The Elizas: A Novel(61)

“What’s with you today?” her aunt asked, poking her arm. “You’re so quiet.”

“I’m just thinking about school,” Dot said. “We have finals soon.”

“But aren’t you an English major? What on earth could be difficult about finals?”

At M&F, the waiter had their favorite table all made up and ready. But when it came time to order drinks, Dot said she wanted water. Dorothy’s head turned sharply. “No cocktail?”

“I’m not in the mood.”

Dorothy scoffed. “When did you become so unfun?”

A glass of sparkling water appeared for Dot. She took a sip and swished the bubbles in her mouth as if to wash it clean. Across the table, Dorothy drank from her wineglass and gave her a cool stare. She asked Dot about the books she was reading, and Dot gave one-word answers. She tried to make up stories about the other patrons at the restaurant, but Dot didn’t twist around to see who she was talking about.

She was reminded, suddenly, of seeing Dr. Koder in the wheelchair the first time they’d come here. After she’d gone home, she’d looked Dr. Koder up and learned that not long after Dot left her care, the doctor had been in a tragic fall down the stairwell of the swanky apartment building where she lived. She’d broken her neck. This was on a Facebook page set up by her husband, a man named Evan Koder—not on any sort of news site. One person commented that Dr. Koder should press charges, insinuating that the fall wasn’t an accident . . . but no one followed up on that line of thinking. Dot couldn’t find any evidence of a lawsuit.

“Did you do something to Doctor Koder?” she blurted.

Dorothy’s head whipped up. “Who?”

“You know who. She’s in a wheelchair because of a fall down the stairs. I know you were upset at how she treated us. It happened right after we left.”

Dorothy’s mouth hung open. It was a few moments before she could speak. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing.”

“I just . . .” Dot felt tears come to her eyes. This was so much harder than she’d imagined. “The timing matches up. Her accident was on July 11. I’d just gone into the new hospital, but I still wasn’t doing well. I could understand if you were upset . . .”

“July 11.” Dorothy narrowed her eyes, thinking. “I know where I was that day. July 11 was my husband Milton’s birthday, and I treat myself to a spa day every year in his memory.” Milton was the film producer who’d passed away. “I went to The Hyacinth on Beverly Boulevard for the works. After that, I came to the hospital . . . to visit you.”

“Oh,” Dot said. “I’m sorry.”

Dorothy crossed her arms over her chest. Her chin wobbled. “You know, I’m going to pretend you never said any of that. I’m just going to pretend this didn’t happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Dot whispered again, feeling like a child. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Dorothy pressed her lips together, as though to keep from crying. “You know, your dark moods remind me of the ones Thomas used to have.”

Dot sucked in a breath. “Really?”

“Indeed. My, he would work himself into a lather. I felt like he was doing it on purpose.” She folded her hands at her plate. “I was all he had in the world, though. Meaning I was the only person he had to push away. I tried to take it as a compliment, of course, but it hurt. I did so much for him. I was the only one who listened.”

Dot marveled at how thinly veiled her aunt’s words were. But maybe Dorothy had a point. Dorothy was the only person in her life, really.

Both of them reached for the last pretzel stick in the basket at the same time. Normally, faced with such a situation, Dot would withdraw her hand and let her aunt take the last piece of bread, but that day, she grabbed the stick and shoved it in her mouth.

Food arrived, big steaming plates of steak. “Ah,” Dorothy said cheerfully, cutting into hers. She eyed Dot several times. Then she reached for her napkin, knocking her fork to the floor. “Can you get that, dear?” she asked. “My back isn’t what it used to be.”

Dot leaned down, but because it was on Dorothy’s side, she had to actually kneel on the carpet and lunge to get the utensil. When she returned to the table, Dorothy was sitting heavily back into her seat as if she’d just been standing. Perhaps she’d just signaled the waiter, because he glided over quickly, and she handed him the fallen fork.

“So,” she said, folding her arms and looking at Dot with an easy smile. “Now, tell me what’s bothering you, dear.”

Dot smeared ketchup around her plate. “Nothing.”

“Is it your boyfriend?”

She shook her head miserably.

“Your mother?” Dot made a noncommittal noise. “You can tell me, darling. You can tell me anything.”

Dot squeezed her eyes shut, startled at the tears that suddenly formed there. She wished that were true.

“Did I ever tell you about the lover I had in Italy who was part of the Sicilian mob? His name was Federico.” Dorothy swooned. “My God, what a man.”

“If he really exists,” Dot muttered, unable to stop herself.

Dorothy frowned. “Pardon?”

Dot stared at her shiny utensils. “Nothing.”