The Elizas: A Novel(108)

The lady smiles. “Now wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe she could get me a new pair of panty hose. Now I’ve got a run.”

“So you didn’t see where she went?”

The woman just smiles at me daftly. I scurry over to the spot where Stella was standing. It’s wiped clean. Was she ever even here?

Whirling around, I head back into the hall, desperate to see Stella’s—or Aunt Eleanor’s—bobbing black head. I press my hand to the wall to steady myself.

“Eliza?” Posey has appeared at my side. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“I just needed the bathroom,” I say shakily. “I’m fine.”

And I try to be fine. I stand at the microphone again. I apologize for my little break. I try to make a joke about it—a little too much water at dinner! A nervous bladder! I thank everyone for coming, open the book to the page I’ve marked, and start to read. I know the pages so well, I don’t have to concentrate very carefully to get through the reading, so my mind is left to race.

I get to the end of the passage, indicating I’m finished by closing the book shut and giving a nod. The group applauds. I smile. Posey reappears and announces that signing will begin and everyone should form a line. I step off the stage. I’m furious at myself. Furious I’d rushed back into the ballroom so quickly. And where could Stella have gone? What does this all mean?

I take one more look into the crowd, wondering, for a brief spell, if she’s maybe just out there, watching benignly, no longer interested in doing harm. It could be the old Aunt Eleanor of my mind, the one who enjoyed me so much, the one who only wanted to love me unconditionally. I know this isn’t feasible. That’s not who Eleanor is. But still, when I see a black head close to the door, my heart lifts, and part of me wants to leap from the table and run to her, arms outstretched, and tell her how sorry I am, and how all I want is for things to go back to the way they used to be, the way I used to believe them to be.

Her eyes meet mine. Her head arches up then, revealing thick cords in her neck. She gives me a thin, mysterious smile that could be interpreted as conspiratorial . . . or mischievous.

My throat is dry and raw. I look to my mother, but she isn’t studying the crowd—she’s looking at me with alarm. There must be something telling in my expression, something that gives away that the ghost has wormed her way back into me, that I’m possessed again, that I’ve seen her. Her face pales perhaps to the shade of mine. She widens her eyes in disappointment and heartbreak, because it’s so clear what I think I know, and it’s even more abundantly clear that I’m still not to be believed.

“No, you don’t understand,” I start. “It’s . . .” But then I trail off.

Drop it, a voice in my head tells me. Finally I have real answers, and here I go turning them on their heads. A woman notable only because she looked like someone else has just unburdened herself to me—that’s all this is. I’ve hunted down the truth because it has haunted me and because I have something of a disease, but I’ve also romanticized the truth, too. Romanticized Eleanor. How could I not?

I think of all the stories she told me about her life, stories I desperately wanted to be real. All her adventures. All her dalliances. She might have been mad and damaged and eccentric and psychotic, but she had a magical imagination, and I suppose that’s something I should treasure. Only someone like Eleanor could make me believe in the impossible. Only someone like Eleanor could shape-shift, cajole, wrangle, manipulate, poison, and come back from the dead.

But Stella had said it best—she hadn’t. That was just the myth she wanted me to believe, not what was real.

I stand on my tiptoes, meeting Stella’s gaze again. She gives me another short nod as if to say, Yes. Good choice. And then, turning on her heel as elegantly as Eleanor used to, she heads for the doorway and disappears.

I let her go, knowing I’ll probably never see her again. From now on, she’ll only be marvelous, effervescent fiction.