The Elizas: A Novel(51)
I pivot, give him a half wave, and turn toward Whole Foods as though my car will be there, though you never know where Uber cars will park and how quickly they’ll show up. It feels cinematic to be walking away from him; I hope that he’s checking me out from behind. The air seems crisper, cleaner. I even whistle half a refrain.
When I hear footsteps behind me, I assume it’s Desmond, coming to spin me around and dip me into a kiss, just like Caesar and Cleopatra. I can’t believe how much I want him to do this, suddenly, nor can I believe how inevitable it feels. There’s a hand between my shoulder blades. I twist around, ready to grin at Desmond, but the sun is in my eyes, and all I can see is a hazy silhouette that definitely isn’t his. Something about the bright sun and the adrenaline and the influx of alcohol in my system makes me abruptly woozy, and as I blink at the figure in front of me—a figure still obscured by the sunlight, looming though, maybe menacing—my field of vision narrows, and my legs crumple.
“Oh shit,” a voice whispers as I hit the ground. And then: “No! What the hell? Get up! Please! Get up!”
I roll onto my back, desperate to keep my eyes open. Someone is trying to pull me up. He or she has skinny fingers. Capable arm muscles, though not particularly strong. Minty breath. Maybe hair, long hair, tickles my neck. Only, before I can register what happened, my eyes flutter closed, and I pass out right there in a dingy alleyway, just out of sight of every pedestrian on Weyburn Avenue.
From The Dots
After waking up to the IV in her arm, Dot knew she should tone down the drinking, lest she end up addicted. The real addiction, though, was Dorothy. Dot couldn’t stop seeing her. Every Wednesday, she met with her. Their evenings out were relegated to M&F, that dark little club in West Hollywood, or long limo rides around the city, taking in its glamour from behind tinted windows. Champagne flowed in the backseat of the car. Dorothy always had a flask of something. Bernie at M&F presented them with his best wine, and the bartender at the dark nook of a club fed them neon-blue liquid straight from the bottle.
Dot lapped up Dorothy’s stories and attention. She beamed as Dorothy slung her arm around Dot and told her she was beautiful, amazing, funny, fantastic, the best niece a woman could ever want. But at the end of each evening, Dot blacked out, only to emerge the following day sticky-mouthed and slumped on the green-and-white-striped divan of Dorothy’s Magnolia bungalow. Dr. Singh never returned, but Dot was haunted by the same headaches, the same disorientation, the same dread. She must just be one of those people who can’t hold their liquor.
“Just lie here, my dear,” Dorothy said. “Rest here all day if you like.” She brought Dot baskets of bread and ordered plates of eggs. She pressed cold washcloths to Dot’s forehead and spent hours raking her fingers through her hair. Sometimes, she just lounged next to Dot, spooning her and saying, “Oh, you don’t know how good it feels to be able to take care of you.”
“I just wish I didn’t get hungover every time we go out,” Dot croaked.
“Don’t worry,” Dorothy said hastily. “Besides, I get to take care of you. This is a treat. Thomas was taken from me when I was so young.”
Thomas again. Dot had so many questions, but she still thought it too indelicate to ask.
Dot’s boyfriend didn’t go out with them after that first night. He kept using the excuse of exams, and then lab work, and then a Phish concert he really wanted to see. “Why do I get the idea you don’t want to come with me to see Phillis?” she finally said, aggravated. They were in the dining hall; they called Dorothy Phillis whenever they were in public. Dot wasn’t taking any chances; her mother might have sent spies.
He shrugged, trudging with his tray to the next food station. Dot followed him to the salad bar, the cereal bar, and then the fro-yo machine. Finally, he sighed heavily. “I wanted to be the one who took you home that night you fainted at the club. I wanted to take care of you, but she insisted. She was a bully about it, in fact.”
“Well, she’s my aunt,” Dot said. What a silly thing to argue about. “She’s family.”
“Yeah, but do you really even know her?”
Dot watched him. He was making a big deal of shoving a Styrofoam cup under the yogurt dispenser. “I thought you loved her.”
“She’s fascinating in theory. But in person she also seemed so . . .” He glanced at her, then moved to the hot food line.
She chased after him. “So what?”
“Forget it.”
She watched as the cafeteria worker slopped mashed potatoes onto his tray. Her boyfriend went to sit down. He was eating mashed potatoes and fro-yo for dinner. He had no bearing on reality. “Are you really afraid of a fifty-year-old woman?” Dot laughed.
He looked up at her, mid-bite. “Just be careful, okay?”
Be careful. That one amused Dot for days. Be careful of what?
ELIZA
I OPEN MY eyes and sit up on the pavement, the sun baking my skin. “Eliza?” says a voice.
I blink hard. The sun burns a harsh circle onto my retinas. A shadow appears over me, and I smell overpowering deodorant. “You Eliza? You call me?”
The man has on aviator sunglasses, a creased, pin-striped shirt, and jeans that pull tightly across the waist. Behind him, a white Honda Pilot chugs. I look around and see the familiar buildings of the Westwood Center—the Whole Foods in particular—and it all comes back. But besides the two of us, the alley is empty. When I wince, pain explodes across my face. I touch it carefully, expecting blood, but all I feel is tenderness.