The Elizas: A Novel(16)

That evening, Dot had another seizure. All she remembered was her head flapping back against the pillow; the next thing she knew, she was strapped down to the bed, some sort of metal bite plate in her mouth. Dorothy stood over her, tears in her eyes. Dot croaked out a note of joy, but her head pounded, and she writhed in pain.

“Honey, we have to get out of this place,” Dorothy said hurriedly.

“W-what?” Dot asked blearily, her tongue thick. “Why?”

“This place is shit, that’s why. I just found an article that this place has been written up for contamination three different times in the last ten years. I bet you it’s contaminated again. I bet you that’s what’s making you sick!” She started throwing Dot’s stuffed animals into her duffel. “Let’s go. I have a car waiting. We’re going to a new place across town.”

“Now?” Dot tried to sit up.

“Yes.” Dorothy extended her arm. “Do you think you can stand?”

Dot pointed to the restraints around her. Dorothy nodded and undid them. Dot stood, but her head throbbed. She thought she might throw up. She didn’t want to leave, she wanted to lie down.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured. “Let’s go in the morning.”

“We can’t wait for the morning.” Dorothy wrapped her arm around Dot’s shoulders. “You can sleep in the car.”

“Are the doctors okay with me going?”

“I signed all the papers to discharge you. It’s our decision, not theirs. And anyway, screw them and their dirty hospital. I’m sorry I ever brought you here.”

By now they were in the hall, which was eerily empty. Dot looked out the window. It was pitch-dark outside. A wall clock in the break room said it was 3:15 a.m. She took another awkward step. The bottoms of her feet felt like pins and needles.

“I wish I could say goodbye to Doctor Koder,” Dot said. “I liked her.”

Dorothy waved her hand. “She’s not getting any answers.”

“Can I call Mom?”

“After we get to the new place,” Dorothy assured her. “After we settle in.”

Around a corner, she caught a glimpse of a swish of fabric and dark hair. Dot did a double take—here was the other Dorothy, standing frozen next to a computer console. The real Dorothy straightened her spine and gripped Dot’s arm. The other Dorothy—the nurse, Stella—stared, unblinking, for a full, long five seconds. Then, raising her chin, she turned away without a word. Dot and Dorothy scrambled down the stairwell quickly, their shoes echoing against the metal risers.

The walls of the new hospital’s children’s ward were painted a sunny yellow. Dot checked into a room and immediately fell asleep. When she awoke, her mother was standing in the hall, arguing with Dorothy.

“You had no right to move her in the middle of the night. The other place was fine.”

“Didn’t you read that article I found?”

“You should have called me about this. Instead, you just did it.”

“I did it because I had to. It was her worst seizure yet. You weren’t there. I was.”

Dot opened one eye. Her mother had turned away. Her eyes had filled with tears. You deserve that, Dot thought.

A new doctor introduced himself a half hour later. He said he would be taking care of Dot’s treatment. Dorothy beamed brightly. Dr. Osuri—young, twitchy, with too many pens stuffed in his pocket—fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Dot,” he said, flipping through the medical file Dorothy had brought from St. Mother Maria’s. “We’ll get to the bottom of what’s happening to you.”

“Isn’t that wonderful?” Dorothy cried, arms clasped at her throat.

What could Dot say but yes?





ELIZA


“YOU’VE GOT TO tell the police,” I say to Desmond. I grab my phone and start to dial 911, then change my mind and look up the number for the Palm Springs PD on Google. “Right now.”

“Okay,” Desmond says, though he sounds uncertain.

I manage to punch in the digits. The phone starts to ring, and I thrust it at him. He holds it outstretched like a writhing snake.

“I’m not really versed in speaking with law enforcement,” he says. “What do you want me to say?”

I snatch it back and listen as a receptionist answers in a peppy voice that I’ve reached Palm Springs PD, and how may she direct my call? “I’m looking for Lance,” I bark.

“Lance . . . who?” the receptionist asks, all bubbles and sunshine.

As if there’s more than one Lance working at Palm Springs PD? But I don’t remember his last name. Had he even told me his last name? “Lance the forensic psychologist. Lance who visits patients in hospitals.”

“Please hold.”

They play Hall & Oates’s “Maneater” while I wait. Who chose that?

“Can you describe the person you saw?” I ask Desmond. “Was it a girl? A guy?”

“I don’t know.” He looks sheepish. “I just remember . . . a dark flash. Obsidian.”

“Why didn’t you tell the cops this when they interviewed you? They did interview you, right?”