Christi and I have firmly rejected the idea that Lexie is dead.
We texted each other all through the season finale of Grey’s Anatomy on Thursday night with pithy comments about the stupidity of that many overeducated people sitting around a crashed airplane with five matches making four tiny fires that eventually all went out, leaving Mere with one match, which went pfft! when she struck it and died, just like Lexie did.
No. Lexie did not die. We rejected that.
“These people are lost in the woods. Hello! There must be lots of stuff to burn there and they could have made a bonfire the size of Gun Barrel City with those five matches,” my daughter said. “But they burn a couple of twigs and now they are stuck on the side of a mountain the whole offseason freezing and bleeding and not even Dr. Webber knows where they are.”
Another TV drama has left us hanging for months, wondering what is going to happen to our friends who are in dire danger and probably won’t make it but we are pretty sure they will because they recently signed two-year contracts according to their Web boards.
So why do they do it to us? Why do those half-witted writers run us up to the last outing of the season and then dangle us over a precipice that way? Do they think we will leave our TV on Channel 8 for months on the off chance that someone will rescue them right in the middle of another wrenching episode of The Bachelorette?
Sunday wasn’t just the season finale of Desperate Housewives. It was the final finale. They too have seen an amazing number of deaths on the show, a large number of them done in by the beautiful and talented housewives themselves. So it was a nice touch when Susan made a final round of the neighborhood watched by the ghosts of many who gave their lives in the name of ratings.
There was ruggedly handsome Mike Delfino, smiling at his wife and son. And Susan’s first husband, what’s-his-name, who was run over by an airplane, and Mary Alice, of course, who started the whole thing by shooting herself in the head. There were dozens of spirits who had bought it on Wisteria Lane, and they all watched Susan take a victory lap before setting off to wherever TV divas go after their series die.
I looked hard but didn’t see Edie, who had so tragically been electrocuted off the show. She’s still suing the producers for that, and they hate her so much they wouldn’t even let her ghost be a cameo guest.
Everyone said that one of the cast members would die in the Grey’s season finale, but nobody seemed to know which one. It happens most years. You remember George, who was one of my personal favorites, who was run over by a bus and became such a personal mess that even his best friends didn’t recognize him in the ER. Then he went up in the elevator to that great casting call in the sky.
I went over all the possibilities Thursday, and I was sort of rooting for it to be Teddy. After all, she didn’t seem to care after her husband died anyway and it is my belief that anybody that thin and blond does not have the right to use up the air all us thicker people need to keep us in oxygen. But Teddy just went off to rejoin her old career as an Army doctor.
It was meant to be touching I’m sure. There was Lexie, crushed and bloody but still beautiful under the tail of the airplane. And there was Mark on his knees declaring his undying love for her even as she expired, right on cue with her contract.
“NOooooooooooooooo…..” came my daughter’s text as the scene faded to commercial.
Then my phone rang. “I reject the idea that she is dead,” I sputtered into the receiver without even looking at Caller ID.
“She is not dead,” my daughter answered. “She has just gone to the Bahamas.”
“Right,” I said. “The Bahamas. That’s it. We’ll go visit her there.”
On Friday morning I was juggling the usual number of crime reports, news releases and nasty comments under my latest story on the Web when I got another message.
“When can we go to the Bahamas and visit Lexie?” my daughter texted.
“Soon,” I said, thinking of this blank spot in the Sunday paper with no idea of how to fill it and me with only one tiny paper match left to light a bonfire. Pftt.
DONNA FIELDER can be reached at 940-566-6885. Her e-mail address is firstname.lastname@example.org .