The Elizas: A Novel(40)



The person who wants to hurt me? I swallow hard. Is that insane?

My mother lets out a breath. “And we have a problem.”

There is suddenly a surplus of saliva in my mouth. It takes three swallows to get it all down. “What do you mean?”

My mother points to the book. Her eyes are blazing. “You can’t actually publish this, Eliza.”

Sweat dots my back. I think, for a moment, I’ve heard her wrong, but then Bill adds, “We’ve tried calling your editor already, but she hasn’t called back.”

“Wait a minute,” I say slowly. “So . . . you read it?”

My mother looks exasperated. “Yes. We read it.”

“And . . . you didn’t like it, I guess.” I laugh self-consciously, though it comes out choked.

My mother’s eyes bulge, as if this is the most asinine question I could have asked. I am burning with shame. Maybe what I’ve worried about all this time is true: my book is literally the stupidest, pettiest, most ridiculous piece of writing ever to be put down on paper. Only, if it is, why did my agent applaud it? Why did my editor buy it? What the fuck is going on here? I review what my mother just said and feel a ball of anger knot in my chest. “And you called my editor?”

“Yes, and you have to call her, too,” my mother says forcefully.

I grab my book and press it to my chest. “I didn’t ask for you to read it. I never told you about it because I knew you wouldn’t like it. Just like you don’t like anything I do.”

“Eliza,” Bill starts. “That’s not—”

“No, forget it.” I grab the book from the table. My cheeks are blazing. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

“Wait!” Bill catches my arm. “It’s just that . . . the story you wrote . . . are you sure? Maybe you should pull back, have a think. You’re a lovely writer. You must have other stories in you.”

I wrench away. “Everyone else thinks it’s great. My agent tells me it’s getting a lot of good buzz.”

My mother looks at Bill in horror. “Others have read it?”

“No one but my editor and agent, and maybe some others at the publishing house, but reviewers are looking at it now.” For a split second, I wonder if Laura has recruited my mother in a twisted reverse psychology initiative, because now I want it to go to reviewers. I want the whole world to review it. I want to show her that others think it’s decent. Why does she get to deem something unpublishable? It’s like she’s taking it personally!

Then I get it. I step back and laugh. “You’re pissed about the mother character, aren’t you? Because I made her nice at first, but then she’s totally unsympathetic. You think it’s you.”

My mother bites hard on her bottom lip and says nothing.

It’s so telling. Of course it’s the only thing she noticed, and she isn’t able to see past it, and she decided, based upon that fact and that fact alone, that my book is shit. Her disapproval of the one true thing I’ve done with my life so far falls in line with everything else she’s ever felt about me, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

So why am I surprised? Why do I care so much? Why does it physically hurt?

My mother strides forward, yanks the home phone from the wall, and hands it to me. “Please. Call your publisher right now. Tell them you’ve changed your mind.”

I bark out a laugh. “Just because you think it’s a bad book doesn’t mean you get to cancel its existence.”

“Eliza!” Her eyes are wild. She looks like she might cry. “Please!”

I take the receiver from her and slam it back into its cradle. “No,” I say. “You’re not being fair.”

Bill places his hands on the table. “Eliza, why did you write this book?”

It feels like a trick question. “I don’t know. Because . . . I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

There’s a bubbling sound at the stove, and a charred scent to the air. My mother glares at Bill. He holds his palms up in the air. No one moves.

My skin prickles. “Does this have something to do with someone pushing me into the pool?”

My mother shuts her eyes. “No one pushed you into that pool, Eliza.”

“But the guy who pulled me out of the water saw someone running away from the scene.”

“No, he didn’t.”

I scoff. “How do you know? Why would the guy lie? I think the person who pushed me was Leonidas.”

My mother, to Bill: “Her college boyfriend?” Then to me: “He wouldn’t do that.”

“How do you know?”

Finally, Bill seems to notice the burning sauce. He sidles to the stove to save it. “I mean, isn’t Leonidas a hundred pounds soaking wet?”

“He’s still capable of pushing,” I say through clenched teeth. “He could be dangerous. He hurt me when we were dating.”

“He did?” My mother looks astonished.

I duck my head. I really have no clue.

“I don’t think it was Leonidas,” Gabby says in her small, meek way.

I turn to her, eager for more. “Why do you say that?”

One shoulder lifts. “He . . .” She trails off. “He always seemed nice.”

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