The Elizas

by Sara Shepard

  “I understand. But here.” Dorothy rooted around in her tote and handed Dot something wrapped in red paper. Dot went to tuck it away, but Dorothy bobbed her head, indicating she open it now. Slowly, Dot pulled the paper off. Inside was a dusty copy of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.

  “It’s a first edition, first printing,” Dorothy explained. “A collector’s item.”

  Dot raised the book to her nose. It smelled like mustiness and paper, an old bookstore. She’d read The Bell Jar already. The choice felt oddly significant, eerily canny, like Dorothy knew what Dot had found out about her.

  “Have dinner with me,” Dorothy whispered, clutching Dot’s hand. Her fingers felt cold and bony. “Tonight. Please, darling. At our place. Please, and I’ll explain what’s going on. I’ll tell you why your mother is doing this. I need you to hear my side.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the police?”

  “Oh, honey, there’s no concern about the police. Your mother . . . that was just to scare you. And me. Please. You won’t be doing anything wrong. Please meet me. It’s very important.”

  Dot could feel her boyfriend shift his weight in the chair. A flare of pain pinged in her head, then fizzled out. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll see you there.”

  She shut the door and turned back to her boyfriend, her knees shaking. Her boyfriend gawked at her. “What the hell is wrong with you? We should call the cops right now!”

  “No, I have an idea. A way to prove if it’s actually happening. And if it’s true, then we can go to the police.”

  She told him the idea. He pressed his hands over his eyes and shook his head. “No, Dot. No. You can’t do that.” He went through all the reasons why. Dot nodded. Maybe he was right. It probably was dangerous, even illegal. What they should do is wait until Dorothy came to them again at the dorm. Then they would call 911. Dorothy’s boyfriend said he would stay with her every night to protect her. He would make sure she was never alone here.

  Dot’s boyfriend’s watch went off. It was time for him to go to class; her too. “You promise you won’t see her later?” he begged her as they parted at the quad.

  “I promise,” Dot answered.

  His expression was guarded, haggard, and sad. He pressed her little hands between his big ones just as Dorothy had done. “All right. If you need anything, call me. I’ll keep my phone on. I’ll check it every ten minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll see you in eight hours, right?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  But eight hours was a long time. Dot tried to wait it out, she really did. Seven hours in, she changed her mind and left campus. If she didn’t go, if she didn’t try her plan, she would always wonder.

  She needed to know the truth.

  ELIZA

  I PUSH THE door open to the bar. Andrew is on his regular stool, thank God. He jack-in-the-boxes up as he sees me. His eyes gleam hungrily, traveling up my legs, around my waist. My heart hammers in my chest, and though this goes against every instinct I have, I slither toward him and smile.

  “I have a proposition for you,” I say, sliding into the stool next to him.

  “Don’t you always,” he answers with a smarmy smile.

  I tell him I know who he is. I explain what happened to me, what I want. Andrew seems surprised. “You’re the girl who fell in the pool?” he says. “My dad said you were pretty fucked up.”

  I choose to ignore this. “I’m looking to talk to the bartender who was at the Shipstead that night. It’s important. I want to know who I was talking to at the bar.”

  Andrew stares at the popcorn machine in the corner. He sits back on the stool and takes a long sip of his drink. The Rolling Stones rock through us, the bass jacked so high my teeth ache. He drums on the side of his leg, then taps the air as though he’s hitting an imaginary high-hat. He looks at me for approval, and I obligatorily laugh. I hate that I have to laugh. I hate that I need him, and I hate that I have stooped to asking this of him.

  Finally, after letting me twist in the wind long enough, he says, “I can probably get that sort of information. If you’re willing to . . .” He juts his chin toward the bathroom.

  “Make the call first,” I demand. “Then we’ll discuss.”

  Andrew leans back a little, suddenly wary. But I don’t care if he’s afraid of me. Maybe it’s a good thing.

  Sighing, Andrew pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and dials a number. “Chris?” he says after a pause. “Hey! Andy.” (Andy? I’m struck, too, by how smooth his voice sounds. Assured and assertive.) “Yeah, man. I’m good. Listen, can you give me the Shipstead schedule for . . .” He looks at me. “Four weeks ago?”

  I nod.

  “Four. Well, four and a few days. It was on a Saturday. Shipstead. Yep—I’m looking to see who was on Saturday night.”

  “It was Richie,” I say out loud. I knew that.

  Andrew pauses, listening. He hangs up and looks at me. “Richie. Look at you.”

  “Yes, but I want to talk to him.”

  Andrew groans, but he dials another number. I listen to him talking to someone else this time and explaining who he’s trying to reach. After a minute, Andrew asks me my phone number, the first time he ever has. He repeats it into his phone, then hangs up. “Richie will call you in an hour.”

  “An hour?”

  “That’s the best I can do. His boss tried to reach him, but he didn’t pick up. But he’s working tonight, so he’ll be at the bar in an hour. Then he’ll call you.”

  “Can I at least get Richie’s number in case he forgets to call me?”

  Andrew’s smile is the same smarmy one I saw on the Tranquility website. “Sorry. I didn’t happen to get it.”

  “Can you call back?”

  “Liza, he said he’d call. Don’t be such a freak.”

  Then he reaches for my waist, wanting what I’ve offered in exchange. I recoil, curling my fingers into a fist.

  “No fucking way.”

  I slide off the stool fast. I hope it’s the last time I ever see Andrew.

  The bar is more crowded than when I came in; people stare at the baseball game on TV. Brian the bartender hands out shots; his gaze meets mine as I snake toward the door. He yells my name, saying something I can’t make out.

  “What?” I ask, inching closer to him.

