“So tell me how you think it transpired,” Desmond says in a low voice. “You came into this bar. Is that right?”
I look around. “I think so. And I spoke to someone. I’m sure of it. Someone who said you’ve got to get ahold of yourself.” I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. “If only I knew who.”
“Do you think it’s someone you knew?”
“I feel like it, yes. But I was also surprised to see the person here. It felt very . . . unexpected.”
“So maybe it was Leonidas. I mean, if you’d already broken up, you wouldn’t expect to see him, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Let’s assume it is him. He sits next to you at the bar. You have a conversation. He says you’ve got to get ahold of yourself. Does that seem right?”
“It could be . . .”
“And then what? What do you think you talked about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your breakup? Maybe you were really upset? Maybe that’s why he said you had to get a grip?”
“Maybe . . .”
“But what got you out to the pool?” Desmond muses. “Leonidas must have said something to get you to head out there. You needed some air? Or maybe he wanted to be . . . intimate?”
He gets a goofy look on his face when he says it, and I blush. “I doubt it. I was feeling afraid, not sexy.”
“Okay. So maybe Leonidas says something that frightens you. Like he’s going to hurt you. You run out to the pool. You have a bigger argument, maybe about your breakup. He pushes you in.” He smiles triumphantly.
“Maybe,” I say, emptily.
“Maybe not?”
I swivel and look at the pool out the window. Now, a couple of kids are splashing each other in the shallow end. A woman in a black bikini dips in her long legs near the diving board. “I feel like the person who pushed me was a woman.”
“Oh.” Desmond frowns, studies his cocktail napkin, which is an illustration of various knots, like the wallpaper.
“But maybe my memory is wrong. I mean, Leonidas knows me. He was talking about me on the phone. It fits.”
“Or maybe it doesn’t,” Desmond says. “I mean, I met him, Eliza. He seemed . . . Well, he seemed like a big dumb dog, no offense. So maybe it was someone else.”
Deep down, I agree with him. It would be easy if Leonidas was the answer, but it doesn’t feel right.
We don’t say anything for a while. Someone is using a leaf blower outside. To blow what, I wonder. We’re in the desert.
“Did you ever hear the story about the starlet who was murdered here in the sixties?” I ask Desmond, to break the silence. He shakes his head, so I explain about the mix-up. When I’m done, Desmond looks chagrined. “Poor Diana Dane,” he cries.
“What are you talking about? She’s the one that lived. It’s Gigi Reese you’re supposed to pity. Someone killed her, and they didn’t even care who. Her mystery was never solved.”
“I know, that’s sad, too, but it’s an expected sort of sad. But imagine what Diana Dane had to deal with. All those articles talking about her death. Do you think all of them were nice? Maybe someone snuck something disparaging in there, since she wouldn’t be around to defend herself.”
“I’m pretty sure they all sung her praises.”
“Oh.” Desmond blots his face with a napkin. “Still, the idea of someone mistaking someone else for you is spooky. I wonder if she had any moments of thinking, Hey, if everyone thinks I’m dead, perhaps I am! Public opinion can sway all sorts of truths.”
“You’re missing the point of my story.”
“Or maybe she thought, Hey, this gives me an out. I can leave Hollywood. Start another life. Go on a crime spree—no one will catch me because they all think I’m dead.”
“But she loved Hollywood. She didn’t go on a crime spree.”
Desmond sips his drink. “Huh. There’s so much more possibility to her story if she decided to run with the whole dead thing.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling more and more annoyed. “The point is that poor, dead Gigi Reese went unnoticed. The point is that some people are remembered only because they resemble someone else.”
“If I had a double, I might go on a crime spree,” Desmond says dreamily.
“No you wouldn’t.”
“Okay, I probably wouldn’t. But I’d do something unexpected. For me, I mean.”
I try to imagine what would be out of character for Desmond. Joining a fantasy football league, maybe. Adopting a child. I wonder about the anti-Eliza. I would take up residence at an ashram. I would breathe deeply and worry little.
