But as I open my mouth, I realize that in order to attain this sort of care, I’ll have to tell them something that isn’t true. And I can’t do that. “There was someone at the pool that night,” I say instead, feeling so weary. “There really, really was.”
Bill’s shoulders slump. Gabby’s head drops on her neck. My mother presses her hands over her eyes and lets out a long breath. Then, shaking her head, she turns and walks out of the room. Just like that.
“Please call your editor,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m serious.”
I watch her back disappear through the door. Upstairs, a door shuts. The AC, another addition after Bill and Gabby’s arrival, kicks on.
I whip around to Bill and Gabby. “What the hell is going on?”
“We’re worried about you,” Bill says softly. “We’re not sure what you remem—”
A movement to my left distracts me. I shoot up. A dark, shadowy face is in the courtyard, looking in. I rush to the window. “There’s someone in the . . .” The shadow shifts. I blink, and it’s me out there. I blink, and everything mutates again. It’s just my reflection.
I rub my hands over my eyes. The yard is empty; even my reflection in the glass is gone. I press my nose to the window, craning my neck far to the right. There are petals strewn across the brick patio. Leaves have fallen into the pool. The palms are still. The chrome hood over the bricked-in grill is immaculately shiny.
I turn back to Bill and Gabby. They’re both pinned against the island as if a blast has pushed them there. I’ve caught them in strange poses: Gabby’s shoulders are turned in and her hands are limp claws by her chest. Bill’s got one arm slung across her waist, and his feet seem planted. It’s like our own little Pompeii has happened, freezing and hardening them in ash.
“Did you see it, too?” I whisper.
Bill’s throat bobs as he swallows. “I didn’t see anything.” He glances at Gabby, and a silent conversation flows between the two of them. Together, they peel away from the island and sit back down at the table.
“Sorry. I just thought . . .” I clear my throat, still feeling the prickly sensation that someone’s watching me. Then I turn to Bill. “What were you saying?”
Bill shakes his head. “Forget it.” He pushes a plate at me. “Fill it up. You’re getting so skinny you’re disappearing.”
From The Dots
Dorothy was waiting in the school parking lot in a black-on-black Mustang convertible. She wore a large floppy hat that tied under her chin and big sunglasses over her eyes. Dot’s heart swelled and nearly burst. This had to be a mirage. There was no way her aunt had come back to her after all this time. She’d given up hoping.
“Darling,” Dorothy said, stepping away from the car and opening her arms. It was her voice, exactly as Dot remembered it. And when she pulled Dot to her chest, everything felt just the same as all those hugs from years ago. “Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so much.”
Dot was too stunned to speak, but when she did, the questions came out like a geyser: “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Were you in Paris? Were you writing? Did you have a ukulele and a poodle?” The only thing she didn’t ask was the most important question: Why did you go? Why did you leave me?
“Come, come,” Dorothy said, opening the car door. “I’ll tell you everything. Best not to tell your mother about this, though.”
Dot snorted. “Don’t worry about that.”
They drove around LA for a while. Dot didn’t say much—she was too overwhelmed and intimidated and didn’t want to say the wrong thing. They pulled into a familiar neighborhood to the west of town. “I thought we could go here for old time’s sake, since we made up so many stories about the place,” Dorothy said. She pointed to a restaurant in the distance. M&F Chop House, read the neon sign. Across the street, St. Mother Maria’s, Dot’s second hospital, loomed gray and institutional in the dull, midday light.
Dot didn’t really want to be here—she hadn’t returned to this part of town since she was sick, but there was no way she was disappointing her aunt, so she said nothing. Instead of going through the front double doors, Dorothy parked in the back and led them around to a side entrance, down a set of stairs, and to a door where she knocked three times. “Like a speakeasy,” she said cheerfully. “This entrance is for the important people.”
