The Elizas_A Novel

by Sara Shepard

  For a moment, I’m not sure what to say. “The Dots?” I bleat, finally. He nods. “H-how did you know I wrote that?”

  “Forgive me, but after they took you away in the ambulance, I Googled you. I thought it would be important to know about the person whose life I just saved. And I read a press release about your book. It seemed right up my alley, so I requested a copy through the Amazon Vine program.”

  It strikes me as odd that a man like this thought my book would be right up his alley. Then again, I have no idea who my ideal reader is—except myself.

  “But I didn’t receive it.” Desmond sounds disappointed. “Amazon said it wasn’t available until publication.”

  “Yeah, we didn’t end up going with the Vine promotion.” I pick at a loose splinter on the table. “But how did you know my name at all? Did the cops read it off my ID or something?”

  “You told me it. After I pulled you out. You were lucid. Talking. Once I got you breathing again, that is.”

  My cheeks burn. I’d forgotten about receiving mouth-to-mouth. I imagine Desmond’s bristly facial hair scraping against my skin. On instinct, my chin starts to feel rashy.

  “I don’t remember that at all. What did I say, exactly?”

  “Just your name, and something about a murder taking place at the resort in the sixties. And then your eyes got very big and you said, It is I!”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Huh.” That sounds like something Gloria Swanson would say in Sunset Boulevard as she swirled into the ballroom in all her jewels. I used to watch that movie at least once a month.

  “Anyway, after that, the paramedics showed up—my companion had called 911.”

  “Your companion?” I picture an older, moneyed fellow leading this guy around on a studded leash.

  “Paul. A work friend. I did all the rescuing, though.” He smiles. “So how did you come up with your book idea? I find authors so intriguing. I’m hoping I might write a book someday.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call myself an author, per se.”

  His face falls. “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve only written one book. And it’s not even out.”

  He smiles at this, like I’ve told a joke. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll write others.”

  I don’t know about that. And I have no idea how we’ve gotten so off-topic. I clear my throat. “So on Saturday, you and your companion just happened to be strolling by the pool area when I fell in, or . . . ?”

  “That’s right. I was showing Paul around the grounds. It’s a beautiful resort, isn’t it? But then we heard thunder and started inside. We cut through next to the pool area, and that’s when I heard the splash. I looked over the fence and saw there were no lifeguards. Then I noticed that whoever had jumped in wasn’t coming up for air.”

  He says this boastfully, as though this is Sherlock Holmes–level sleuthing. “So you jumped in and fished me out?” I ask.

  “Exactly.” He smiles proudly. “I didn’t waste a moment. You were easy to pull to the surface. So light! Like a hollow piece of wood!”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever been compared to a piece of wood before. “But there was no one else in the pool area?”

  “I believe everyone had been told to leave. Paul had to run for help. By the time a guard came, I’d already revived you.” His eyes shine. “Do you remember?”

  “I already told you. I don’t remember anything.”

  “Ah.” Desmond nods. “So! I suppose you want to know about me, then? Your dashing rescuer who brought you back to life?”

  I blink. Maybe this is why normal people invite their rescuers over: to thank them. To stroke their egos. To promise them their firstborn. Or to find out what their rescuers are like, so they can tell said firstborn. I want to laugh, but I don’t want to wound Desmond’s pride. He might leave.

  But before I can say anything, Desmond goes, “Oh, now, don’t be shy. Let’s see. My middle name is Lawrence. I was born in December—a Capricorn. I drink a lot of absinthe. The real kind, not the tripe they sell here in the States. I have a dealer in Nice.” He leans back. “Have you ever tried it? The only true way to drink it is the way the artistes did, in Paris, poured over a sugar cube on a spoon.”

  “Sounds gross,” I say absently, because I fear any enthusiasm might usher in an invitation to an absinthe-drinking event.

  Desmond looks wounded. “It’s not gross. It’s transcendent. I got into it during my side job. I’m the lead Caesar at the Circus Maximus in San Fernando.”

  “The what?”

