The Elizas: A Novel(29)

“Gabby . . .” I clear my throat, realizing that perhaps this is an opportunity. “I really, really didn’t try to commit suicide that other night. You believe me, right?”

“Um . . .”

I hear her breathe in to say something—probably that she doesn’t—and I cut her off. I can’t bear another announcement of mistrust in my mental stability. “But also, how did you guys know I was in the hospital?”

“. . . What?” Gabby’s voice sounds far away.

“Well, when I woke up, you were there. All of you. How did that happen, exactly? Did a doctor call you? Someone from the hotel?”

Gabby coughs. More typing. “They found your driver’s license in your purse. And somehow that connected you to Mom. You should ask her—she’s the one who got the call. But then she called me, and we rode to Palm Springs together.”

“So you got there the morning I woke up? Or the night before?”

“That morning. When we got there, you were still sleeping. The doctor filled us in on what happened, officially.”

Officially. I roll my jaw. Her story seems believable. I’m not sure what I’m trying to catch her in, exactly. I just feel like there’s a big hole in my brain when it comes to that night. Something major I’m not remembering.

“Why did you take the blame for the vodka the first time we met?” I blurt out.

“. . . Huh?”

Across the street, a toddler throws herself down on the ground and starts to wail. Her mother crosses her arms over her chest and stares up at the cloudless sky.

“You should have said I got it out,” I say. “You should have made my mother smell my big glass of vodka. Why didn’t you? I’m sorry about that, by the way. I was a huge asshole.”

There’s a strange noise at the back of Gabby’s throat. “I don’t remember a big glass of vodka, Eliza. Are you sure it happened?”

“It happened. I wrote about it in the journal I kept at the time.”

“Well, you were always good at telling stories.”

Clearly this is some sort of ruse. Gabby has to remember. “And why did you never get angry when I took that cashmere sweater Bill got you for Christmas and wore it to that party and got beer all over it? Why didn’t you ever tell me to stop putting weird shit in your bed? Why didn’t you say what really happened when I scared you in that coffin?”

“Where is this coming from? Why does this matter?”

The toddler has now stood up and is clinging to her mother’s leg. I watch as they hobble along together toward the crosswalk. “I just thought of it,” I say weakly. “I just want to know.”

“You sound strange,” Gabby says. “Should I call Mom?”

“Jesus. I’m fine.”

I hang up, fuming. I stare into the soap-store window. All the sales associates are wearing angel wings and body glitter and walk in mincing little steps. I will never go into that store, I decide. No matter how great the soap is.

How could Gabby not remember that vodka incident? It’s so significant. I can still picture every detail: the fury on my mother’s face, the thrill I felt at how easily I could manipulate Gabby, and the hitch in her voice, too, when she said, Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this. And then how, once Gabby took the blame for the vodka, it was all put away so quickly, as if it was best left unexplored.

Could I have made something like that up? But if I had, what was the real thing that happened instead? Had Gabby and I met and played Uno on the couch? Watched the Disney Channel? Traded Pokémon cards? That wasn’t me. That was never me. The only other option, then, is that she’s lying—she does remember, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. But why wouldn’t she want to talk about it? Especially considering I apologized.

It occurs to me I never found out why Gabby called. Not that I’m calling her back now.

Ruby Slipper Café, the restaurant where I am to meet Posey, is bare bones and unpretentious for Beverly Hills, a dark little place with crowded, wobbly tables and loud Brazilian music playing. As I step inside, every table is full. I look around. I’ve only met Posey on a blurry Skype screen, which means a large percentage of people in this place could potentially be her. I stand at the back of the line for food, every so often getting jostled by other customers.

Every time someone bumps me, my whole body ripples with discomfort. The buzz of voices, the smell of coffee, the low bass line of music . . . I feel too exposed. Unsafe. Too many people are staring. Just as I’m thinking this, a man at the far end of the room glances up at me and holds my gaze. He’s wearing tinted glasses and has a long, thin nose and a squared chin. A Yankees cap is squashed on top of his head, tamping down frizzy, graying hair. I stiffen. A long time ago, before I was afraid of airplanes, I was in New York City with my mother and a man in a raincoat snickered at us from a nook between buildings, opened his coat, and flashed his penis and wrinkled testicles. I’ve never forgotten his face.

That’s it. I can’t be here. I’m not ready to be out in the world—or maybe someone is watching me. Folding in my shoulders, I squeeze past two men ogling the pastries and step out to the front porch. Traffic whizzes past. Knots of pretty girls in high shoes sashay down the sidewalk. My lungs have hardened in my chest. My fingers shake as I fumble for my phone in my pocket—I need a ride home, now.