Another stinger arrives even though I haven’t signaled for it. I suck it down, wincing once again at the flavor. Who on earth would drink a cocktail with crème de menthe? The opening bars of a song peal through the room, and my head shoots up. “Low Rider.” It’s the same song I heard when I was here. I go very still, concentrating on each note, trying to picture the last time I’d heard the song. I might have been sitting on this very stool, looking out at this same view. And when I turned my head—
Fear ripples through me. I see a shadow. I shoot to my feet. “What?” Desmond says, sliding off his stool, too.
“Someone wants to hurt me.”
Desmond’s eyes widen. “Who?”
But I don’t know. I have only been given this thought and only this thought exactly. And yet the fear is liquefied, coursing through my veins. Something in this bar frightened me that night. I’d hurtled off the stool just like I have today, and I looked for the first exit I could find. And that’s what I do now, too. Except my body is pointed in the other direction today, so the exit I lunge for is the one into the hallway back to the hotel. I stagger there, arms outstretched like a zombie, the Muzak piping through the speakers abnormally loud.
“Eliza!” Desmond cries, stumbling behind me. “What are you—”
I hear the bartender protest something about being paid for the drinks, but I don’t turn, and Desmond doesn’t, either. All I know is that I have to get off this floor. Away. Whatever I feared weeks ago is still here, now. I punch the elevator button, and, mercifully, the doors open immediately. I get in and press the button for the lobby. Desmond leaps inside as the doors are closing.
“What’s going on?” he asks me, panting. “Eliza, what’s happening? Tell me what you’re thinking? Who are you afraid of? What did you see?”
My brain twists and bucks. I am scrambling for more, and I’m not getting any answers. I press my thumbs to my eye sockets until I see stars. When I peek at Desmond again, there is a nervous, uncertain look on his face.
“Someone you’ve met before?” he tries. “Who does this person look like?”
Like me, I want to say, but I don’t know where this has come from. I certainly didn’t come up with it. But then I remember that face on the bus. That face in the window at my mother’s house. My face, my face, my face. Why do I keep seeing myself? I look at Desmond blankly, lost. My jaw feels unhinged from my skull.
The elevator dings. The door slides open on the lobby level. I shrink back at the throng of people waiting to get in, but Desmond leads me by the hand and sits me down on a leather chair near a large saguaro cactus that is somehow growing indoors.
“Eliza,” he says, his voice cracking. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m okay.” Sweat prickles down my spine.
“No, you’re not. Talk to me, please. Who did you see? Why did you run away?”
“I don’t know.” And then, suddenly, the shakes come on. My whole body rolls with them; they travel all the way down to my fingertips, sharp little zingers. I chatter my teeth. I feel my eyeballs curl inward. I’m seizing, I can feel it. I shut my eyes and feel my head hit the leather ottoman. I can hear Desmond shouting above me, but I can’t do anything to get to him or talk to him. Just don’t call other people over, I wish I could tell him. Just let me ride this out. Something tells me I’ve had a seizure in public before. Something te
lls me I got too much attention for it.
And then, suddenly, it’s over. My eyes focus again. Sound rushes back, and I have the use of my voice. I sit up, noting that I’ve left a pool of sweat from my hair on the ottoman. When I look at Desmond, though, he is staring at me in horror. Several other people stand over me, including a few men in hotel garb. “Is she okay?” one of them is saying. Beyond them, a few guests crane their necks. I hear the words Ambulance, and Fainted, and Drunk.
Someone clears his throat behind us. It’s the bartender from the Shipstead; he’s brought the bill. Desmond stands, leads him a few steps away to take care of the transaction. I sit on the ottoman, staring at the cross-hatchings in my palm, feeling cold, slimy embarrassment.
Desmond says nothing as he sits back down. “Sorry about that,” I mutter, finally, because I feel like I must say something.
He pauses before speaking. “I want to call an ambulance.”
I feel a bolt of shock. “Are you kidding?”
