The Elizas: A Novel(26)

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Not really.”

There may be a little more talk than this, maybe even a gin and tonic or two, probably more glares from Brian. But what matters is that after not very much time, Andrew grabs my hand with urgency, and there we are in that horrid bathroom with its crumbling grout and the shit-stained toilet and the foul-smelling urinal cake, my body pressed up against the wall, his fingers rushing to unzip, me feverishly pulling the grungy hospital T-shirt over my head. I shut my eyes and sink into this as best I can. There is acid in my throat. I may vomit soon. But for a few seconds, I can forget everything about who I am and be some girl I don’t know, some waste, a putrid, repulsive Liza a man wants to ravage. That’s all I am worth, deep down. I don’t know why this sort of depravity feels necessary, but it does. Maybe it’s another trick of my amygdala.

It’s over fast. Andrew hands me a cigarette; he’s always got a pack. He smokes one, too. We blow the smoke out the bathroom window into the alleyway. A limp hank of hair falls across Andrew’s forehead.

I tap his arm. “Is that a studio pass around your neck?”

He flicks the ashes from his cigarette into the toilet; the water fizzles. “Maybe.”

“You working on a writing team?”

“Maybe.”

When we first met, he admitted that he hoped to work on a TV drama, maybe a police procedural. This was when we’d had a normal, flirty bar conversation, before he understood I was easy and desperate and didn’t need verbal foreplay to strip naked. But I didn’t play the game entirely—I told him nothing about myself. But now, I kind of want to tell him something. I just don’t know what.

I think of it as he’s zipping up. “I was almost killed two nights ago.”

He looks at me, really looks at me, and raises an eyebrow. Then he snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s true!” An additional thought appears in my mind with astonishing force. And I could kill you, too. I almost gasp out loud, shocked my mind coughed that up.

He licks his finger and uses it to stub out the cigarette. It makes a dangerous sizzle, and he drops it in the toilet. Another sideways glance, and then he finally buttons his pants. “We’ve all got our stories, Liza. We’ve all got our stories.”





From The Dots


After Dot was banished to the ICU, Dorothy’s schedule got very busy. She wrote Dot cards that the nurses passed through that explained she was in “meetings.” Maybe Riders of Carrowae was finally getting published. Maybe she’d met a man—husband number three. Dot had gotten over the Los Angeles magazine thing, mostly because it had had the reverse effect of what she’d feared. Recently, the doctors had decided to allow her fifteen minutes of visiting time a day, and seven kids from school had come to see her. They’d brought candy, DVDs, and paperback books she hadn’t read yet. A pale girl named Matilda who Dot had always admired sat at the side of her bed and marveled at the needle marks on Dot’s arms.

Two days later, another card from Dorothy came; she was going on a three-month trip for research. Dot was horrified. She called Dorothy’s cell phone.

“How can you leave me in here?” Dot cried.

“I know, I know,” Dorothy said. “But you’re strong. You can handle this. And I’ve let work go for a very long time, dear. An agent is finally interested, and they’ve given me a deadline. I’ve got to get back to it.”

“But I thought the book was done,” Dot said.

“That’s the thing,” Dorothy said. “People aren’t into barbarian novels right now. My agent wants me to restructure it and make it about the Holy Grail. So it’s essential, you see, that I go to southern France. This new direction won’t work unless I see the region firsthand.”

Dot seemed to sense a distance in her, like her aunt was angry at something Dot had done. Did she think Dot had said something to the nurses to banish her to the ICU? But what was it Dot shouldn’t have said?

She was feeling better, though. Clearer, with no new seizures. The next day, friends from school stopped in again, and Dot was able to have a whole conversation with them without feeling dizzy and nauseated. Then her mother appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of work scrubs. Dot didn’t have time to pretend she was sleeping. Her mother’s face broke when she saw Dot awake. She made a big deal out of placing her car keys in a pocket of her purse. When she looked up again, there were tears in her eyes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Dot said coldly.

Her mother settled on her bed. “I took the day off.” She inspected her carefully, sort of hesitantly. “I’m really sorry, Dot.”

“Sorry about what?” Dot asked.

Dot’s mother’s eyes filled. “Everything.”

Then she pulled a box out of her purse. Inside was a music box with a spinning ballerina on the top. When she turned the crank, the box played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

“Ballerinas?” Dot said, making a face.

Her mother’s smile twitched. “I know it’s not your thing. I just thought . . .” She made the ballerina spin again. They watched her dance in silence.

Not long after, the fog that had hung in Dot’s head was completely gone. The doctors announced that her blood work numbers were perfect, and there was no more suspicious brain swelling. They even did a trial day without seizure medication, and even then the seizures didn’t return. Dot’s mother, her soon-to-be stepfather, and her stepsister met with the doctors, and though it was a happy meeting, Dot couldn’t stop thinking that there was something wrong with the family picture. It was supposed to be Dorothy in here with her, finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.