The Elizas: A Novel(41)

“Didn’t he rescue rats from a pet store?” My mother’s voice cracks. “Wasn’t that his big claim to fame?”

“No, that was Dot’s boyfriend you’re thinking of. You’re getting us confused.” I’m astonished she retained anything from the novel, considering how vehemently she loathed it. “Look, I overheard him talking to someone on the phone today. About Palm Springs. And about calling the police.”

“But couldn’t it be a coincidence?” Gabby says carefully.

“That’s ridiculous,” my mother says at the same time.

My head swivels between them. “It’s not ridiculous. Someone is after me. Someone wants to hurt me.”

“Eliza. Honey.” Bill presses his hand on my shoulder. It’s warm and large, and his fingers clamp down on bone. “No one’s going to hurt you. We’re right here. We’ll make sure. We want you to get better.”

Across the table, Gabby nods. When I look at my mother, her eyes have softened. The atmosphere distorts. They look so earnest, suddenly. Like my well-being really is the only thing on their minds. And it seems possible, in this moment, that if I just give in, if I tell them that I’m lying and that what happened in Palm Springs was just like all the other times, their love for me will blossom, and they will keep me safe. I mean, it’s partly what I’m worried about anyway, right? That I’m sick again? So why can’t I let them help me? I picture a fantasy: I’m whisked upstairs and taken to my old bed. Bill wheels in the TV and brings me soup. Gabby reads to me from a magazine. My mother cries quietly into a handkerchief.

But as I open my mouth, I realize that in order to attain this sort of care, I’ll have to tell them something that isn’t true. And I can’t do that. “There was someone at the pool that night,” I say instead, feeling so weary. “There really, really was.”

Bill’s shoulders slump. Gabby’s head drops on her neck. My mother presses her hands over her eyes and lets out a long breath. Then, shaking her head, she turns and walks out of the room. Just like that.

“Please call your editor,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m serious.”

I watch her back disappear through the door. Upstairs, a door shuts. The AC, another addition after Bill and Gabby’s arrival, kicks on.

I whip around to Bill and Gabby. “What the hell is going on?”

“We’re worried about you,” Bill says softly. “We’re not sure what you remem—”

A movement to my left distracts me. I shoot up. A dark, shadowy face is in the courtyard, looking in. I rush to the window. “There’s someone in the . . .” The shadow shifts. I blink, and it’s me out there. I blink, and everything mutates again. It’s just my reflection.

I rub my hands over my eyes. The yard is empty; even my reflection in the glass is gone. I press my nose to the window, craning my neck far to the right. There are petals strewn across the brick patio. Leaves have fallen into the pool. The palms are still. The chrome hood over the bricked-in grill is immaculately shiny.

I turn back to Bill and Gabby. They’re both pinned against the island as if a blast has pushed them there. I’ve caught them in strange poses: Gabby’s shoulders are turned in and her hands are limp claws by her chest. Bill’s got one arm slung across her waist, and his feet seem planted. It’s like our own little Pompeii has happened, freezing and hardening them in ash.

“Did you see it, too?” I whisper.

Bill’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I didn’t see anything.” He glances at Gabby, and a silent conversation flows between the two of them. Together, they peel away from the island and sit back down at the table.

“Sorry. I just thought . . .” I clear my throat, still feeling the prickly sensation that someone’s watching me. Then I turn to Bill. “What were you saying?”

Bill shakes his head. “Forget it.” He pushes a plate at me. “Fill it up. You’re getting so skinny you’re disappearing.”





From The Dots


Dorothy was waiting in the school parking lot in a black-on-black Mustang convertible. She wore a large floppy hat that tied under her chin and big sunglasses over her eyes. Dot’s heart swelled and nearly burst. This had to be a mirage. There was no way her aunt had come back to her after all this time. She’d given up hoping.

“Darling,” Dorothy said, stepping away from the car and opening her arms. It was her voice, exactly as Dot remembered it. And when she pulled Dot to her chest, everything felt just the same as all those hugs from years ago. “Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so much.”

Dot was too stunned to speak, but when she did, the questions came out like a geyser: “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Were you in Paris? Were you writing? Did you have a ukulele and a poodle?” The only thing she didn’t ask was the most important question: Why did you go? Why did you leave me?

“Come, come,” Dorothy said, opening the car door. “I’ll tell you everything. Best not to tell your mother about this, though.”

Dot snorted. “Don’t worry about that.”

They drove around LA for a while. Dot didn’t say much—she was too overwhelmed and intimidated and didn’t want to say the wrong thing. They pulled into a familiar neighborhood to the west of town. “I thought we could go here for old time’s sake, since we made up so many stories about the place,” Dorothy said. She pointed to a restaurant in the distance. M&F Chop House, read the neon sign. Across the street, St. Mother Maria’s, Dot’s second hospital, loomed gray and institutional in the dull, midday light.