“Maybe you need a professional. Someone who can help you.”
I curl my hands into fists. “I can’t believe you.”
“Eliza. You were terrified. You need to unlock what was scaring you.”
“So you want to commit me? Just like everyone else?”
He looks horrified. “Of course not! I just want to know what’s wrong!”
But maybe that’s not what he means. It could be just a tactic to soften me up. I turn my back. “You don’t know me at all, Desmond. So don’t pretend that you do.”
He scuttles around to face me again. “I didn’t mean for you to think—”
“You know how I mentioned a brain tumor?” I interrupt. “Well, I think it’s still hanging around. Messing with my head. Causing me to say things and remember things I have no control of. Causing my body to move in strange ways. It’s not some psycho tic, okay? I’m not crazy.”
His mouth drops open. “Oh, Eliza. Oh dear. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t really cut it. Not now.” This is unfair—I’m saying all this because I’m embarrassed and vulnerable. But I need him to leave me alone. Pretend it never happened. Coming here was a terrible idea.
“What can I do?” he pleads. “How can I help? Maybe you do need an ambulance, then.”
“I can handle it.” I cross my arms over my chest, feeling a wall come up around me. He tries to get me to look at him, but I don’t.
“I’m smitten by you, Eliza,” Desmond says. “You’re like the Lady of the Lake. I don’t understand a lot about you, but I’d spend the rest of my life figuring you out. I want to help you however I can, including figuring out what scared you so much. I want to save you.”
“I don’t need saving.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re strong. You’re impenetrable. But you want to know who hurt you, don’t you? I think your brain and body just gave you a huge clue. Like I said, I’ve been reading up on memory, and I think just being here is working.”
I glare at him. “How do I know you didn’t hurt me, Desmond?”
He draws back. The color drains from his face. “W-what?”
“You just happen to be walking by and fish me out of the pool on the night of a storm? You just happen to have seen someone running away? You could be saying that to take the heat off yourself.”
His hands are at his mouth. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“Because you’re strange. Maybe I was bitchy to you in the bar. Maybe I made fun of you when we were younger and I don’t remember you. You were absolutely the kind of person I would have made fun of.”
Desmond shakes his head, his eyes unblinking. “You have to believe me. I didn’t push you. I would never.”
I pointedly turn away. I really don’t think Desmond pushed me. It’s probably good I threw it out there, but I know it isn’t true. I just wanted to hurt him. It’s too hard for me to have someone care this much. I have a coiled-up feeling that things with Desmond will end badly, disappointingly, devastatingly, and maybe it’s just better to push him away before he pushes me. Maybe I’ve been in this situation before. With Leonidas, perhaps. But more likely with my mother.
Desmond’s shoulders heave, and then he stands. “Let’s have dinner and forget all about this.”
“No way,” I say stiffly. “I’m getting my car out of the garage, and I’m leaving.”
“Don’t be crazy! You just had an episode! You’re in no state to drive!”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll drive you.”
Desmond reaches out and grabs my arm, but I wheel around and give him the most searing glare I can muster. “I said no.”
I march across the lobby. I feel tipsy from the stinger, and not in a good way. Memories and feelings are bumping into one another in my head. Me pushing Desmond away, me feeling afraid, that seizure—a half-formed picture is taking shape in my mind, except it’s still under a drop cloth. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see what it is.
In the driveway, the same valets wait at their post. The one who took Desmond’s car notices me and snaps to his feet. “Need the Batmobile, miss?” Then he chuckles. “Man, I’ve always wanted to say that.”
I shake my head angrily. I’m even furious at Desmond’s car. “No, thanks. And for the record? It’s basically a glorified Buick.”
“Did you have a nice stay at the Tranquility?” he asks, not missing a beat.
I consider this question. Across the drive, people are going on a hike in the blazing sun. Cacti jut out on the plateau. They look picturesque and innocuous from two hundred yards away, not like they really are: spiny, unyielding, mostly dead.
