The Elizas: A Novel(80)

He presses something into my palm. I open it up and stare. It’s a gold earring. I touch my ears. One earring hangs jauntily, but the other earlobe is bare. To my horror, Andrew touches my cheek and adds, “Richie will call you in an hour.”

And then he disappears into the crowd. Nauseated, trembling, I turn back to Desmond. I try and smile innocently, but all at once I can tell what Desmond’s worked out. His face has gone pale. He blinks his eyes rapidly. He hops off the stool and backs away from me, all the way out the door to the Batmobile at the curb.

“Desmond.” I follow him and touch his sleeve. He wrenches it away. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Desmond spits, his gaze momentarily meeting mine. His eyes are black. I’ve never seen them so narrowed. Shaking his head, he walks to the opened driver’s side, falls into the seat, and pulls the door down. I try the passenger side, but he’s locked it.

“Desmond!” I cry, pulling at the handle. “Come on! Open up! It’s not what it looks like.”

Desmond stares at me through the glass. I press my hand to the window. The glass is so cold, like it’s been sitting in a refrigerator. Which doesn’t make sense, given the late-day heat. I can think about only this, because everything else is too difficult and too terrible to ponder.

Desmond starts the engine. Then he rolls down the window. “Desmond,” I say desperately, feeling a whoosh of air-conditioning sweep my cheeks. “Desmond, please. I’m sorry. There’s something wrong with me. Something huge. My MRI scans were negative. I might not have even been in the hospital. So I need to talk to you. We need to figure this out. You said you’d help me, remember?”

A few beats go by. Desmond’s eyes are still so dark. Finally, he ducks his head. “No, Eliza. I can’t help you. From now on, you’re on your own.”





From The Dots


M&F had had a staff change in the few weeks Dot had stayed away. The baby-faced bartender was gone, and a pudgy, surly Scot had taken his place. There was a thin, dark-haired guy in charge of the waitstaff, and a waitress took orders. She wore a men’s white shirt, same as the boys, with long pants and wingtips. When she gave a special to the table next to Dot and Dorothy, she spoke in a deep, masculine voice. Dot focused on the waitress as a way to dispel her nervousness. She pictured the waitress changing into a dress later, slipping out of those clunky shoes, and going somewhere with her boyfriend or girlfriend. Living an easy, uncomplicated life.

Bernie was still there, though, and he swept over to their table first thing and made a huge deal out of how his two favorite ladies were back.

“Drinks on me,” he said lavishly. He didn’t seem skittish in the least about Dorothy being there. Dot looked around; there were no cops barricading the door.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” Dot called out, faking joy.

Dorothy raised a surprised eyebrow. “Two stingers, then, please.”

As Bernie mixed the drinks, Dot tightened and untightened her calf muscles, desperate for release. Dorothy seemed nervous, too, unfolding her napkin and then folding it up again, rooting around in her purse, twisting her earring on her lobe.

“I’m glad you came, darling,” she said. “After that last incident—well, I wasn’t so sure. I don’t know what your mother’s told you, but it’s all lies.”

Dot shrugged. “She’s just worried about me.”

Dorothy pressed her fingers to her temples. “She never understood me. Never at all.” She glanced at Dot, her face pained. “Lucky for me, though, there was Thomas.” She stares morosely at the jungle-animal mural behind us. “He was an angel. He had the sweetest disposition when he wanted to. And boy did he love his mama.” She lowered her head. “The day he died, something inside me died, too.”

Every cell in Dot’s body went very still. “And was that why you had to go to Bridgewater Hospital?”

The skin around Dorothy’s mouth slackened. “Pardon?”

“I saw a picture of you there. A Life article.”

Bernie set down the drinks and then backed away. Dorothy stared into her cocktail glass, then picked off the mint garnish and dropped it to her napkin. “So you’ve done some digging, I see. A regular investigative journalist.”

“I looked you up because I was afraid there was something I didn’t know.”

“And you found it.” Dorothy dabbed at her mouth. “Yes. I went there after Thomas passed. I needed some . . . time. To think. To get away from my life.”

Dot nodded. Okay. Maybe that wasn’t so bad. It was the best possible reason to have gone to a place like that. A good answer, an understandable answer.

“Losing a child is the worst tragedy one can experience. And then consider how he died—well. I just felt so . . . empty. So alone. I suppose I should have explained to your mother, though, because since then, she’s worried there’s something wrong with me.” Dorothy met Dot’s gaze, and Dot must have been unconsciously nodding, because she added, “It’s not true, though. There’s no more wrong with me than there is with anyone else in this world.” She laced her hands together. “God, how I’ve wished to tell you for so long. But I was afraid you’d be afraid of me. I was afraid you’d judge me without asking questions, just like your mother did.” She raised her glass in a toast. “Anyway. To being strong enough to tell my wonderful niece the truth.”