A man with a round, smiling face, pig-pink skin, and a Winnie-the-Pooh voice opened the door, welcomed Dorothy with a hug, and led them up a set of indoor stairs lined with framed restaurant reviews. In the dining room, the walls were paneled in warm-colored wood, and the air smelled like meat. The man introduced himself to Dot as Bernie. He sat them in a booth that was so far in the back of the room Dot was pretty sure no one knew they were there. It struck Dot as odd; when she was young, Dorothy used to grouse whenever she wasn’t given an establishment’s best table. When she called this to Dorothy’s attention, her aunt’s eyes sparkled. “Honey, this is the best table. People are going to leave us alone. Now, look at this place. Remember all those stories?”
Dot beamed shyly. Of course she remembered. She was thrilled Dorothy remembered. She hadn’t been sure, over the twelve-year gap, what she’d meant to Dorothy.
Dorothy ordered champagne, then took off her sunglasses and removed the scarf from her head and neck. Dot gasped. In the ten years that had passed, she’d pictured Dorothy aging and growing lumpier, but the woman who stared back at her had smooth, lineless skin. There wasn’t a single gray hair in her black mane. Her eye makeup was dark lines and dramatic sparkles, and when she smiled, her teeth were whiter than Dot’s. Dot could plop her down on her college campus and half the guys would hit on her. Only her hands, with their protruding veins and smattering of freckles and the slightest beginning of gnarl, gave her age away.
Dorothy looked carefully at Dot, too. So long, in fact, that Dot began to feel self-conscious. She ran her hand over her hair and straightened her sweater. She was wearing a black cashmere boatneck sweater she’d found at a consignment store; it smelled slightly of mothballs and smoke. On her head was a small, netted hat. The netting kept getting in her eyes.
“You’ve grown into a remarkable young lady,” Dorothy decreed.
Dot was so overcome she thought she might cry. “Thank you.”
“It’s quite uncanny how much we look alike, isn’t it? We could be twins!” Dorothy pressed her hands to her bosom and sighed. “If only I’d been here to see you transform.”
“Why weren’t you?” Dot asked, before she could stop herself.
Dorothy sighed. “It wasn’t possible.”
The waiter delivered drinks. Dot was surprised she’d been given champagne, too. She stared at the bubbles rising to the top of the flute, feeling uncertain. Through the years, kids thought she was fucked up on seizure drugs and party drugs alike, but she’d taken the doctors’ suggestions to heart. She drank a little from time to time, but only beer. Anything harder frightened her. She feared excess would shepherd the lesions back into her brain like loser teenagers squeezing through a cracked-open back door at a VIP club.
“Are you sure this is okay?” Dot pointed at her drink.
“What, because of your illness?” Dorothy waved her hand. “It’s perfectly fine. Besides, you’re almost twenty-one, aren’t you?” She sighed with pleasure. “My little lady.”
Dot put the drink to her lips. It tasted fruity and sour at the same time. The bubbles exploded on her tongue. She felt surprising heat as the liquid went down her throat, but it warmed her stomach pleasantly. She smiled at her aunt across the table, and Dorothy smiled back.
“Two lovely ladies having a cocktail,” Dorothy proclaimed, giving Dot a wink. Dot beamed and took another sip. They were back together. It felt so right.
Dorothy was staying once again in her same bungalow at the Magnolia. “They held the old suite for me,” she trilled. She’d come back a few days ago.
“Back from where?” Dot asked.
“Oh, so many plac
es,” Dorothy sighed, finishing her drink quickly.
First, she really had been working on a section for her book, she said, one whose research took her to French and Austrian castles, then to Morocco, then even parts of Africa. In Somalia, she met a tribal leader named Otufu, and they’d begun an affair. Dorothy couldn’t quite picture a life with him—the African way of life was so different from anything she was used to—but she thought it would be interesting research for a book, so she remained. Only, then she found out that Otufu was involved with warlords in the area, running guns or some such—“a real baddie,” she explained. “I had to get away from him. I had to get to the U.S. embassy, but it was a risk to leave his compound. The place was rife with armed guards. A maid helped me sneak out in the middle of the night. I ran barefoot to the embassy; some of Otufu’s men were chasing me. They had to helicopter me to Italy for safety, but they suggested I remain in hiding for a while. Otufu knew people everywhere. He thought I was going to talk. There was a price on my head.”
