The Elizas: A Novel(57)

I blink hard, the memories swirling around my head suddenly gone. “Maybe.”

“Did you come here as a child as well?”

“I . . . think so.”

“You think?”

It feels like something I was sure of only days ago, maybe even minutes ago—how I know of this place, my history within it, and why I’d chosen to come here on the day of my almost-drowning. It’s not like it’s a Ritz-Carlton. It’s not like it’s featured regularly in Travel + Leisure. It’s one of those places you have to know about to find. We must have come here when I was younger: my mom, Gabby, Bill, and me. I distinctly remember hiking up that trail out back, yelling my name between the two canyons to hear the echo. It’s just that what happened in between is missing.

But this isn’t what I need to focus on right now. I need to think about my most recent visit. If I can just retrace my steps, I can remember who hurt me. I picture myself in the lobby. Walking over to the front desk to check in. I recall the smooth key card in my hand. I remember a woman in a crisp white shirt sliding my American Express card back across the counter with a tight smile. I remember taking a mint from a dish and popping it into my mouth. “Would you like to book any spa services, miss?” the woman had asked me, but I’d shaken my head. No massages for me. No facials or manicures. So what had I come here to do?

Drink. And drink heavily. But why? Was it because I knew, subconsciously, the tumor was back? I wish it were that simple. Could something have set me off, then? What had happened that day before I went? I try to think. I probably woke up like I always did and choked down vitamins and a smoothie. I’d probably talked to Kiki. I had received the boxes containing copies of my book that day. Could that be something?

“Come on,” I say, tugging Desmond’s arm. “Let’s go to the bar I was at before the pool.”

We look at a map on the wall; the Shipstead is through a hallway, past a couple of gift shops and the spa, down an elevator, and past the fanciest restaurant. Outside, the pool beckons, the cheerful orange cabana cloths flapping in the light wind. A few people are lying on the chaises, reading books. The blue water glistens. I’m surprised it’s open, actually. It sounds ridiculous, but I was hoping they would have closed it off after I’d been fished out. A man glides in the water with a baby buoyed by a large round float. The baby’s smile is all gums. She splashes her father giddily. Neither of them have any idea I’d been lying at the bottom nine days ago.

I wonder what the father would do if I told him.

It’s three p.m., a dead time especially on a Monday, and the Shipstead’s bartender, who’s wearing a sailor suit, grimaces as he wipes the counter by the bottles. The wallpaper features diagrams of how to tie different sailing knots. The room smells like Old Spice.

Desmond surveys the room, then looks at me. “Do you remember where you were sitting?”

I pick a stool at the bar, though I have absolutely no recollection. The bartender places coasters imprinted with jaunty navy-blue anchors in front of us, and asks if we’d like a menu. Desmond asks what sort of absinthe they’ve got. The bartender names a brand, to which Desmond makes a face.

“Amateurs,” he whispers, but he orders it anyway.

I consider ordering nothing—I already feel naturally tipsy—but then I blurt out, “A stinger.” It feels like the right answer. I’d had one that night.

The bartender nods. When he reaches for the martini glass, he has to stand on his tiptoes. A heady scent of deodorant wafts from his underarms.

“You aren’t Richie, by any chance, are you?” I call to him.

He turns around and blinks at me. “No. Sam.”

“Is Richie . . . here?”

“Nope.” He adds various liquids to a stainless shaker. “Not today.”

At least Richie actually exists. “Do you know when he’s around next?”

The bartender frowns. He’s handsome, but he’s short, and the bell-bottomed one-piece just makes him look even smaller, almost like a child. He has tattoos of numbers in a random pattern on every finger. A phone number? Birth and death dates? “Are you a friend of his?”

“No, I was at this bar two Saturdays ago, and Richie was my bartender. I’m trying to figure out who I was sitting next to,” I say in the most pleasant, sane voice I can muster. “I spoke to the person for a while that night, but I didn’t catch her name. I was hoping Richie could help me.”

There’s half a smile on the bartender’s face. As he sets down our drinks, he looks sympathetic. “That’s happened to me a few times, too. I hit it off with someone, it seems like something, and he leaves before I get his phone number. You could place an ad on Craigslist, you know. Missed Connections. Ever read those? Cashier at the 76 on Main Street, I’m the tall thin guy who comes in in the mornings for hot chocolate and Red Bull. You waved at me, maybe you’ll see this. You could do something like that.”

My mouth, I’m sure, is hanging open. “Oh, I’m not trying to get a date out of this.”

The bartender blinks at me. “Oh,” he says, woodenly. He abruptly walks away to serve an older couple who has just come in.

Desmond pours the green liquid over his absinthe. “I used to post on Missed Connections. I never got a response. I don’t know anyone who ever got a response. Kind of makes you wonder why it still exists.”