The Elizas: A Novel(27)

“When will Dorothy come back?” Dot asked her mother.

Dot’s mother industriously packed her things into a new plaid suitcase. “You’re going to love our new house. Almost all the renovations are done.”

“Has Dorothy seen it?”

“And your room! It’s very big, Dot. And it has a window seat. You’ve always wanted one.”

“Is Dorothy out of town?”

Finally her mother looked at her squarely. “I have no idea,” she admitted offhandedly, as though the question were a little absurd. As though Dot had just asked the whereabouts of a certain squirrel they saw at the park, or whatever happened to that ladybug who frequented their upstairs bathroom.

“Do you know why she left?”

One shoulder rose. “She’s like this, Dot. She’s always been like this. She comes and goes. You can’t rely on her.” Something in her face shifted, and her throat bobbed. And then: “Your room’s a little oblong and unconventional, but I think you can make it work.”

Despair and anger rattled through Dot. Clearly her mother was still jealous of Dot and Dorothy’s special bond. What if her mother hadn’t told Dorothy their new address? What if she was never able to find them? What was wrong with her mother? Then she realized: she had a cell phone; she could text Dorothy the address herself. Take that.

Buoyed once more, she asked, “Can I pick the color for my walls?”

Her mother paused from packing. “What were you thinking?”

“Black.” Dot grinned nastily.

Her mother zipped up the suitcase efficiently and then grinned right back. “Perhaps yellow would be more cheerful. I was thinking yellow and gray.”

Nurse Lisa, on the prowl by Dot’s door, beamed. “Yellow and gray is a lovely combination.” She went to hug Dot goodbye, but Dot ducked away from her arms. Could Lisa also have had something to do with Dorothy’s leaving?

They’re jealous bitches, Dot thought, remembering what Dorothy had said about the nurses. Even if it was just in her head, swearing made her feel embarrassed and ashamed. But it also made her feel kind of better, too.





ELIZA


MY AGENT, LAURA, calls the next morning while I’m still in bed. I should be up, of course, doing sun salutations or jogging or greeting the day with a barbaric, disease-free yawp, but instead I’m under a thick mink blanket, drooling.

“You sure came up with a creative way to drum up attention for this book,” Laura crows after her assistant patches me through.

“Huh?” I sit up creakily and look at the clock. It’s 6:14 a.m.

“This stunt in the pool! The press is amazing—it was picked up off that little Palm Springs website, and now it’s gone viral. The Dots is on the map! There have been three articles about you on publishing blogs. Even more people are clamoring for an advance copy than before, and your pre-order sales got a bump. Good going, girl!”

I start to say something, but she talks over me. “There are even rumors that you think someone’s trying to kill you.” She lets out a short little ha of breath. “You really are like Dot from the book. It’s a performance piece, really. Life imitating art. Keep it up!”

I’ve never met my agent because she lives in New York and I have a fear of flying, but I have concocted a mental picture of her that I envision every time we talk. I see her as a tall, stalk-like, tornado of a woman with sleek, perfectly highlighted hair and a large, square diamond ring on her right hand. I bet she has wide, frantic eyes that rarely blink. I bet she’s one of those people who makes constant eye contact. I bet she screams at her assistants but they are still devoted to her, like tortured but pampered little lapdogs.

I still can’t believe she even likes my book. A week after I’d mailed the first draft to Laura, she’d called me in hysterics. “This is great! Chilling!”

“Wait, really?” It seemed so unfathomable. I was proud of the book, but also embarrassed by it. Maybe the story was silly. Maybe it was the most ridiculous thing ever written. I’m not a very good judge of good fiction versus bad, considering all I’ve read my whole life was epic poetry and trashy horror. I wondered if every so-called writer went through such a roller coaster of ambivalence or if it was just me.

Now, I wriggle my feet out from under the covers and gasp. I have forgotten that I painted my toenails black last night, in a post-sex-with-Andrew sloppy drunken flurry, and for a moment I think I have gangrene.

“I didn’t try to kill myself,” I tell Laura. “We need to issue some kind of statement.”

“It’s not like anyone believes what they read on the Internet,” Laura scoffs. “The point is you’re officially interesting. I’ve gotten a few requests for interviews. Your publisher wants to send out more galleys to bigger reviewers. Do you have anyone you’d like me to send it to?”

“Just don’t send it to my family!” I say haltingly, almost in a shout. I swallow hard, embarrassed by my flurry of emotion.

“I didn’t mean family,” Laura says. “Unless they work for Entertainment Weekly or People. Do you know anyone from there? Do you know any BookTubers? Any Bookstagrammers?”

“I don’t even know what those words mean,” I admit.

“Oh. Okay. No matter! Oh, but also? I haven’t given out your phone number yet, but don’t be surprised if reporters figure it out and start calling you.”