  “Someone’s here for you,” he says, jutting a finger toward the front.

  My head swivels to the window. The Batmobile is outside. My heart jumps into my throat. Then I see Desmond sitting at a bistro table next to the Lotto machine. I stop and try to think of something to say, but my mind has gone terrifyingly blank.

  “Hi” is all I can muster.

  “Eliza.” He laces his fingers together. “I thought you weren’t going to chase this today.”

  I run my hands over my hair. “I know. I’m sorry. I just knew I could check quickly, so . . .” I shrug. Offer an apologetic smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Brian the bartender glowering at me, probably ready to call me a cunt under his breath.

  “Well, did you find anything out?” Desmond asks.

  “Nope. So let’s get out of here, okay? You were right. I should be thinking about the show. And the limo’s going to show up soon.”

  Desmond frowns at someone behind me. When I turn, Andrew is there. He’s not standing particularly close, but his skin smells like my perfume. There’s also a huge hickey on his neck—not from me, but it could look like it was from me, it’s so red and fresh.

  I notice Desmond’s gaze on the hickey, too. My cheeks blaze. Go away, I will Andrew silently. Instead, he leans even closer, cupping his hands to my ear so I can hear him over the noise. “Found this on the floor, Liza.”

  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.”

  “To being strong,” Dot answered, touching her glass to her aunt’s. She tried her hardest to take a hearty sip of the minty-smelling liquid, but Dot had always thought stingers tasted like the gum one chewed to cover up the bite of bile.

  “Your mother is prejudiced about my time at Bridgewater,” Dorothy went on. “And then, when I left you, she thought it was just a further example of something wrong with me. She said to me, You’re breaking her heart if you leave. And then, a few years later, If you come back, you’ll just confuse her. You’re a bad influence.”

  “Wait,” Dot interrupted. “You spoke to her while you were away?”

  Dorothy blinked. “Just to see how you were doing. To make sure you were doing okay. She owed me that.”

  “And you didn’t want to talk to me?”

  Dorothy set her drink back down and placed her hands flat on the table. Her rings glittered. “Darling, your mother wouldn’t let me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . well, it’s complicated.”

  Dot jiggled her legs under the table. Restraining order, restraining over. The document was real, all right. But were the reasons it was drafted real? How could she even think such horrible things? Dot’s throat caught as she swallowed.

  When Dot looked back up, her aunt’s smile was composed and endearing. “You look so overwrought. You might want to go to the bathroom and freshen up.”

  “I’m fine,” Dot insisted. She wasn’t sure her legs would hold her if she stood.

  “Take my word for it,” Dorothy said firmly. “You need a little break. Go compose yourself, and then come back and let’s have a nice dinner, like we always do.”

  Like we always do. Dot opened and closed her fist. Maybe this was an opening. An opportunity—for both of them. She shut her eyes, knowing what sort of courage she needed to summon. It was now or never. Slowly, surreptitiously, she lined up her cocktail glass so that it was even with the M initial on the M&F dinner plate. Then she stood, trying not to give anything away in her expression. Her heart was pounding so hard.

  “Okay, I’ll be back,” she said, gathering strength.

  The bathroom was a long hallway of black-and-white tile and old-fashioned bronze sinks. Dot grabbed a mint from a bowl on the counter and banged into a stall, slumping on the seat, sucking on the mint until it became a flat, sharp disc. She thought about Dorothy out there, alone with both of their drinks. What was she doing? Nothing . . . or something? In a twisted way, did Dot want her to be doing something? After all, a normal aunt wouldn’t suit Dot any more than a plain cotton T-shirt from the Gap. Was she fulfilling her own fantasy? But that was silly, too—she was fulfilling no fantasy, because Dorothy wasn’t going to follow through with it. She loved Dot. They were soul mates.

  A stall door banged, a toilet flushed, and then Dot’s mind tipped again. Thomas fluttered into her thoughts. Yes, it was after Thomas died, D
orothy had just said about the Bridgewater Hospital. I just felt so empty. So alone.

  But did Thomas have to die?

  All of a sudden, Dot pictured the little boy from the photo she’d seen playing baseball with his friends, pretending to make a toy airplane fly by hurling it across the lawn. Then she remembered what Dorothy had said once about how she was sure there was something wrong with Thomas’s brain, but the doctors wouldn’t listen. She pictured him in a hospital bed, slowly wasting away, slowly growing more and more bipolar. “Doctors are all morons,” Dorothy always said. “Morons and crooks. I knew he was going to do something like take his own life if we didn’t get answers. And then, look—he did.”

  She almost choked on the mint in her mouth. The similarities were so clear. Dot couldn’t believe she’d never seen it before. All this time, she’d felt sorry for Dorothy for having lost Thomas. Maybe it was Thomas she should have felt sorry for instead.

  She rolled back her shoulders and emerged from the stall reenergized. Her pupils were very small in the bathroom mirror. Her chest heaved up and down. She used her shoulder to shove the door open and walked into the back hallway. It was empty, but all of a sudden, she thought she heard the tiniest wisp of a breath behind a defunct phone booth. She stood on her tiptoes. The shadows were opaque. Nothing moved.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  The only sound was the low hum of voices in the dining room. The hair stood on the back of Dot’s neck, but she couldn’t make out anyone hiding in the depths of the hall. Swallowing hard, she whirled back around toward her table.

  Dorothy had her hands folded in her lap, but even from far away, Dot could tell her glass was no longer lined up with the M on the plate. A voice inside her head begged that it could be nothing—maybe Bernie had moved it. But she was starting to ignore that voice more and more.

  “Well, you look much better,” Dorothy purred as Dot sat. “I always say taking just a moment to freshen up in the restroom does wonders.”