The Elizas: A Novel(63)

My phone buzzes, and I look down. It’s Desmond. I’m so sorry. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.

And then another text: I would never, ever harm you. Please understand that. You are the light of my LIFE.

And then another: If you don’t want me to contact you again, just say the word. But I shall mourn you until the end of my days.

Get over yourself, I finally respond. Then I turn my phone off. It’s probably cruel, and maybe I should forgive him, but it’s just too comforting to convert my shame into punishing wrath.

As I look around more, I’m surprised to see an unoccupied booth way in the back almost hidden from view. Something about it seems untended, maybe even condemned. I crane my neck. Could there be a secret door back there, too? I feel so loopy. How is it that this place is so vivid? How do I know all its nooks and crannies? Maybe I’m a better writer than I think. If my mother came in here, if she saw how well I’d captured this, maybe then she’d be impressed. Instead of saying, This is what you wrote? Instead of saying, Other people read it? Instead of saying, Do something, Bill.

Instead of saying, Get up. Please.

The last thought knocks over a set of dominoes. A latch gives way, opening a door. Get up. Get up. It’s a pealing bell in my brain. Concentric rings rippling in a pond. A voice telling me to count backward from ten. Maybe it’s the overwhelming smell of bloody meat, maybe it’s my aching, throbbing head, maybe it’s the eerie, dizzy awareness of fiction clashing with reality, but all at once I am standing on the pavement outside Leonidas’s father’s doctor’s office again, and I am smiling about Desmond, and then I am on the pavement, and for a split second before I fainted I looked up and saw what I needed to see. The image has only slid into place now. Get up. Please.

A face stands over me. The eyes are wide with confusion. The mouth is twitchy and concerned. A hand leans down to check my pulse, and then there’s a sigh of relief. The face moves away, and two hands rifle for my phone, and then tap the screen. A backing away, and then the person runs off, legs moving awkwardly. It’s the run of a non-athlete. The run of a middle-aged woman.

My mother.





From The Dots


Darling!” Dorothy said, hurrying after Dot’s mother as she crossed the carpet into the hotel suite. “What a wonderful surprise!”

Dot’s mother dodged Dorothy’s open arms and instead grabbed Dot, who was now on her knees, by the wrist. “Get up. Now.”

“Would you like some coffee?” Dorothy said, hurrying behind her. “And room service is coming soon. The eggs Benedict is divine.”

Dot’s mother gawked at Dorothy. “Don’t say another word.” She slung an arm around Dot’s shoulders. “I’m calling the police.”

“Darling, there’s no need to—”

“Mom, what are you doing?” Dot shrieked.

“I’m calling them,” Dot’s mother insisted. “I should have called them years ago.”

Then she pulled Dot out of the bungalow. The sun was bright in Dot’s eyes, intensifying her headache. She twisted around, expecting Dorothy to be chasing after them, but her aunt stood, wilted, in the doorway. It looked like she might cry.

Dot tried to wriggle from her mom’s grasp. “What is wrong with you? Why did you just do that?”

But her mother was stronger than Dot anticipated, and she wouldn’t let go of her wrist. With her other hand, she was talking to someone on the phone. “Yes, I’d like to report that I know the whereabouts of a felon,” she said briskly. “The Magnolia Hotel in Beverly Hills. Her name is Dorothy Banks.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Dot said. “A felon? Have you gone insane?”

Her mother hung up and stared at Dot. She looked angry, shocked, and something else, too. Maybe haunted. Maybe sad. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you would see her, go out with her, without telling me.”

“Why would I tell you? You hate her. Obviously.”

“Don’t you think there’s a good reason for that?” Her mother pulled her across the parking lot and unlocked the SUV.

Dot sniffed. “Yeah, because you’re jealous.” And yet there wasn’t as much bite in her defense as there might have been even a few days prior. Her head felt swollen. The dread lay, gelatinous, in her stomach. She wanted to love Dorothy, and she wanted to trust her, but there was that disconcerting scene back there in the hotel. She shouldn’t be sick today.

Dot’s mother opened the car door for Dot and indicated for her to get inside. Once Dot did, she quickly shut the door and hurried around to her side.

“I wanted to see her, and she wanted to see me,” Dot growled when her mother got into the driver’s seat. “I’ve missed her. She was gone for twelve years. You can’t keep us from each other.”

“Watch me.”

“I’m an adult. I can do whatever I want.” Realizing she could just leave, Dot reached for the passenger handle. But her mother caught her arm and pulled it away. She started the engine and backed out of the spot so quickly she almost slammed into the car parked in the space behind them. Dot yelped in surprise. Her mother white-knuckled the wheel and eased gently on the gas.

“How many times have you seen her?” she demanded.