“Holy shit,” Dot gasped.
“I stayed in Rome for a while, in this ramshackle apartment that barely had any heat. I wrote a little, but mostly I just ate, read books, and took lovers.” She gave Dot a saucy look. “It was a heady time, and time passed so quickly—before I realized it, really. After a while, the embassy told me that it was probably safe for me to return to the States. I missed you so much—I wanted to see you. So here I am.”
Dot blinked at her. “That’s amazing.”
“Oh, well, you know.” Dorothy signaled the bartender for another cocktail. But then her eyes widened at something across the bar. Dot turned to follow her gaze. A woman in a black suit was sitting at a table near the window. Her hair was slightly less blonde than before, and there were crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, but Dot recognized her immediately.
“Doctor Koder,” she said, half standing. And then her heart dropped to her stomach. Dr. Koder was in a wheelchair—the motorized kind, bulky and huge. Her twisted fingers fumbled to eat a salad. A strap around her waist held her body upright.
Dot pressed her hand to her mouth. “What happened to her?”
“Stop that.” Dorothy pulled her back down to sit. “It’s rude to stare.”
Her nails dug into Dot’s arm. Dot stared at them; they looked, for a moment, like talons. Her gaze fell to her plate. The steak juices were thick and red, marbling her potatoes.
“That was my only reservation in coming here,” Dorothy said quietly. “I worried we’d run into someone from that time. I mean, I know it was hard for you, too, dear. So hard. But you can’t imagine what I went through, day in and day out, not knowing if you’d live.”
Dot nodded. She glanced back at Dr. Koder, surreptitiously watching as the woman scooped up a bite of creamed spinach. A splotch fell to her shirt, and the man she was with, a kindly fellow in a tweed jacket, leaned across the table to dab it off. Dr. Koder gave him a bright, beautiful smile.
After that, Dot looked away, deciding she wouldn’t give Dr. Koder another thought. Whatever Dorothy wanted, Dorothy would get. Dorothy smiled, seeming to register this.
“So,” she said smoothly, tipping her drink to her lips. “Tell me about you. You’re in college now! I can’t believe it!”
“Well, I’m thinking of majoring in English,” Dot said.
Dorothy clapped her hands in delight. “How lovely! The world needs more literature professors.”
“Actually, I was thinking of becoming a writer,” Dot said quietly.
Dorothy didn’t seem to hear her. “And maybe you’ll read my book for your course!” she crowed. “I’m sure it’ll be on the syllabus once it’s published. I mean, I’m no Henry James, but they have lots of modern fiction on course lists these days, don’t they? I’m much better than those dreadful modernists for sure. And Stephen Crane?” She made a gagging sound. “They could definitely bump him.”
Dot reached for her champagne glass again, trying not to feel overlooked. Dorothy had been out of practice talking to people for a while, that was all. Dot should just let her prattle on. She didn’t want anything to be wrong with this evening. She wanted it to go exactly as her aunt desired.
ELIZA
IT IS A bitch to get to Steadman’s curiosities shop in Venice—so many highways, so many traffic lights, idiots on cruiser bicycles, homeless crackheads lying in the middle of the street. It’s even worse because I still haven’t picked up my car from Palm Springs, which means I have to rely on a cabdriver to take me, and the stopping and starting traffic makes me carsick. When I finally get there to start my shift that Friday, two days after the Cat Show, I feel my usual disappointment with my surroundings; the place always looks a lot better in my mind’s eye. The shop is one notch above a hovel, shoved onto a side street near the canals and lit by a single orange bulb. The single room seems to get smaller and narrower as the hours pass, closing the taxidermied heads and ancient medical equipment and necklaces made of bones over me like a cask. Sometimes, I’m not sure working here is worth the eight dollars and fifty cents an hour Steadman pays, which isn’t even California’s minimum wage.
