The Elizas: A Novel(70)
“But instead she deleted a screen shot of his phone with your number on it. She was trying to protect your needs over my sanity.” I sniff. “She always did favor you over me.”
“Don’t be silly.” Gabby looks embarrassed. “We were worried that you finding out I was involved might make you even more paranoid. But you have to understand—I was trying to help you that night in Palm Springs. You might not have tried to kill yourself, but you were still out of control that night. Self-destructive. You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself. You do need the help Mom keeps recommending.”
“You know, for someone you were afraid was paranoid, this definitely isn’t the way to help them—by making them feel even more paranoid.”
“I know.” Gabby’s head hangs low. “I realize that now.”
“And you didn’t five minutes ago? When you were telling me how sick I was? When you were saying I sound just like I did before the tumor?” I put my hands on my hips. “It’s not fair.”
“I know,” Gabby says, kicking at a pebble. “I’m sorry.”
Someone has inscribed his or her name into the sidewalk; it looks like either Anna or Anne. Anger broils in my stomach, and at the same time, my heart is broken. I picture all of them sitting in the hospital waiting room in Palm Springs before I woke up, concocting this plan. Okay, so we’ll just say that she did it to herself. Even though she didn’t, it’s clear she’s still messed up, and it’s best just to send her off again. Right? Yes, right. Okay, break.
On one hand, I feel oddly comforted by the fact that I have a family who cares enough to concoct complicated scenarios to help me. On the other, it’s hurtful that they thought I was so gullible that I’d just buy into the idea that I was crazy without asking questions. They don’t know me at all. They don’t understand me at all.
Gabby is quietly crying. I cross my arms over my chest, trying not to care. “I love you, Eliza,” she says. “I truly think of you as a sister. I’ve always cared about you, even when you’ve been a difficult person to care about. But I get it if you hate me. And if this happened to me, if I fell into a pool and woke up and had people telling me I’d done it on purpose, I’d be clamoring for answers, too. Mom and Dad are going to be furious I came clean with you, but I’m glad I did. Now maybe you can drop it. Now maybe you can just live your life. Be happy.”
“Be happy,” I spit out. “Poof. Just like that.”
“It’s all any of us want for you. Just to live your life. To not be scared. To not be . . . sick.” She steps a little closer to me. I can smell something coming off her pores, soap and sweat. “Are you going to tell the police? They’ve asked me a few questions. They know I was there. I haven’t told them what really happened, though. I guess that’s in your hands now.”
I think of all those calls to the tip line. All those unanswered messages. All the hours I’ve spent obsessing over this. All this time, Gabby was lying to me. It makes my head pound.
But I also think of the MRI that’s scheduled. I can buy that I was drinking at the Tranquility because there was something wrong again in my head. I can also buy that the paranoid feelings rushed back, too—symptoms of the tumor. Maybe I fell into a death spiral of self-loathing. Maybe I began to think someone was after me. I consider my bike ride in Santa Monica again. That day, I’d been overcome with the certainty that someone was pursing me on a bike, and I’d become so afraid, I’d hurtled into the ocean. I remember standing on the pool’s edge at the Tranquility gripped with the same sort of fear.
It’s not improbable to believe my family’s been right all along. Maybe it is happening again. And maybe, in a backward way, Gabby pushing me into the water is her way of calling it to my attention—and my family’s attention—so that I can get the help I need.
I clear my throat. Part of me wants to say that yes, I’m going to tell the cops. I’ve been manipulated, after all. Lied to. But part of me just feels tired. I do want it to be over. I’m sick of being angry and paranoid. “No,” I say. “It’s fine.”
Her face opens like a flower. “Really?”
She throws her arms around me and hugs tight. We stand there for a while, in the middle of Sunset, rocking back and forth. “I’m sorry,” Gabby keeps saying. “I just want you to be better.” I think she means to say happy but is too distraught to realize her mistake.
We break apart. Gabby insists on driving me back to the house, but all at once there’s somewhere I want to go, and I don’t want to waste the time stuck in traffic just to get my car. I can pick it up tomorrow. I’ve done all right without it for this long, after all.
I feel scooped-out and ravaged, betrayed and shocked, but also calmer than I’ve felt in weeks. Gabby is right. Maybe I do need to find happiness, or at least something to distract me from the pain, just like how her boss is dating her so he doesn’t have to think about his sick child every moment of the day. I suppose that’s all anyone can do, though it’s not something I’d indulged in. Instead, I’ve been crouching and shrieking and panicking at every turn, my whole life one big anxiety attack. Maybe that’s no way to live.
After I get inside an Uber, I give the Westwood address of the apartment building I’ve looked up online several times since Desmond told it to me. When I get there and peer into the lighted windows, I spy Desmond pacing back and forth in the front window, talking to someone out of view. It’s like in the movies. When I ring the buzzer on the street, I see him stop through the glass and peek out the curtain. His expression is startled for a moment when he sees me, and then he mouths something into the phone and disappears from view. And then there he is, in the lobby, flinging the front door open, his smile surprised and pleased. And I fall into his arms, deciding that my happiness, my real life, hopefully full of love and joy and truth, starts right now.