The Elizas: A Novel(66)

I look at Gabby. “I think she knows who pushed me into the pool in Palm Springs. In fact, I’m sort of scared she pushed me into the pool in Palm Springs.”

Gabby smiles nervously. “Okay. That’s . . . interesting. But just—go with me here. Is it possible you’re blaming Mom because she’s the one who’s the most worried about you?”

I burst out laughing. “Mom hasn’t even called me since Palm Springs. The only time she’s spoken to me is to tell me that my book is crap. I wouldn’t call that worried.”

“She wants you to go back to the hospital. She’s desperate for you to get better, and—”

“Gabby, instead of waiting for me to regain consciousness,” I interrupt, “she ran off. She tampered with my phone then left me in an alley! When the cops came, they thought I was nuts!”

“—but an unhealthy part of your brain is trying to fight against that,” Gabby bulldozes over my words. “You’re not seeing things rationally. I mean, okay, even if Mom did run from you in a parking lot, clearly she knew you were okay, and you said yourself she called the cops just in case. Maybe she had a good reason to leave.”

My mouth drops open. “What could that possibly be?”

“Maybe she . . .” Gabby shuts her mouth tightly and looks away.

I feel a shiver down my spine. “Maybe she what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she was late for something.”

I can tell this isn’t what Gabby was going to originally say, and I snort. Gabby walks across the room and looks out the window, her face hidden from view. “Eliza, I know she’s not all warm and fuzzy. Your illness has been hard on her. Some people rise to those occasions. Others . . . it tears them apart. They can’t handle it. It kills them, and they just crumble. She sees you acting strangely again, and it’s killing her.”

“Are you trying to get me to feel bad for her?”

“No. It’s just that . . . I don’t think you see it from her perspective. None of us can wrap our minds around what you were going through when you were sick. Yeah, she should have been there for you a little more, but she does care. I woke up many times in the night to find her crying in the bathroom. Or just down in the kitchen, sitting at the table, hands cupped around an empty coffee mug, just staring.”

I make a tsk sound. “She always acted like she’d had enough of me.”

“She’s one of those people who doesn’t know how to deal with tragedy. So she gets angry and distant. It isn’t the right response, but it’s just how she is.”

“It doesn’t change that she’s hiding something. I’m still going to sit here until she’s back.”

Gabby looks at her watch again. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think she’s going to be home for a while. She and dad have some sort of dinner thing tonight. You’ll be waiting a long time.” She stands. “So how about that appointment?”

“No appointment,” I say. “I’m not changing my mind.”

And then we stare at each other for a while.

“Okay,” Gabby relents. “We don’t have to go to the appointment. But let’s get out of the house. To get an early dinner, maybe. And then, afterward, I’ll bring you back here, and we’ll see if Mom is home then. Okay?”

I roll my jaw. It feels less satisfying, but I feel like if I say no, she’ll try to force me down the appointment road again. And to be honest, maybe I haven’t thought this through. I’m not sure if I’m ready for a confrontation with my mother. I want to ask her all sorts of questions, but she’ll never admit what she’s up to. She’ll twist it, somehow, and turn it into my problem, my illness—this is all a figment of my messed-up head. What I need is to prove it another way. I’m just not sure what that way is yet.

“Fine,” I say. “But you drive both of us. I’ll leave my car here.” That will force Gabby to bring me back, and maybe by then my mother will be home.

Her car, a beige PT Cruiser, is parked in the driveway. The inside of it smells like a vanilla candle. The seats have recently been vacuumed, and the footwells are clear of the wrappers and napkins and books and other bullshit that plague mine. I kick open the glove box when I climb into the passenger seat; her owner’s manual is neatly stowed away. A plastic Baggie labeled registration and insurance holds those two documents. I bet she’s the type who regularly gets her tires rotated.

I settle in the passenger seat, and Gabby swings next to me. There’s a flash in the rearview mirror. A person is standing on the road, hands on hips, dark hair floating around her face. I turn around and viciously study the street behind us, but the road is empty. Sweat prickles on my body. It’s that face again. My face.

“What?” Gabby asks, staring at me.

I look again, and of course the face is gone. “Nothing,” I say, trying not to sound breathless. “I just thought . . . Nothing.”

We start down the hill. I’m looking for a way into a conversation with Gabby, but I can’t think of the right starting note. She sits very straight when she drives, like there’s a book balanced on her head. Every few seconds, her phone buzzes with a text—I can see the bubbles appearing on her screen, then disappearing. Something else dings, too, something in her purse. “Do you need to get those?” I ask.