The Elizas: A Novel(21)

“They trick you. They pretend they’re your friends, they get all buddy-buddy—darling, you had to have said something. I believe they’re putting you—us—in the ICU as punishment.”

Punishment? For what? Had Dot somehow slipped to them that she’d had a sip of Dorothy’s wine a few days before, when Dorothy had turned her back? Or did she tell them she’d stolen the M&M’s packet off the desk at the nurses’ station? Dot had moved during a recent MRI, too. The tech hadn’t commented, but he also hadn’t said they needed to repeat the procedure. She’d just been so itchy.

“I’m sorry,” Dot whispered, her bottom lip wobbling. “I don’t know why they’d do this.”

Dorothy took off her left shoe, rubbed her ankle, then put it on again. “Just know you can’t trust them. Ever.”

“Can’t we just move to another hospital?”

“It’s not so easy, honey. Not anymore. They called your mother.”

“Surely she doesn’t want me in there all alone!”

Her aunt made a strange coughing sound. “Look, I’m not trying to make her out as the bad guy, but I think she was in on this decision, too.” She set her jaw. “Anyway, I have to go.”

“What?” Dot sat up straight. “You can’t leave!”

“I have an appointment.” She stroked Dot’s arm. “I’ll be back, don’t worry. Just be good, okay? As long as you’re good, it will all work out fine.”

She sauntered out of the room in a heady scent of orange blossoms. Dot couldn’t control her tears; she sobbed uncontrollably for at least ten minutes. She was surprised the crying didn’t propel her into a new seizure. She didn’t know what to make of any of it—had her mother been in on the decision? What if she’d proposed the idea? What if this was some way to get her away from Dorothy? She was jealous, maybe, because clearly Dorothy had taken her place.

But why did Dorothy leave? Why wasn’t she fighting this? She’d fought so hard for everything else.

A few minutes later, Nurse Lisa swept in and pulled out Dot’s IV tubes. Then she ordered her out of bed so she could strip her sheets. She dressed Dot in another gown and took her to X-ray and to draw blood.

“But you already drew blood today,” Dot whined.

“We just want to make some comparisons,” Lisa said cheerfully.

Dot had yet another MRI and CAT scan that day, too. And after all that, with no explanation, they wheeled her into the ICU.

It was deathly quiet in the ward. Dot’s room was tiny and had a strange smell she didn’t recognize. She was old enough to understand that all around her were other children who were very, very sick; probably some of them would die soon. Feeble wails from babies woke her up in the night. Sounds of vomiting. A woman, standing outside her door, crying uncontrollably. What on earth could Dot have done to land her in here? Had she said something disparaging in her sleep? Did the nurses know that she and Dorothy made fun of some of them when it wasn’t their shifts? Maybe the rooms had little microphones hidden in them, like in the movies, and the nurses heard everything. If Dot just apologized, could she go back to the normal ward?

Or was she really this sick?

And then, in the morning, she heard Dr. Osuri’s voice: I said you couldn’t be here! What part of that don’t you understand?

Dot strained to hear whom the doctor was talking to. Had some madman broken into the ICU? She hallucinated axe-wielders, orange storm clouds, pointy-horned ibexes. The drugs she was taking to quell the seizures made her so drowsy, and she dropped back into sleep. Just before she slipped into unconsciousness, she saw her mother standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, a tight, worried look on her face. Dot probably could have struggled to stay awake to say hello to her, but she didn’t want to.

A few hours later, Dr. Osuri came in to check on her, praising her for having no new seizures in the night.

“See, I’m better!” Dot crowed. “So get me out of here!”

Dr. Osuri chuckled. “Soon, I promise.” There was a sad, kind look on his face. Dot was sure this hadn’t been the same doctor who’d been yelling at someone earlier in the day.

Three days in the ICU, no new seizures. Dot played Solitaire on an iPad; a nurse gave her the wireless password and she watched toy reviews on YouTube. Her mother appeared in the doorway, but every time, Dot pretended to be sleeping. Patients around her moaned. An alarm went off in the middle of the night; nurses and doctors hurried into an adjoining room, and there was a flurry of tense instructions and bleeps of machinery. Dot was astonished to fall asleep amid the cacophony. In the morning, when she woke up, she had no idea if the person who’d had the episode so late at night had lived or died. Her brand-new cell phone, which Dorothy had bought for her but which Dot didn’t quite know how to work yet, received text messages, a very new thing.

Are you being good? Dorothy had texted her. Dot answered yes. Not talking to anyone? Dot answered no. Good, and don’t think anything, either, she said. Because they can read your thoughts. Who? Dot always asked. Dorothy never answered.





ELIZA


KIKI LEADS ME into the kitchen. I am silent. My heart is banging. Her brother, Steadman, who’s my other roommate, stands at the island, hip thrust out, an I Heart Zombies coffee cup in hand. He’s glaring at me.