The Elizas: A Novel(20)

She grabbed the magazine and stuffed it into the trash can, though not before checking out her picture one last time.

“I look awful.”

“Oh, darling. The article brings awareness to your case. Everyone will see now how sick you are. I’m thinking of starting a foundation for donations. That article is all about you!”

Lisa cleared her throat. Dorothy glanced at her and set her mouth in a line.

“The article hardly mentioned me except to say I was dying,” Dot said. It was difficult to even say the word out loud. “It said my tumor was cancerous and inoperable. I thought my tumor was gone. And no one told me I have cancer!”

“You don’t,” Lisa answered loudly.

“It says that?” Dorothy glanced at the trash can. Dot was afraid she was going to fish the magazine out, but instead she folded her hands in her lap and remained seated. “Honestly, darling, sometimes reporters—well, they exaggerate things. Look—it doesn’t matter. People probably won’t read the article. They’ll just look at the picture and the headline. That’s what’s important.”

“They’ll still see the picture of me, then.”

“You don’t look so bad.”

Dot wasn’t in the mood for lies. “Has Mom seen this?”

Her aunt’s head shot up. Her skin seemed to visibly gray. “You know, I was doing this as a favor to you. I was just trying to make sure you didn’t end up like Thomas—I’m certain there was something wrong with his brain, but no doctor would listen. It’s articles like this that get doctors to sit up and notice. But I’ll leave you alone, since that’s what you crave.” She walked out and shut the door, hard.

Dot stared at the door, shocked. Across the room, Lisa sighed.

Dot’s gaze fell numbly to the tiles on the floor. They were a faded avocado-green color and covered in scuff marks. She pushed the beaded bracelet Dorothy had given her when she first got sick around her wrist. It had a bunch of skeleton charms on it. Charm bracelets were out of favor this year at her school, but she didn’t want to take it off. That would hurt her aunt’s feelings.

Lisa glided over and touched her shoulder. “Hey there, hon. Want me to stay for a little bit? We could play Uno.”

Dot shook her head yes, then felt the ever-present tug. “Maybe bring my aunt back in, if she’s still here.”

Lisa’s face fell. “Are you sure?”

“See if she’s out there. Please?”

It took two more pleases, but Lisa did as Dot asked. Dorothy walked in with a sour look on her face.

“You must hate me,” Dot blurted.

“You’re lucky the elevator was taking a long time,” Dorothy said at the same time.

They looked up at each other. Dorothy bent down and pressed her chest to Dot’s. “Why, I could never hate you, darling,” she said, looking into Dot’s eyes, as honest as she’d ever been. “I’m your biggest fan.”

A few days after the Los Angeles incident, Dorothy came into Dot’s room excitedly. Dot looked at her through a curtain of exhaustion. She’d been having so many seizures lately. They pounded her hard, huge waves rolling onto a rocky shore. Her brain actually felt tired from so much quaking. Sometimes, in quiet moments, she thought death might be kind of nice. Not nearly as chaotic, anyway.

“The doctors are having a meeting about your condition,” Dorothy crowed. “Apparently, you’re a bit of a medical mystery. And guess what? They’re letting me sit in on it! Isn’t that wonderful?”

Dot blinked at her. She lingered on the medical mystery part.

Dorothy preened about the room. “Thank God they finally respect me. Now we’ll be sure they aren’t lying to us. I’ll get the real dirt.”

“You think the doctors are lying?” Dot asked. Dorothy didn’t answer.

Dorothy wore a silk caftan and Chanel pumps for the meeting. She hired a makeup artist to do her face. “Wish me luck,” she said before she went into the conference room. The meeting was at ten a.m.; the clock crawled to eleven, and then twelve, and still no Dorothy. At 12:30, Dorothy finally returned. She’d eaten off all her lipstick, and she was muttering.

“What happened?” Dot asked, turning off Days of Our Lives.

“The doctors are wrong,” Dorothy said. “It’s asinine. Irresponsible.”

Dot felt a pull in her chest. “What did they say?”

Had the tumor returned? Would she have to endure radiation again, that hot line turning her insides to liquid, reducing her to molten piles of stones? It was bizarre—despite all the seizures, her MRIs kept coming back clean. But maybe the scans weren’t catching everything.

“They’re going to transfer you. They want you in the ICU, without visitors. They’re saying it’s so they can rule out anything environmental that might be causing your seizures. But I think that’s bullshit. I think it’s a conspiracy.”

“They’re putting me in a room without visitors?”

“I’m filing a complaint, don’t you worry, but I’m not sure it’s up to me anymore.” Dorothy’s gaze shot to Dot. Her pupils were hard, black pins. “What have you been saying about me?”

Dot grabbed a handful of sheets. “Nothing.”