The Elizas: A Novel(87)

“Eliza.” Roz is back by my side, poking my arm. “Go.”

The host must have called my name, because the audience is clapping. I am pushed through the curtain. The cameras swivel over and record me as I stand, transfixed. I try to smile, but my fear has taken control of the muscles of my face. Past the cameras, I see an audience sitting in grandstand-style seats. One figure stands out from the others. My heart jumps all the way up to my brain.

I point at her. “You!”

The me in the audience touches her breast. Her lips part. Shapes rearrange, and it’s a middle-aged woman, well-dressed, with red lipstick and a big handbag on her lap. The kaleidoscope turns again. Now it’s all Elizas in the audience. A hundred clones of me, out for blood. I blink. It’s back to bleachers of strangers.

I wheel around to Roxanne. “Help me,” I whisper, not loud enough for the microphone to pick up.

“Eliza?” Roxanne beckons from the couch. “Come over here, darling, and let’s talk about this amazing new book of yours!”

I see an excited expression on her face, but I don’t know how to respond to it. I can feel the sweat running down my forehead. “I know you’re here,” I say, loudly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Pardon?” Roxanne asks.

My gaze sweeps the set again. Cameras. Tech people. Audience. Blue Los Angeles sky. “Just come out. Show me who you are.”

“Eliza!” Roz hisses from the wings. “What the hell?”

Roxanne, still standing, smiles at the audience. “Uh, I believe we’re having some technical difficulties, so this might be a good time to break for commercial.”

“No!” a voice hisses from stage right. “Keep going! This is great!”

Roxanne presses her lips together. Behind her, I see a glint of light followed by a flash of dark. It’s the other me. I lunge for it. The audience screams. Roxanne steps away from my outstretched arms, stumbling in her high heels, but I barely notice her. I reach the chairs and shove them aside, their legs making angry scrapes against the concrete. I peer behind the Dr. Roxanne banner; there’s a small, landscaped Eden full of flowering plants. A rippling pond burbles happily. I know this pond, I realize. I sat here, one morning, wickedly hungover, and pitched pennies into its lowest tier.

No, you didn’t, a voice inside me shouts. Dot did. Not you.

But I did. I did.

I fumble out from behind the curtain and face the audience. “Where are you? Come out so I can talk to you!” I can hear my ragged breathing. I can sense the expression on my face. And yet I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop any of this.

“We’re going to commercial,” Roxanne decides, walking straight for the camera.

There’s that loud buzz; the director reluctantly yells cut. The audience’s murmurs grow louder. Everyone is staring at me. Roxanne scuttles off the set. Roz hurries over to me. “Eliza,” she whispers. She doesn’t sound angry anymore. More like shaken and frightened. “I think it would be best if you came backstage with me, okay?”

“No.” I say it so forcefully spit flies out of my mouth, landing on her cheek.

“You’re clearly having some sort of . . . moment. It’s upsetting our guests.”

“I’m being hunted. It’s not going to stop until I’m dead.”

Roz notices my microphone and pulls it off my shirt. “If you just come backstage, if you have some water—we’ll get this sorted out.”

“Don’t you understand?” I scream. “I’m in danger! I’m. In. Danger!”

A gasp from the onlookers. “Stop!” someone else screams, and I feel hands pulling me backward. “Eliza, stop!”

I stare down at myself. Somehow, I’ve grabbed Roz’s shirt, and I’m shaking her. “I’m sorry,” I start to say, but Roz has already turned backstage.

I turn around to assess whoever has pulled me backward. A tall, hefty security guard with a shaved head takes my arm. “Time to go, miss.”

I stare at his dark, fleshy fingers around my biceps. “W-where are you taking me?”

“Off the property. If you go quietly, no one will press charges.”

I dig in my heels. “Don’t leave me out there alone. She’ll find me.”

His expression hardens. “You’ve created enough of a disturbance. Let’s go.”

“Please!” I beg. I can feel the tears running down my cheeks. “Please, I’m scared!”

We push through the cut in the curtains. The whole production team is standing there: Amanda the makeup lady; Cathy, who blow-dried my hair; about fifty PAs. They are staring, slack-jawed. I sense the Eliza vibration again, and the world starts to wobble. Nerves snap at the surface of my skin. I can feel my legs crumpling, and suddenly I’m on the ground. I can’t move. At least if I stay here, I’m around people, and she won’t get me.

“Miss Fontaine.” The guard yanks at my arm. “Get up.”

“I can’t,” I whisper. “Don’t make me. Don’t leave me alone.”

“Get up.”

“I’ve got her.”

It’s a new voice, one I know. Bill stands above me. I peer at him, fearful, paranoid—why is he here? I wonder, suddenly, if he’s also in on the plot—maybe they all are. Maybe they all know who this woman is who’s lurking around, ready to hurt me. Maybe they’re all best friends.