The Elizas: A Novel(65)

“I want to go to the dorm.”

“I would never hurt you, you know that!”

“I want to go back to the dorm.”

Dot cried silently the whole way. Her mother probably thought she was angry, and she was, of course, but the tears were from loss, too. A story like that couldn’t be unremembered.





ELIZA


I AM QUAKING by the time I reach my parents’ curb. My heart galumphs, and I tumble out of the front seat and onto the sloped front lawn. The sky is a disarming shade of purple. Behind me, kids who have just climbed to the Hollywood sign are traipsing back to their cars. Their giggles sound like breaking glass.

At the door now, once again, I smell the cloying scent of orange perfume. I roll back my shoulders, readying myself. I consider ringing the doorbell, but instead I try the knob. It twists easily, and then it whips open without me moving a muscle. I jump. Gabby blinks at me from inside, letting out an oof.

“O-oh,” I blurt. “What are you doing here?”

Gabby’s mouth twitches into a smile. She’s in a black pantsuit and is carrying a red purse shaped like an anvil. “I came home early. I was just about to come get you, in fact.”

“Why?”

“Your follow-up appointment, remember? Didn’t I call you? I thought I was grabbing you at your house, but this is better. We’ll get there much faster.”

I narrow my eyes. “What follow-up appointment?”

“For the pool thing. Remember I said I’d take you?”

“Is it for an MRI?”

“I don’t . . .” She rummages in her bag and pulls out a reminder card. “No, it’s with someone named Doctor Sweitzer.”

“Who’s that?”

“Uh, a psychiatrist.” She says psychiatrist quickly, like I’ll gloss over it, and smiles hopefully.

I back away from the door. “I don’t need a shrink.”

Then Gabby notices my bruised face. “What happened?”

“Someone came up behind me and scared me. And I fell.”

“What?”

I reach for the door to shut it. “It’s why I need to talk to Mom right now, actually.”

“But Eliza, the appointment.”

“I’m not going!”

Gabby’s hands curl against her chest. The crystals on the chandelier above the dining room table tinkle together. I didn’t mean to yell that loudly.

“Look, I need to stay here.” I temper my tone. “I need to talk to Mom. It’s really important. I’m not leaving until I do.”

“She’s not here.”

I shrug and plop down on the slipper chair near the door. “Then I’ll wait.”

Gabby checks her watch, then shuts the front door and walks closer to me. “What do you need to talk to her about?”

She looks so dowdy in her baggy suit. People without style have always fascinated me. Is it that they don’t care? Does she think she actually looks good? I made so much fun of her as a teenager, but Gabby was begging for it. She wore Mary Janes with socks well into middle school, for God’s sake. And could she not have gotten cuter glasses? Now, of course, I regret it. If I had been nicer to Gabby, perhaps she’d be a sympathetic ear now.

“I think Mom knows something she’s not telling me,” I explain.

Gabby just stares at me for several ticks of the clock. “Knows . . . what?”

“I saw her in this alley behind a parking lot a few days ago, sort of near her work. I think she was following me. I had a panic attack and passed out, and by the time I woke up, she was gone.” I run my tongue over my teeth. “She deleted something off my phone, then left. Though I think she called the police to let them know I was back there. Nice of her, huh?”

Gabby looks astonished. “Are you sure it was Mom?”

I think of the fuzzy image of her face that had returned to me at the steak house. “Pretty sure.”

“What did she find on your phone?”

“Something . . . important. And the only way she’d even know I found the important thing was if she was following me. Something really weird is going on, Gabby.” I cut my gaze over to her. “Do you know what it is?”

“I don’t have a clue.” Gabby clears her throat. “Look, you’re going to hate me for saying this, but you sort of sound like how you sounded when you had the tumor. Always worried that someone was following you. That sort of thing.”

“I know this sounds the same, but it’s not. I have proof this time.”

“What kind of proof?”

“I remember Mom there,” I urge emphatically. “And I need to know why.” My mind has been racing ever since I made the connection. Why would my mother delete the list of numbers on Leonidas’s call screen? Is her number one of them? Is that the number I vaguely remember? It’s possible. I would have recognized our home phone number—it’s been the same since I was a kid—but I don’t have my mom’s cell memorized.

So was my mother talking to Leonidas that day outside the Cat Show? Was she sharing some sort of worry about Palm Springs and was he talking her down? But why? Because she’s guilty of something, obviously—it’s the only thing that makes sense.