banana.”

Before Bonnie could even ask who would like to share next, a seemingly happy-go-lucky stick man who looked like he was ready to hit the beach determinedly stomped his way up to the podium.

“I finally did it. I can’t take it anymore and I’ve filed for divorce and custody of the children.” The tone of his voice and clench of his fists were the only means of understanding how he really felt since his face told a completely different story. “Despite all the counselors and interventions, my wife still loves the thought of having a baby again and is totally enthralled,” he drew this word out sarcastically and rolled his eyes, “with the fact that our son will forever be a baby now because we didn’t update the ‘family portrait’,” he punctuated with his hands furiously flying to make air quotes, “on the back of the car. He’s seven! He deserves to be treated with more dignity.” As his rage seemed to subside into sadness, “I just hope that we can settle this thing quickly for the sake of the kids.” He paused as he caught his breath. Despite the smile on his face, the group could feel his anger erupt inside him again as he pointed a finger to the back of the room and shouted, “What are you doing here? You don’t belong here.” He looked around the room accusingly, “Who invited her?”

Bonnie quickly jumped up to defend the newbie that now had everyone’s attention. “I invited her, Ethan. As we have said in this room many times, things are not all as they seem on the outside. Why don’t we let her share for herself?” She extended an open hand of invitation towards the newbie, “Are you ready to share, Emily?”

“Sure,” replied the newbie as she walked forward. As she made her way to the podium, it was obvious to everyone that she was normal and personally unchanged by the Sticking, what they referred to as “a normal,” and so their anger at her intrusion on their sacred gathering grew.

“January 16^th started just like any other day for me, like it did for most of us, but I remember distinctly when everything changed. I was in the break room at the office with several work friends complaining about how long it took the latte machine to warm up, but also how none of us would deign to go back to drinking regular coffee. That was my biggest problem then. It started with a scream from my boss’ office, and I rushed to see what the problem was. She had just come from a meeting across town and caught a glimpse of herself in glass door of her office. With one car ride she had gone from high-powered executive to bouncy stick figure with a perpetual ponytail. Another friend came in late after parent-teacher conferences to find herself transformed into Princess Leia. Then someone told us to turn on the news and another person said that social media was blowing up with reports of people and families all over the place transforming into stick figures and cartoon characters. It sounded like a hoax, and even after it was confirmed it felt like a joke. I remember bursting into laughter at one point; I couldn’t control myself, but as the news and accounts kept piling up my laughter became tears. I wasn’t sure how to console people or what to say to them. I went through the rest of the day in a fog just trying to keep my head down and checking on friends by text and trolling Instagram,” she paused to catch her breath.  

“I thought I had made it through the day unscathed and I started to relax when I pulled up to my apartment complex. Why didn’t someone tell us sooner not to get back into our cars?” she pleaded.

“I went around to the back to get something out of the trunk of my hatchback. I was in such a daze, the sticker on the back of my car didn’t even register until the ground shock,” she said with a nauseous expression.

At that there was a pause, and everyone’s breath caught in their throat as Emily was instantly accepted as one of their own, someone else irrevocably traumatized by the Sticking just as they were.

She continued in a rush to finish before her shame and guilt overwhelmed her again: “I can’t believe how stupid I was. It seemed so innocent and silly when I bought that sticker and put it on my car. It was a joke between me and my neighbors: they put up their stick family when baby Jordan came along and I got my sticker. We had so much fun together, even after the baby came. I’d bring over dinner for them and help with the baby, Steve did my taxes, and they let me use their wi-fi. And, I killed them. My sticker came to life and ate them. Before I could warn them. Before I could scream. Before I could even figure out what was happening. The T-Rex tore into their apartment and ate them. And then they were just gone,” her voice had become almost a whisper.

“I don’t understand this thing. By all accounts, I should have become the T-Rex. Something should have happened to me. Why am I still here?” she asked holding out her perfectly normal arms looking at them in wonder.  

Her voice started to break as she continued, “I – I – tried going to the police, but there’s really no precedent for confessing to a crime like mine or so I was told. I deserve to be punished for this. I killed my neighbors. I killed a baby!” she cried in anguish.

Bonnie and a number of the other group members surrounded Emily in an embrace as she broke down and sobbed.

“We’ve all had to reconcile with putting these stickers on our cars. We’re all working to live with and heal from the guilt and pain. We are in this together,” Bonnie reminded everyone in the room. “One announcement before we end this evening. Since the zombies can’t keep their hands to themselves – Wednesdays have been declared Zombie Support Day here at the Community Center. All groups that day will be for zombies only. Now, let’s end by saying the Serenity Prayer together, everyone.”