The Elizas: A Novel(67)

“It’s fine. I don’t like to text and drive.”

When we turn on Sunset, I sit up straighter. “Are we going to the Chateau?”

“The what?”

We whip past the Chateau Marmont without turning in. Undaunted, I point to Toi. “That place makes good Thai cocktails,” I sing out. “Virgin cocktails, I mean.”

She continues past it, too. At the end of Sunset, she pulls into the valet lane and gets out, hefting her purse on her shoulder. I get out, too, my gaze on the below-the-knees hem of her skirt. Here on Sunset, she looks even more matronly. A tattooed man wearing short shorts and no shirt ambles up the street, yelling at someone on his cell phone. A convertible full of leering Asian guys cruises by, thumping rap music booming from their speakers. Across the street, a bunch of girls are wearing dresses that barely cover their crotches. Gabby’s hair boings childishly.

Gabby saunters past a bunch of rock clubs and boutique hotels and five-star restaurants and walks into a place called, at first glance, Gravel, though actually it says Crave. Eat, heal, love, reads a large slogan over the window, and there’s a picture of an enormous, fruit-filled smoothie. It’s probably made out of pineapple, but the color reminds me of pus.

Inside, tranquil music is playing, and people are sitting quietly at tables. The only jarring sound is a blender, juicing. A hostess, pin-thin with ripped Pilates arms, glides over to an empty table and hands us menus printed on paper so thin I’m afraid just handling it will make it disappear. “This place is . . . nice,” I mumble.

“I come here for dinner sometimes,” Gabby says. “With friends from work.”

Everything on the menu has quinoa in it, and there’s not a single cocktail, not that Gabby would allow me to get one anyway. I put the menu down and look around. There is a man in the corner who’s got on the full Buddhist garb. He’s sitting with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, blonde and tan, totally flawless skin. I prefer bars with hard-looking women, jowly, fast-talking actors, chain-smoking rock-and-rollers. I suppose this is where everyone comes if they want to remain preserved.

Gabby’s phone pings again, and I chuckle. “They keep you on your toes at work, huh?”

She checks it and places it facedown on the table again. “I suppose.”

“So how do you know so much about people’s reactions to children with illness, anyway?”

Gabby gives me a strange look. “What you said about Mom,” I remind her. “It was very . . . insightful.”

She fiddles with her chopsticks. “My boss’s son has leukemia. I’m sort of . . . dating him. My boss, I mean. Dave. Not Linus, his boy.”

“That’s great, Gabby. For how long?”

“Six months, two weeks, and five days.”

“What’s his son’s prognosis?”

“Fifty-fifty. Dave’s a mess about it. I’m not sure we should be together right now. His whole focus is on his son, which it should be. But I guess he needs something else. A . . . distraction.”

“Something that makes him happy.”

Gabby primly sips her water. “Maybe that’s why Mom was so into kite-surfing when you were sick. She needed an escape, too.”

Yes, but what a magical, picturesque escape, flying over the ocean on a kite. Is it terrible of me to wish she’d chosen a hobby that was a little gloomier? “I guess I wanted you to suffer as much as I was,” I say.

“No. But people show suffering in different ways. And in your case and your mom’s case, maybe you didn’t see the extent of it, but I’m also not sure you’re being fair to her.”

I sniff. “And why would you say that?”

“Because . . .” Gabby looks away sharply. Red splotches appear on her cheeks. “Well, you don’t remember how it was.”

I sit back. “What do you mean?”

Her mouth grows very small, a perfect little button. I’ve seen the look on her before, when we were teenagers and she once blurted out the word fuck at the dinner table—something so old-hat for me, but a word I didn’t even know she knew. “Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

Fury flares inside me. “No. I’m not leaving it at that. What do you mean? People are hiding things from me. Big things. I want to know what’s really going on.”

When Gabby looks up again, her expression is strangely sad. “Oh, Eliza.” But before she can say anything else, her phone rings. She looks down at it, lowers her shoulders, and shuts her eyes. “I need to get this. Stay here.”

She hurries off, snaking around the tables and pushing through the front door. She stands in front of the restaurant, near a bike rack, head bent a little, her lips moving fast.

I rake my hands through my hair. What are people keeping from me? What is it I’m not remembering? Is Gabby trying to tell me my hospital stay wasn’t as I pictured? What was there to picture, though? And my mother really wasn’t there. In fact, she texted me a picture of her on a kite board, floating above the Pacific, as though I should be proud of her, and forgiving.

Something pings in her bag, the same thing that’s been pinging along with her texts. I ignore it at first, perusing the menu, flipping and flipping and still finding nothing I can imagine eating. There’s a second ping, and then a third. Something is lighting up inside her bag. I shift my chair over and peek inside.