The Elizas: A Novel(76)

“Don’t,” he advises. “This seems like sabotage. It’s like you’re setting yourself up for failure. Besides, isn’t the limo picking us up soon?”

“Yeah, but I just thought . . .” I trail off and sigh.

“Drop it. At least for today. If it’s still bothering you tomorrow, we can ask this guy. But for today, just focus on being on the show. Focus on everyone loving your book. Focus on being amazing, because you are amazing.”

I lay my head on the couch pillow. Desmond is right, of course. Why can’t I just be happy? Why can’t I just accept what I’ve been told? Why am I so dreadfully mistrustful?

“I’m going to take a shower,” Desmond says again. “I’ll be out in a second, okay?”

He goes upstairs, and soon I hear the water start to run. Desmond hums a minstrel song he has on auto-repeat in his car. I lay on my back for a moment, trying to relax, but it feels like there are pins driving into my skin.

I rise, walk to the third floor, and look out the window. From up here, I have a perfect view of the bar down the street. There are a few cars in the parking lot. One of them might be Andrew’s. But even if he’s there, there’s no guarantee he knows the information I need. And just going there, just risking seeing him, opens a can of worms I’d rather keep closed. I know what Andrew’s terms will be for giving me the information. I don’t want to have to be faced with that decision.

Then again, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering.

My phone pings with a new email. I glance at it, eager for distraction. It’s from the Imaging Center. Your MRI results are in. I frown. It’s a whole day early. And what, the place is so cheap they don’t have someone call you and personally tell you you’re dying?

I peer up the stairs, knowing I should wait until Desmond is out of the shower, but there’s no way I can keep the email closed for another second. I select it, then open the attached PDF. At the top, it says my name. In the radiologist’s notes, most of it is medical mumbo-jumbo, but I know which line to look for: the radiologist’s impressions at the bottom. I blink several times, unsure of what I’m looking at. No abnormalities.

It can’t be possible.

I check my watch—half-past four, meaning the office is probably still open. I dial the number, and a nurse answers. “This is Eliza Fontaine, and I just got some results that I think have been switched with someone else’s,” I say in a rush.

The nurse asks me to spell my name slowly and give my date of birth. I hear keyboard tapping. After she asks me to respell my name and go through about fifteen different security indicators to prove that I am, indeed, Eliza Fontaine, she says, “Ah, yes. An MRI. We sent the results today. What did your PDF say?”

“Negative. Normal.”

“Well, it is negative. The radiologist signed off on it—I see it right here. So there you go.”

“But that’s not possible.”

She laughs incredulously. “I’m sorry?”

“The tumor I had a year ago isn’t gone. I can tell. I’m having symptoms. I can practically feel it inside me. I really think my scan got confused with someone else’s.”

“I don’t think so . . .”

“Look, can I just speak to a doctor?”

“Hold on,” the nurse says, a slight groan in her voice. She clicks off. Muzak lilts into my ear. I rub my fingertips against my silken pillow. Desmond is still humming in the shower. I feel a pang in my head and touch a spot between my eyes. I want it to be the tumor, I realize. I want it to still be lurking in there, messing things up.

“Miss Fontaine?” A man’s voice. “This is Doctor Geist, the radiologist on staff. How can I help you?”

I go through my spiel, explaining my tumor and surgery. I try not to sound hysterical—or like I completely mistrust doctors. After I’m done, there’s a silent gap. “Where did you say you had surgery earlier this year, Miss Fontaine?”

“I wrote it down on my forms. UCLA.”

“With which surgeon?”

“Doctor Forney. He’s on staff there.”

“No, he’s a neurologist. I mean your neurosurgeon. Who operated on you?”

“I don’t . . .” I’d been so out of it. A guy with glasses, maybe? “Isn’t it in a chart?”

“That’s the thing. We tried to get your chart from UCLA so we could compare your new scan to an old scan. But you have no chart with UCLA.”

“What?”

“You have no recent records at UCLA. Certainly nothing about brain surgery.”

My legs go numb. As do my cheeks. I feel dizzy, too, so I slide off my bed to the ground until my butt touches the carpet. “What about the neurologist I just mentioned? Doctor Forney?”

“He says he’s never heard of you.”

I press my hand into the carpet fibers. Hadn’t I spoken to Dr. Forney before? Wasn’t that who discharged me from the hospital? “But I was at UCLA. I remember.”

“We checked the system, Miss Fontaine. We have access to UCLA’s records, and they do a good job with patient data. There’s no record of you there.”

I pinch the skin on the top of my hand hard, hoping this will steady my memory and bring back the right details. But I can’t locate anything. All I remember is the day I left the hospital. My mind was clear. I sat up, swung my legs over the bed, got dressed, and went back to my parents’ house.