“Not really,” I grumble over my shoulder, halfway to the parking garage. I’m not sure I’ve ever had fun at this place. Not once in my life.
From The Dots
The next Wednesday, Dot walked slowly to the Vons parking lot, not able to get any of the things Marlon had said out of her head.
How could he think Dorothy would roofie Dot? Didn’t he remember all she’d told him about Dorothy’s constant presence in the hospital when she was a little girl? She’d been the only one in Dot’s family to come. She cared about Dot so, so much. But Dot also knew Marlon wouldn’t lie to her, even if he was jealous about her and Dorothy’s relationship. He wasn’t Dot’s mother. He loved her, honestly and truly, and only wanted the best for her.
Worrying about it kept her awake all night. She felt like she had to choose between them.
Dorothy was waiting in the car as usual, and she greeted Dot with an enthusiastic wave. “Ready for dinner, my dear?”
Dot tried to smile, but her mouth muscles wouldn’t work, and she saw herself making a freakish face in the rearview mirror. The whole drive, she couldn’t think of a thing to say, so she fiddled with the radio for noise. She settled on a sports announcer just because he was yelling the loudest. Roofies. It throbbed in her mind like an infection. Why would Dorothy have done such a thing? Why had Marlon even put that thought into her mind? Only, she’d read a little about the drug and how it made you feel. The symptoms were certainly familiar. Would the drug still be in her body? Should she get tested for it?
“What’s with you today?” her aunt asked, poking her arm. “You’re so quiet.”
“I’m just thinking about school,” Dot said. “We have finals soon.”
“But aren’t you an English major? What on earth could be difficult about finals?”
At M&F, the waiter had their favorite table all made up and ready. But when it came time to order drinks, Dot said she wanted water. Dorothy’s head turned sharply. “No cocktail?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
Dorothy scoffed. “When did you become so unfun?”
A glass of sparkling water appeared for Dot. She took a sip and swished the bubbles in her mouth as if to wash it clean. Across the table, Dorothy drank from her wineglass and gave her a cool stare. She asked Dot about the books she was reading, and Dot gave
one-word answers. She tried to make up stories about the other patrons at the restaurant, but Dot didn’t twist around to see who she was talking about.
She was reminded, suddenly, of seeing Dr. Koder in the wheelchair the first time they’d come here. After she’d gone home, she’d looked Dr. Koder up and learned that not long after Dot left her care, the doctor had been in a tragic fall down the stairwell of the swanky apartment building where she lived. She’d broken her neck. This was on a Facebook page set up by her husband, a man named Evan Koder—not on any sort of news site. One person commented that Dr. Koder should press charges, insinuating that the fall wasn’t an accident . . . but no one followed up on that line of thinking. Dot couldn’t find any evidence of a lawsuit.
“Did you do something to Doctor Koder?” she blurted.
Dorothy’s head whipped up. “Who?”
“You know who. She’s in a wheelchair because of a fall down the stairs. I know you were upset at how she treated us. It happened right after we left.”
Dorothy’s mouth hung open. It was a few moments before she could speak. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing.”
“I just . . .” Dot felt tears come to her eyes. This was so much harder than she’d imagined. “The timing matches up. Her accident was on July 11. I’d just gone into the new hospital, but I still wasn’t doing well. I could understand if you were upset . . .”
“July 11.” Dorothy narrowed her eyes, thinking. “I know where I was that day. July 11 was my husband Milton’s birthday, and I treat myself to a spa day every year in his memory.” Milton was the film producer who’d passed away. “I went to The Hyacinth on Beverly Boulevard for the works. After that, I came to the hospital . . . to visit you.”
“Oh,” Dot said. “I’m sorry.”
Dorothy crossed her arms over her chest. Her chin wobbled. “You know, I’m going to pretend you never said any of that. I’m just going to pretend this didn’t happen.”
“I’m sorry,” Dot whispered again, feeling like a child. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
Dorothy pressed her lips together, as though to keep from crying. “You know, your dark moods remind me of the ones Thomas used to have.”