The Elizas: A Novel(89)

I widen my eyes. More pieces snap together. “I didn’t have a brain tumor, did I? That’s why there’s no record of me at UCLA. I checked, you know. I made a fool out of myself, claiming I was sick when I wasn’t. I even got an MRI because I thought the tumor came back!”

He licks his lip. “You had a mass as a child, but it was benign, and everything was removed. But not last year. That’s just what we told you. It was a more rational story. And no, you weren’t at UCLA. You were somewhere else.”

I’m horrified. “Doing that other thing? That PTSD bullshit?”

He looks wrecked. “It’s very cutting-edge. Scientists have targeted genes that make proteins that either enhance memory or interfere with it. There’s a new drug that acts on those genes, turns them off so certain memories are suppressed. You talked to a therapist a lot, too. He had you do hypnosis a lot, and for a while, you seemed cured. You forgot . . . and that seemed like the best thing for you. We thought we were protecting you. From the police—and from yourself.”

Bile rises in my throat. “I wouldn’t agree to that. It sounds like bullshit.”

“Well, we forced you to. We got a court document and everything, but you probably don’t remember. And . . . well, it was bullshit, kind of, because instead of you forgetting, you created Dot.” He presses his hands to his eyes. “We thought the process had worked. You seemed so well. So happy. And we thought that when you were writing a novel, it was about something else. We should have asked to see it far sooner than we did. We shouldn’t have believed you when you said it wasn’t going to be published for a long time. We just didn’t want to push—we were afraid you were fragile. So we let it go. But we’re afraid people will read it and realize that it’s true. We don’t want anything to happen to you, Eliza. You shouldn’t be punished for what you did.”

“I didn’t do it,” I insist. “I mean, Dorothy—Eleanor—isn’t even dead! She was with me at the Shipstead at the Tranquility the night Gabby pushed me into the pool. A bartender saw her! And she’s here, now. I’ve seen her everywhere.” Something else strikes me. “For all I know, she’s impersonating me, all over town. People have seen me out and about—at yoga studios, at the shop I work at, at clubs—but I distinctly remember not being in those places. It’s like she’s trying to take over my life!” Just saying it chills me. Could it be true?

Bill shakes his head. “Eleanor is dead. I promise you.”

I look at him through tears. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because the police told us so. It was her ID. But she was taken away. I guess she didn’t want any of us to see her. But it was her, Eliza. I promise you.”

I blink hard, trying to let this sink in. It just doesn’t seem possible. “And you’re sure I did it?” He nods sadly. “How are you sure?”

“Because you kept saying so. You said it over and over. You were like Lady Macbeth. Possessed.”

I shut my eyes. All of a sudden, an image swims against my closed eyelids. I see two women standing near a highway overpass. One of them is an older, pretty woman wrapped in a fur. Her shoulders are hunched, and her mouth is open in a scream. Behind her is the guardrail; to the left glows the sign for St. Mother Maria’s. Orbs of neon headlights gleam below.

Then I look at the person next to her. She’s yelling, too. And though I can’t see what she’s wearing—something in the foreground cuts out the lower half of her, only showing her face—she looks awfully familiar. She is standing in the same way I pictured Dot in those final moments. It’s possible she’s thinking what Dot was thinking in those final moments.

I look at Bill in horror. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.” But even as the words spill from my mouth, I’m not sure I believe them anymore. Because it was me. It couldn’t be anyone else.

This seems to unlock a door, because memories smash through a wall. The feeling is almost palpable; I want to cover my head to protect myself from the deluge. All Dot’s memories can’t be mine. They can’t.

But then I try it out. Eleanor Reitman. My aunt. And there it comes, spilling over the dam. Little me, prancing through a beautiful room at the Magnolia Hotel, trying on gowns in Eleanor Reitman’s closet.

Little me, playing Oscar Night, coming out in a gown way too long for me, answering Eleanor’s questions about who I was wearing (“Wednesday Addams Couture,” I always said) and what my beauty tips were (“No sleep, lots of cookies”).

Little me, playing Funeral, lying in that silk coffin, the two of us giggling, my arms reaching out for my mother to come play, too. Sometimes she’d join in, but others she’d rush off, late for work.

Little me in the hospital, miserable, terrified. Aunt Eleanor bursting through in that silk wrap dress, carrying that Chanel bag, making everything perfect.

Stella the look-alike taking my blood pressure. Los Angeles magazine. The ICU. Me hearing my doctor’s voice yelling at someone outside the hall. Eleanor’s frostiness. Her paranoia. Don’t tell them anything. I hear her voice through the phone.

Bill and Gabby coming to the door of our house, me pouring that glass of vodka, Gabby looking on with wide, spooked eyes. Maybe you shouldn’t be doing that, she’d said—but not because it was taboo. Because I’d been sick. Because she felt sorry for what I’d been through. They’d told her everything—including the part about Eleanor. That’s why Gabby took the blame. That’s also why Gabby didn’t want to rehash it, days ago.