  “The Circus Maximus! In the Valley? The celebration of ancient Roman and Greek culture? Among other things, we do a reenactment of the Pompeii volcano disaster and all five acts of Julius Caesar. It’s quite well-attended.” I must be looking at him with confusion, because he adds, “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the Circus Maximus. I thought I read you were an English major.”

  I wonder what else he’s read about me. “What does being an English major have to do with knowing about a Renaissance Faire in the Valley?”

  He harrumphs. “It is not a Renaissance Faire. You should check it out. For two weeks in July, there are gladiator events, a soothsayer, a replication of the Oracle at Delphi, a reenactment of Homer’s Odyssey . . .”

  “That’s from a completely different time period!”

  He frowns. “Well, sure, but we take some creative liberties.”

  “And you’re Caesar, huh?” I can so picture him in a toga and with a laurel in his hair. “You like it?”

  He juts up his nose. “It’s intense. I get assassinated twenty times in the two-week period. I try to really get into the character, which means every time I go down, it really and truly feels like a death.” He looks at me meaningfully, and for a moment—a very, very brief one—I’m a little bit curious. I wonder if he could possibly think about death as much as I do. I wonder if he likes reading suicide notes as much as I do.

  But then I fear I’ve let my gaze linger on him too long, and I avert my eyes. “So, um, what brought you to the Tranquility again?”

  “Well, I’m a bit of a celebrity, too,” Desmond says loftily. “Besides being Caesar, I mean. I’m also the second-in-command of marketing for the Los Angeles Comic-Con. I was meeting with my team to strategize for this year’s event. We came up with very important initiatives, like how we’re going to have members of the Umbrella Corp from Resident Evil protect the female cosplayers in case anyone harasses them. Those Umbrella people mean business.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. I also want to laugh, but I think he’s actually serious. I can picture the poster in Tranquility’s lobby: Comic-Con’s logo, and then instructions directing the attendees to one of the conference rooms on the second floor. “So basically, your whole life is about conventions.”

  His eyes dance. “I love conventions. Hopefully, in the future, there will be conventions for everything you’re into. People with the same interests could gather together and unite in their shared devotion to old-timey medicine balls, for instance. Or clock making. Or squirrels.”

  “Isn’t that what social media’s for?”

  He sighs. “It saddens me how social media has changed the way we interact with one another.”

  “So you don’t have an Instagram account, then? No Facebook for the convention?”

  “Well, yes. Of course I do. But that’s different. That’s useful.”

  “You didn’t by any chance retire to the Shipstead bar after your strategizing?” I ask, deciding to change the subject again, hoping we’ve done enough getting-to-know-you bullshit.

  He fiddles with the hair on his chin. “I don’t know the name of the place we went to. What’s it look like?”

  “They’re going for a yacht club feel, but it’s more like a down-market cruise ship.”

  “Nope, we were in the one that looked like Easter Island.”

  I sigh. “I was hoping you could fill in a few blanks for me. Apparently I was at the Shipstead that
night.”

  “But I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “I don’t. Normally.” My brain catches. “How did you know I didn’t drink?”

  There’s a small flicker across his lips, practically concealed under his curly mustache. “I think you told me. You were saying all kinds of things when you regained consciousness.” Then he leans in. “So you can’t remember anything?” I shake my head. “That sounds like what happened to our best chariot driver. He got trampled, had a concussion, and he forgot not only what happened that day but the whole two weeks of the ludi circenses. He never got any of it back, poor man.” Desmond looks mournful.

  I want to roll my eyes. I have a feeling the Circus Maximus is like what I’ve heard about athletes in the Olympic Village: they’re crammed together in close quarters, dressed in questionable clothing, and they’re all so excited about the pomp and circumstance that they celebrate by having lots and lots of sex. Except that in the Olympic Village, everyone is a hot Olympic athlete, and at the Circus Maximus, most people have day jobs at Best Buy. Still, I appreciate Desmond’s acceptance of my botched memory. He’s the first person I’ve come into contact with who isn’t looking at me and this pool situation like it’s all my doing.

  “Well, I’m glad you were able to rescue me,” I say.

