The Elizas: A Novel(17)
“Well, sure, they came when the ambulance came, and they asked me what happened. But this is when I presumed you’d fallen in. I didn’t know to be on the lookout for a criminal. And they didn’t ask if I’d seen anything.”
I curl my hand into a fist. Of course the cops didn’t ask him. They’d probably already made up their minds I was drunk and suicidal.
“You have to tell them what you saw,” I urge again. I realize how I sound. I picture Desmond later tonight, having absinthe with Paul, his comic-con buddy who’d been with him poolside, talking about his crazy run-in with the paranoid almost-drowned girl. But I’m also so relieved. There was a teeny, tiny part of me that did wonder if my family was right—maybe I had jumped into that pool, just like all the other times. Maybe I was having a psychological break. Or maybe my tumor was back. Maybe I was sick again. But no: I had an assailant. So there. I practically want to sing it from the rooftops. I’m right.
A voice breaks through “Maneater.” “Hello, you’ve reached the Palm Springs PD tip line. If you have information about a crime, please leave your tip at the beep.”
My heart sinks. Then again, I suppose what I have is a tip—it’s better than nothing. After the beep, I say what I have to say, then hang up.
“Well, hopefully they’ll call. And then I’ll conference you in, if you’re available. Or at least I’ll give them your number.”
“Of course,” Desmond says. “I’ll give you my address. I’m happy to help. Very happy.”
And then he looks at me. I stand to go, but he remains seated. His eyes soften. There’s an expectant smile on his face, like he’s waiting for the real party to start. Then something hits me. It’s possible that I did something, poolside, when I woke up on the deck. I have a bad habit of having sex with strangers, despite how ridiculous I find them.
I can almost picture it. Desmond pulled me out of the pool, revived me, and I took off all my clothes in gratitude. I grabbed his crotch. Maybe we actually had sex there on the concrete before the EMTs came. And instead of being like every other guy and disappearing the moment the deed is done, Desmond actually has a conscience and has come over to see if I’m damaged and vulnerable. Or maybe he wants to have sex again. I weigh my options. He’s a weird stranger who gets assassinated for fun, but he believes in me. And to be honest, his interest in me is flattering. I guess I don’t have very high standards.
I take a breath and move closer to him. All at once, his greenhouse scent is appealing, and my nipples go hard. The moment my lips actually make contact with his cheek, he shoots away.
“Um,” he says, fiddling with his vest. “Hello, nurse.”
I fumble, too, jumping back so fast my calf slams against the table.
“I, um,” Desmond is making a lot of noise with his keys. “I have a . . .” He checks his watch. “Work to do. A lot of vendors to visit. So, um . . .”
“Yep, lemme walk you out.”
We get to the screen door at the same time and both reach for the handle, resulting in an awkward dance of him letting me go first, then me letting him go first, then both of us trying to stuff through the space together. We pass through my shiny kitchen, and I’m never so grateful for the pretty room in my life—it gives me credibility, sanity, even though if Desmond peeked in the pantry he’d notice an unhealthy amount of Kraft macaroni & cheese, which I eat by the truckload, even though I’m not supposed to.
We stop at the door, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. Finally I just stick out my palm for him to shake.
“Thanks for coming by! Thanks for saving me!” Because what else do you say?
The door shuts. I spin around and survey my quiet house. My living room is filled with odd antique trunks and armoires I purchased from an antiques dealer in Santa Cruz. The pale pink couch has a mysterious stain on it that might be blood—it was like that when I bought it. In the corner is a dusty RCA Theremin from the 1920s. I’ve meant to take lessons, but I’ve never gotten around to it.
All of a sudden, the hair on the back of my neck stands. Someone is watching me. I sense a flicker in the corner of my eye and whip around, certain I’m going to discover a presence there. The curtains flutter as if someone has just jumped through the open window. Or maybe it’s just the breeze.
“Hello?” I call out shakily.
No answer.
What if this isn’t over? What if whoever tried to hurt me is still out there, hoping to hurt me again?
I rake my fingers down my face. My fingernails knead harder and harder until I know I’m close to drawing blood. But it isn’t satisfying enough, so I twist a lock of hair around my fingers and pull hard. The pain is sharp, eye-numbing. I stifle a yelp. And then I run upstairs as fast as I can, eager for a closed door, eager for darkness, eager to get away from whatever this is.
? ? ?
My bedroom is long like a bowling lane and almost as thin. On the walls are animal skulls and posters of Wednesday Addams, who was my childhood idol. On my bureau are vitamin bottles, vitamin powders, a healing stone given to me by a shaman I visited in the desert, an iPod loaded with meditation tapes that I try to use but that don’t really work, and the energy drawings I did with an art therapist that revealed my soul was a dark, twisted knot. I’m trying my hardest to prevent the tumor from invading my body again. But sometimes, I think the preventative shit is worse than the illness.