The Elizas: A Novel(8)

“Anything interesting?”

She flinches, then slips the phone in her bag. “Not really.”

She looks out the window, though there’s nothing to see. Gabby’s got a long face, a sloped nose, a shrub of light hair, and a turned-down mouth. I was nine when my mother met Bill. Not long after their first date, he and Gabby appeared at our house for dinner, and I had stared Gabby down. I’d been told she was my age, and that her mother had died of pneumonia. But with her pink-tinted, plastic-framed glasses and Shirley Temple curls, Gabby looked more like seven. She wore hard black shoes with thick soles that made her feet look large and cloddish. And there was something about her expression that reminded me of a big gray rain cloud. When I stomped my boot, she flinched.

“You’re still at that infinity-scarf place, right?” I ask brightly now, as the car hits a pothole in the road. “What’s it called again?”

Gabby stares at me for a moment, and I wonder, briefly, if I’ve made this up. Maybe she never worked for a company that makes scarves that cleverly hide headphones and neck braces and colostomy bags. It seems, all of a sudden, quite fantastical—and also sort of lame.

But then she says, “Yes. I’m still there. The company’s called That’s A Wrap.”

“And you took the day off to bring me home?” I squint. “That’s really nice of you. I really appreciate it.”

Gabby flinches, and I wonder if she thinks I’m being sarcastic. It’s not like we’re the best of friends. So I give her a sweet, grateful smile. When she smiles back, her eyes are full of sadness. “We were worried,” she says softly.

“She’s volunteered to take you to your follow-up appointment, too,” my mother adds.

Gabby’s phone pings again. I try to look at the screen, but she tilts it in such a way that I can’t see what she’s typing. A car swishes past us; for a moment, someone in the backseat meets my gaze. I am struck, suddenly, with a blinding sense of fear. I breathe in sharply. The world recedes. My brain folds in two.

When I come to, I see only my reflection in the window. My dark hair is shoved into a greasy ponytail. My bruise-colored eyes look bloodshot. My small, delicate features, normally moderately lovely without makeup, look bloodless and haggard. I glance around the car. Gabby stares at me nervously. My mother eyes me from the front, her lipstick halfway to her mouth. Have I said something? Done something? Made some sort of sound? The lane next to us is empty. There isn’t a car behind us or ahead of us for a quarter mile.

I straighten up and pretend nothing has happened. I glance at my own phone, smiling secretly at the text I’d sent just before getting into the car . . . and at the response I’d received. Just you wait, I want to tell my family. I’m going to show you all.

An hour later, my family pulls up to my rental, a 1920s bungalow in Burbank that’s not far from the Warner and Disney lots.

“How about we come in with you?” Bill says as I yank open the back door and slide my legs out. “We’ll help you get settled. Get you into bed. Make you some dinner. I can do a good chicken noodle soup from a can.” He chuckles as if this is legitimately funny.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, grabbing my mess of discharge papers.

“Can I at least walk you to the door?”

Instead, I let him give me a hug. Bill is a man who gives bear hugs: big, emphatic squeezes with a lot of grunts and wiggles. For a moment, it feels nice. My mother hugs me as well, though it feels obligatory, like she’s still upset. Her arms are stiff. I can feel the tension in her jaw. Gabby just touches my shoulder, giving me another gloomy half smile.

“Call if you need anything!” Bill cries as I turn for the door.

As I shuffle up the front walk, I stumble a little—some of the slate slabs are loose. On the second floor, another window shutter has cracked. The garage door is busted and therefore permanently up, revealing the nonfunctional steampunk copper car hammered out to look like a snail I bartered the landlord for instead of making him fix the roof. There’s a bill sitting on the welcome mat that reads Final Notice in red ink. It’s not because I don’t have the cash to pay it, I just keep forgetting. I’m not sure I should actually live on my own. For the first three months here, I neglected to activate the gas to power the oven. I twisted the oven’s knobs, thinking the thing would work eventually. I called the landlord to say the oven was broken only to have him come out, check things, and ridicule me for not understanding how basic utilities worked. It’s why I got roommates, I guess. Better to have other people handle those sorts of things.

I give my family a halfhearted wave as they turn off the street. It’s a relief to be out of that car. If I had to sit in there with those unbelievers for another minute, I was afraid I’d scratch the skin off my arms.

Stop staring. It’s that voice from the bar at the Tranquility again, and I cringe. I can’t tell if it’s male or female—it’s more of an androgynous hiss. Who said it? The same person who pushed me? A shiver wriggles down my spine. I glance over my shoulder, realizing the risks I’ve taken by leaving the hospital. I am out in the world, and I have an assailant. Maybe I shouldn’t be alone.

Something shifts in the shadows by my door, and I let out a yelp. A figure stands backlit in the sun, his features blotted out. I freeze. My fingers lose their elasticity, hardening to talons. The figure clears his throat and raises an assuring hand. “Eliza Fontaine? Desmond Wells.”