  “I’m glad, too.” His eyes sparkle. “It’s not every day someone like you falls to the bottom of a pool.”

  “I didn’t mean to fall into that pool, you know,” I blurt, before I can help myself.

  “I am aware,” he says, without missing a beat. But then he cocks his head and looks at me strangely. “Come again?”

  There is a swoop in my stomach, but I decide to tell him. Desmond seems like he’s a lot of things, but I doubt he’ll judge. “I didn’t jump in. And I didn’t accidentally fall in, either.”

  Desmond’s brow furrows. An expression slides across his face I can’t quite discern. Alarm, perhaps. A sudden bolt to the brain. “So then you . . .” He trails off. His Adam’s apple bobs.

  My heart lurches. “I think someone pushed me. Do you know anything about that?”

  He glances over his shoulder. “I don’t . . . I’m not sure. It could have been nothing.”

  “Please.” I step closer to him, the closest I’ve been to him all day. He smells like a greenhouse. Moss and algae. “Tell me what you know.”

  He glances behind him again. The silence seems to close in on us. The sun breaks from behind a cloud, slanting at us sideways, searing the part in my hair. Desmond’s tongue darts from his mouth, pink and minnow-like.

  “I think I saw someone running away.”

  From The Dots

  Even after Dot’s brain tumor was removed and she underwent radiation, her seizures still came weekly. The scariest were when she was at home, away from medical equipment and knowledgeable hands. Dorothy was always present and ready, her arms outstretched to catch Dot’s falls. On their way to the hospital, Dorothy called Dot’s mother. One time, she put her on speakerphone. “Wait, she had another one?” Dot’s mother’s voice squawked through the car. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Dorothy pressed her lips together and quickly disabled the speaker function. When she was done with the call, she glanced at Dot in the backseat. “I’m sure your mother didn’t mean anything by that. She’s just worried.” But Dot felt alarmed. She’d never heard her mother use the word fuck, and certainly not in relation to her.

  Her aunt spirited Dot to the hospital, though she chose a different one to bring her to than the place where Dot had had brain surgery: St. Mother Maria’s, located west of the city. “It’s the best of the best,” she told Dot. Dorothy had an encyclopedic knowledge on the best of the best. She knew the best place to get a shoeshine, your spine adjusted, or the perfect banana split; she knew the best restaurants to pick up a fireman or a studio executive. She knew the best ways to fake a car accident—if, perchance, you were in the mood for defrauding your insurance company. She knew the best place to buy greeting cards for very specific occasions—sympathy for botched surgeries, congratulations on your sixth marriage—and where to get false eyelashes stitched into your biological eyelashes. She knew the best place to clean an upholstered couch covered in blood. “Not that I’ve ever had to use their services, but it’s a good resource to have handy,” she said. Dot’s mother didn’t even know the best place in their neighborhood to get pizza.

  Dr. Koder, who was assigned Dot’s case, came into Dot’s hospital room one day to talk about her condition. “Look, we just can’t pinpoint what could be causing these seizures. We’d like to keep her in the hospital until we can figure it out.”

  Dot’s mother, who was sitting on the bed next to Dot’s feet, bristled. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it her brain tumor that’s causing the seizures?”

  “Typically, with surgery and radiation, these types of tumors are completely obliterated, and usually patients are symptom-free. Dot has already gone through those steps, so we’re thinking something else might be at play.”

  Dot’s mother scratched a nonexistent stain on her scrubs. “I just don’t understand how it could be something else. I just don’t understand how this keeps happening.”

  Dorothy touched her arm. “There’s no need to get worked up.”

  Dot’s mother glanced at her. “This has been going on for too long. It’s the twenty-first century. Medicine should be more advanced than this.”

  “It would be a much less complicated life if your little girl weren’t sick, wouldn’t it?” Dorothy simpered. Dot’s mother gave her a furious look Dot didn’t understand.

  Dr. Koder coughed. “There are lots of avenues to try. We need to make sure it isn’t an environmental issue, for example.”

  “An environmental issue?” Dot’s mother repeated. “Are you suggesting our house is full of poison?”

