The Elizas: A Novel(92)

In the mirror, as if in answer, a shadow shifted behind a curtain across the room. Dot whirled around, heart in her throat. “Dorothy?” she called out.

Shifting, shuffling. Dot crouched down, eye-level with clean glassware. “Dorothy?” she cried again, her teeth chattering. It had to be her over there. She was still alive. Maybe her body had never been in the morgue. Maybe her parents were lying. Maybe the police were confused. Maybe that was why Dr. Singh wasn’t here, either—he was keeping a secret. This was all a ruse.

The curtain shifted and fluttered. Dot pressed her hands over her eyes, knowing Dorothy was going to fling it wide and come for her. She bolted out from behind the bar, down the back hallway, and into the alley. But the scene was too familiar and haunting—this was where they’d had their fight. A few doors down was the pizza parlor, where Marlon had found her. Her gaze swung to the hotel on the next block. Out front, surrounded by a little gate, was a swimming pool for guests. At present, it was empty, the pool lights making the water glow a brassy gold.

Footsteps rang out behind her. Goose bumps rose on Dot’s arms. She could think of nothing but the pool and its welcoming water. She hurried toward it. The fence was high, but she was able to climb it without much problem. When she turned, a figure in silhouette rushed over the fence, too. She let out a yelp and stretched her arms out, falling headfirst into the pool. She sank so fast that her head hit the bottom.

She shut her eyes at first, but then rolled over and opened them. Someone stood above her on the pool deck. To her horror, the figure jumped in. Dot fought to swim away, but she was running out of oxygen. She felt her body being dragged to the surface. Her lungs gasped for air, and she gagged once she was on the concrete. Her hair made a wet fan around her face.

As soon as she saw her mother, she started to cry. “She’s coming for me. She’s coming.”

Her mother pressed a towel against Dot’s chest. “No one’s coming for you. I promise.”

“That’s not true. She’s not going to rest until I make this right.”

Her mother’s face broke. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Sit up. Look for yourself. No one is here. She’s gone, Dot. She’s really gone.”

Weak as she was, Dot did what she was told. The pool area was empty. The street was empty. She touched her face and wet hair. Her legs were so cold they were starting to shiver. She looked at her mother, something breaking inside her. “I can’t keep this to myself,” she blurted. “It isn’t right.”

Her mother’s eyebrows knit together. “You have to.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Dot. You have to.” Her hands clutched Dot’s forearms. “Promise me. Please. I can’t lose you.”

It was the kindest thing Dot’s mother had ever said to her, and through her sinking quicksand of panic, Dot felt a small flare of recognition of that. But it passed quickly through her, hardly making an impression. “I can’t go on,” she said again. “I can’t be haunted.”

“Then we’ll find a way for it to un-haunt you.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Dot stared. She’d fallen prey to comforting words before. But she found herself leaning against her mother’s arms anyway, cradled, comforted, feeling, at least briefly, that she was safe.





ELIZA


MY CHEEK HITS the leather seat of Bill’s car. My wet hair snakes around me, soaking my neck; droplets plop onto my palm. Bill, wet too, tries to put the seat belt around my waist, but it’s awkward with the way I’m lying, so he gives up and leaves me unbuckled. I shut my eyes, awash in misery. I don’t want to be breathing. I don’t want to be alive. I wish Bill would have left me in that pool.

Sometime later, I see a slice of blue sky out the window, half of a tree. I hear Bill speaking to someone on the phone, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. I must doze off again, because the next thing I know I am slumped over in a wheelchair, and Bill is speaking to a triage nurse: “Do you think she’s suicidal?” And then, Bill: “Yes. She jumped into a pool, and she can’t swim.” “Let’s get her back there, get her checked out.” A hand on my arm. “Honey?” Hot breath, the smell of latex gloves. Hair tickles my earlobe. I try to look toward the sound of the voice, but my eyes won’t cooperate.

“She’s not moving,” comes the woman’s voice.

I am lifted under my arms and hefted onto a mattress; I roll to my side and curl in a ball. Around me: Beeps. Dings. Footsteps. Sighs.

“Hello?” I call, much later, raising my head. It is dark, and I am alone. I am seven years old again. I am wearing a charm bracelet of skeletons. I’ve just knocked over a plate full of chicken and carrots. I’m seeing double of everything. “Is anyone here?”

“I’m here.” A squeak of the chair. My gaze focuses, and it’s my mother standing above me. A blanket is pressed over my body. Her touch is warm on my forehead.

“Where am I?” I ask, my mouth cottony and my words slow. “Is my tumor back?”

She breathes out a small puff of air. “Oh, Eliza. It hasn’t been back for years.”

? ? ?

In some ways, The Oaks Wellness Center is worse than I imagined. The rooms are too cold and there are too few blankets—maybe the staff thinks the patients are going to knot them together and climb out the window, I’m not sure. For the first week, when I lie on my bed, curled up and feral, resistant to talk or medication or sleep or food, not a single staff member is nurturing.