The Elizas: A Novel(101)
From The Dots
Two weeks after her aunt passed away, Dot went to the airport and did that thing she assumed people only did in movies: picked an international flight off the Departures board, slapped down her Amex at the ticket counter, and got a seat. She wasn’t sure why she chose Dublin except for the fact that people spoke English there and she had no Irish ancestors. She didn’t want to go to a place where anyone looked like her.
Rain pissed on the plane’s windows when they landed. A stewardess came through one last time practically giving away duty-free cigarettes and booze. Dot contemplated a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream, but didn’t buy it. The idea of alcohol sickened her now. She hadn’t had a drop since her aunt’s funeral.
Off the plane, the airport was small, humble: an airport that might be seen in a fairy tale or a children’s book. Its shops sold questionable sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and the smallest bottles of Coke Dot had ever seen. She waited for a bus that was an hour and a half late. When it finally came, Dot and the other tourists—Italians, some Scandinavian varietals, a plump couple from Texas—lumbered aboard. The radio loudly played a pop song she’d never heard of. The rain dripped steadily, and though she was safely inside a vehicle, she still felt damp.
At the hotel, the concierge slipped her a list of things to do and tour, but Dot didn’t feel like actually seeing the city—she just wanted to be away and alone. She lay in bed and watched TV, much of it American reality shows and Australian soaps. On CNN, there was a report of another school shooting. Out the window: buses, more rain, men with identical pasty, doughy faces quickly hurrying down the sidewalks. In the afternoon, after a snooze, she took a walk around Temple Bar. She stamped through puddles on Grafton Street and listened to a busker playing Beatles songs on a piccolo. Then, in a used bookstore window, she saw a copy of The Bell Jar. It had the same cover as the book Dorothy had given her the day she died.
Well, it seemed Dot couldn’t get away from Dorothy, after all.
She sank down onto a bench, the water on the seat soaking through her jeans. What had happened blazed inside her, and her perspective on the crime flip-flopped a few times a minute. Had it been an accident, or had she meant to do it? Was she a liar, or was she a fool? Was her aunt poisoning her, or had it been a colossal mistake? Were her boyfriend and mother demonizing an outlier because they felt threatened and jealous by her, or did they have true cause for concern? Was Dot going to heaven for what she’d done, or was she going to hell? On second thought, Dot didn’t believe in heaven. Hell, though, was another story. Hell wasn’t a myth. Hell was inevitable.
Was Dorothy in hell now? Dot had to think she was.
Two days later, she took a flight to London and stayed at a hotel in Pimlico. But in a newsstand: an article about Dorothy’s death (Troubled Recluse Dead on Highway). The Los Angeles cover was unearthed. A woman next to Dot at the newsstand was reading the same article, and Dot, afraid of being spotted, pulled her hood over her head and darted away.
Another picture of Dorothy at a rest stop in Brussels. A news spot on television in Amsterdam. Dot made a bunker for herself in a hash bar, eating spiked brownies and smoking spliffs until she couldn’t stand. The door swept open, and a black-haired figure stepped in: Dorothy? A short woman with protruding teeth took a seat at a high stool and perused the menu. Dot’s eyes dropped closed. Wherever she went, there was Dorothy.
Staggering home that night, she noticed an Amsterdam police officer on horseback giving her a strange look. She shot up straight, suddenly sober. Could he know? Was she an international criminal? He gave her a nod, asked her something in Dutch. Dot shook her head and moved on, but once she got back to her room, she curled into a ball and felt her heartbeat thudding against her knees. The police had never asked her questions about Dorothy’s death, but maybe they should. Maybe her family protecting her wasn’t fair. Maybe her promise to her mother to keep quiet wasn’t right. A life had still been taken, after all, and Dot had important information to put the pieces together. Even if she had done it in self-defense, Dorothy’s death wasn’t a suicide. But it wasn’t as if turning herself in would preserve her aunt’s reputation. Turning herself in would destroy it. All those people who were pitying Dorothy now for falling into traffic would understand what a monster she was.
The spooky gleam from the red lights in the prostitute’s windows across the street continued to burn. The women behind the glass pivoted and posed all night, it seemed, disappearing only to take a client. Dot rolled over on the stiff mattress. Maybe the world needed to know what a monster Dorothy was.
But she knew what telling might mean. She steeled herself for this decision, wondering if she could handle it. She’d already endured so much. And yet, just imagining getting the secret off her chest gave her a surprising sense of relief. People would know everything, bad and good, about Dorothy and about her. There would be no secrets anymore. No questions. If Dot had to suffer a little while—or maybe a long while—because of it, maybe that would be okay.
She packed up her suitcase, leaving behind a few knickknacks she’d picked up during the trip. The bag bumped against her shin as she walked into the slick, wet night.
Over a canal bridge, and then another. A late trolley wobbled down the tracks. Drunk kids hooted, coming home from a bar. The police officer on horseback was in the same spot Dot had left him. When she touched his calf, he flinched—he’d been looking the other way. He looked down, and his face blossomed with recognition when he saw her. “Benyeh oak?” he said in Dutch. At least that’s what it sounded like.