  “Of course not.” Dr. Koder stared down at Dot’s file in her hands. A metallic noise clanged in the hall. “I understand your frustration, but we are doing all we can. I promise. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Dorothy gave the doctor a sympathetic smile. “Of course you will.” Her voice was like warm maple syrup.

  While Dot was in the hospital, Dorothy rented a hotel room at the Sheraton down the street. She could have gone back to her suite at the Magnolia in Beverly Hills, where she’d been living ever since Dot could remember, but Dorothy said she liked to be close in case anything happened. She even bought a beeper and made the doctors page her before making any decisions. Dot appreciated her aunt’s dedication and perseverance. Only once did Dot ask her if she needed to work on her novel, Riders of Carrowae, instead of spending so much time by her side.

  “Pshaw, work,” Dorothy scoffed. “It can wait.”

  Meanwhile, Dot’s mother went back to the dentist’s office. She even resumed her regular full-time hours. “I need to keep my job so we keep our insurance,” she explained. But it hurt all the same. Dot winced when she saw her mother walk into the room in the morning in her balloon-printed scrubs, knowing that soon she’d be gone. Sometimes, it seemed as though she left the hospital with a skip in her step. Once, when her mother was in the bathroom, Dorothy rooted through her purse and unearthed an envelope of freshly printed photos. By the looks of it, her mother had taken pictures of a birthday party at the dentist’s office. “Oh, look, they’re having chocolate cake.” Dorothy slapped a rectangular image across Dot’s legs. “And that’s quite a smile your mother’s got on her face, isn’t it? Nice to see someone happy, anyway.”

  Dot decided to try her hardest not to need her mother. She turned away from her kisses and didn’t answer her questions. “Oh, you shouldn’t be so hard on her,” Dorothy said. But then, not a half beat later: “Of course, you’ll always have me.”

  That was right, Dot thought. Dorothy was more than enough.

  There was a rotating cast of nurses, aides, doctors, and specialists in to see Dot, eager to figure out why her brain kept loc
king up. She had CAT scans, PET scans, bone density tests, blood plasma draws, a spinal tap. Dorothy lorded over every treatment, wanting to know about every aspect of Dot’s care: what went into changing the sheets, why they took her blood so often, the types of needles they used for Dot’s IV, what sorts of medications they gave Dot when she had a seizure, and the nutritional value of the smoothie they always gave Dot for lunch. She learned so much that she could probably have performed many of the minor procedures herself. In fact, one day while dozing, Dot felt the blood pressure cuff wrap around her arm and opened her eyes to find her aunt taking her vitals. “They let you do this now?” she asked, chuckling.

  Dorothy blinked. “Sorry?”

  It was a different voice—higher and less raspy. Dot looked again. The woman taking her blood pressure had dark hair and a finely boned face, just like Dorothy’s. The only difference was that her eyes were green.

  Dot told her aunt about the look-alike, and not much later, Dorothy got to experience her for herself. The woman, whose name was Stella, shuffled in to take Dot’s blood pressure, not even noticing Dorothy in the chair, and Dorothy, for once, didn’t make her presence known. When she left, Dorothy exhaled. “That was amazing. It was like I was in the presence of a paranormal event! I’d split in two! She should play a look-alike of me at parties.”

  “Or you could play a look-alike of her,” Dot quipped.

  Dorothy wrinkled her nose. “Why would I do that?”

  The next time Stella came in, Dorothy invited her to sit on Dot’s bed and chat. Stella was younger than Dorothy, and her nails were bitten to the quick. Dorothy moved close, lifted a lock of Stella’s hair, and sniffed it.

  “Do you get ovarian cysts from time to time?” she asked. “Is your eyesight just a touch myopic?”

  Stella’s eyes darted. “Pardon?”

  Dorothy looked at Dot. “I want to see if her insides are the same as mine, too.” Then she pressed her face close to Stella’s. “Who’s prettier?”

  By this time, a nurse had entered the room and was giving Dorothy a skeptical look. Dot surreptitiously pointed in her aunt’s direction, not wanting to offend Stella, though it was the truth. Stella was younger, but Dorothy was prettier.