I sit on a tufted stool behind the antique cash register, jiggling my foot to the classical station on the radio. Though a meditative coach told me that classical music dissolves harmful pathways in the brain, it’s still like nails on a chalkboard. I want to change the station, but Steadman has taped up so many rules about appropriate music for this place. No Pop, No Country, No Rap, No Halloween. I think he wrote that last one just for my benefit. What does he think I’m going to do, listen to “Monster Mash” all day?
Long shadows slope off the animal heads hanging on the walls. Several baby coffins balance atop a tall pile of boxes marked things like Alligator Teeth and Freeze-Dried Turtles and Victorian Human Hair Wreaths. There is a jewelry case bearing things like earrings made out of miniature doll legs, cicada wings, and voodoo chicken feet. Across the room, which is little more than an arm’s length away, is a flyer that reads, Interested in Taxidermy? Come to our class May 12! Guess who’s teaching it? Me.
Because, clearly, that’s all I’m qualified to do. Not write books.
The Dvořák piece ends, and the DJ sleepily tells us what we’re to hear next. I refresh my phone screen again and again, thinking I might have missed a call from Lance the detective or the bartender who may or may not be named Richie. This store has spotty service—the high concentration of human bone seems to interfere with a cell signal.
I hear a jingle and nearly drop the phone—it’s ringing. But then I realize it’s the front door, which is almost as unlikely—most of our customers are creeps who order online. A figure stoops to get through the narrow door and stands for a moment next to the life-size, bisque-faced man doll. As his features organize themselves, I cough out a laugh. Today he’s got on a wine-colored hooded cape. “Desmond!”
He shades his eyes and squints all ten feet to where I am behind the register. “Eliza. It is you.”
He sidesteps a few open boxes and approaches me. There’s a big smile on his face, though it fades to disappointment when he sees my expression. “How did you know I work here?” I demand.
“I looked you up online. There was a picture of a cat skeleton on your Twitter, and your location finder was on, so it was easy for me to pinpoint where you were.” He grinned triumphantly.
My heart is thrumming in my ears. Location finder? What if Leonidas is stalking my Twitter, too? “You should have just called me. I’ve been sending you texts all week.”
“Ah, but calling you lacked the mystery. I wanted to find you.” Then Desmond glances around the room. There’s a strong odor of charred hair. Wind-up teeth chatter on a shelf.
“This place is magnificent,” he decides. He spins on his heel and surveys the other side of the room. “There’s a convention for people who like Ouija boards?” He points to a flyer next to some antique wigs.
“In Baltimore,” I say sulkily. “It’s Ouija’s b
irthplace.”
He looks at me excitedly. “I’ll go if you go!”
I give him a sour frown. “No, thank you.”
He points at a metal tool that looks like an oversized corkscrew. It’s nestled in a rosewood box and is on sale for $930. “A trephine,” he says, with adulation.
I chuckle despite myself. I can’t help but be impressed. “You are one of the few people who actually know what it’s called.”
“These are fascinating. Physicians thought that if they drilled holes in the skulls of patients who had brain disorders, they’d let out the bad spirits.”
“I know that.”
“One of my favorite paintings is by Hieronymus Bosch of a guy laying on a chair and a doctor drilling into his head.”
“I have a print of that, if you’re interested,” I grab a binder underneath the counter of laminated images we can order as posters. When I find the Bosch, Desmond taps the page with his pinkie finger. He’s wearing a signet ring. “He looks like the Tin Man,” he says, pointing to the doctor with the drill. There’s a metal funnel on his head.
“Art experts say that’s his hint that he’s a quack,” I say, enjoying showing off the only thing I can remember from the one art history class I took my first semester of college.
“Well of course he’s a quack. He’s drilling into the guy’s head. Who wants to do that?”
I shut the binder. “Why are you here? Did the police get in touch with you finally?”