The Elizas: A Novel(59)

Another stinger arrives even though I haven’t signaled for it. I suck it down, wincing once again at the flavor. Who on earth would drink a cocktail with crème de menthe? The opening bars of a song peal through the room, and my head shoots up. “Low Rider.” It’s the same song I heard when I was here. I go very still, concentrating on each note, trying to picture the last time I’d heard the song. I might have been sitting on this very stool, looking out at this same view. And when I turned my head—

Fear ripples through me. I see a shadow. I shoot to my feet. “What?” Desmond says, sliding off his stool, too.

“Someone wants to hurt me.”

Desmond’s eyes widen. “Who?”

But I don’t know. I have only been given this thought and only this thought exactly. And yet the fear is liquefied, coursing through my veins. Something in this bar frightened me that night. I’d hurtled off the stool just like I have today, and I looked for the first exit I could find. And that’s what I do now, too. Except my body is pointed in the other direction today, so the exit I lunge for is the one into the hallway back to the hotel. I stagger there, arms outstretched like a zombie, the Muzak piping through the speakers abnormally loud.

“Eliza!” Desmond cries, stumbling behind me. “What are you—”

I hear the bartender protest something about being paid for the drinks, but I don’t turn, and Desmond doesn’t, either. All I know is that I have to get off this floor. Away. Whatever I feared weeks ago is still here, now. I punch the elevator button, and, mercifully, the doors open immediately. I get in and press the button for the lobby. Desmond leaps inside as the doors are closing.

“What’s going on?” he asks me, panting. “Eliza, what’s happening? Tell me what you’re thinking? Who are you afraid of? What did you see?”

My brain twists and bucks. I am scrambling for more, and I’m not getting any answers. I press my thumbs to my eye sockets until I see stars. When I peek at Desmond again, there is a nervous, uncertain look on his face.

“Someone you’ve met before?” he tries. “Who does this person look like?”

Like me, I want to say, but I don’t know where this has come from. I certainly didn’t come up with it. But then I remember that face on the bus. That face in the window at my mother’s house. My face, my face, my face. Why do I keep seeing myself? I look at Desmond blankly, lost. My jaw feels unhinged from my skull.

The elevator dings. The door slides open on the lobby level. I shrink back at the throng of people waiting to get in, but Desmond leads me by the hand and sits me down on a leather chair near a large saguaro cactus that is somehow growing indoors.

“Eliza,” he says, his voice cracking. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m okay.” Sweat prickles down my spine.

“No, you’re not. Talk to me, please. Who did you see? Why did you run away?”

“I don’t know.” And then, suddenly, the shakes come on. My whole body rolls with them; they travel all the way down to my fingertips, sharp little zingers. I chatter my teeth. I feel my eyeballs curl inward. I’m seizing, I can feel it. I shut my eyes and feel my head hit the leather ottoman. I can hear Desmond shouting above me, but I can’t do anything to get to him or talk to him. Just don’t call other people over, I wish I could tell him. Just let me ride this out. Something tells me I’ve had a seizure in public before. Something tells me I got too much attention for it.

And then, suddenly, it’s over. My eyes focus again. Sound rushes back, and I have the use of my voice. I sit up, noting that I’ve left a pool of sweat from my hair on the ottoman. When I look at Desmond, though, he is staring at me in horror. Several other people stand over me, including a few men in hotel garb. “Is she okay?” one of them is saying. Beyond them, a few guests crane their necks. I hear the words Ambulance, and Fainted, and Drunk.

Someone clears his throat behind us. It’s the bartender from the Shipstead; he’s brought the bill. Desmond stands, leads him a few steps away to take care of the transaction. I sit on the ottoman, staring at the cross-hatchings in my palm, feeling cold, slimy embarrassment.

Desmond says nothing as he sits back down. “Sorry about that,” I mutter, finally, because I feel like I must say something.

He pauses before speaking. “I want to call an ambulance.”

I feel a bolt of shock. “Are you kidding?”

“Maybe you need a professional. Someone who can help you.”

I curl my hands into fists. “I can’t believe you.”

“Eliza. You were terrified. You need to unlock what was scaring you.”

“So you want to commit me? Just like everyone else?”

He looks horrified. “Of course not! I just want to know what’s wrong!”

But maybe that’s not what he means. It could be just a tactic to soften me up. I turn my back. “You don’t know me at all, Desmond. So don’t pretend that you do.”

He scuttles around to face me again. “I didn’t mean for you to think—”

“You know how I mentioned a brain tumor?” I interrupt. “Well, I think it’s still hanging around. Messing with my head. Causing me to say things and remember things I have no control of. Causing my body to move in strange ways. It’s not some psycho tic, okay? I’m not crazy.”