The Elizas

by Sara Shepard

  Dot lapped up Dorothy’s stories and attention. She beamed as Dorothy slung her arm around Dot and told her she was beautiful, amazing, funny, fantastic, the best niece a woman could ever want. But at the end of each evening, Dot blacked out, only to emerge the following day sticky-mouthed and slumped on the green-and-white-striped divan of Dorothy’s Magnolia bungalow. Dr. Singh never returned, but Dot was haunted by the same headaches, the same disorientation, the same dread. She must just be one of those people who can’t hold their liquor.

  “Just lie here, my dear,” Dorothy said. “Rest here all day if you like.” She brought Dot baskets of bread and ordered plates of eggs. She pressed cold washcloths to Dot’s forehead and spent hours raking her fingers through her hair. Sometimes, she just lounged next to Dot, spooning her and saying, “Oh, you don’t know how good it feels to be able to take care of you.”

  “I just wish I didn’t get hungover every time we go out,” Dot croaked.

  “Don’t worry,” Dorothy said hastily. “Besides, I get to take care of you. This is a treat. Thomas was taken from me when I was so young.”

  Thomas again. Dot had so many questions, but she still thought it too indelicate to ask.

  Dot’s boyfriend didn’t go out with them after that first night. He kept using the excuse of exams, and then lab work, and then a Phish concert he really wanted to see. “Why do I get the idea you don’t want to come with me to see Phillis?” she finally said, aggravated. They were in the dining hall; they called Dorothy Phillis whenever they were in public. Dot wasn’t taking any chances; her mother might have sent spies.

  He shrugged, trudging with his tray to the next food station. Dot followed him to the salad bar, the cereal bar, and then the fro-yo machine. Finally, he sighed heavily. “I wanted to be the one who took you home that night you fainted at the club. I wanted to take care of you, but she insisted. She was a bully about it, in fact.”

  “Well, she’s my aunt,” Dot said. What a silly thing to argue about. “She’s family.”

  “Yeah, but do you really even know her?”

  Dot watched him. He was making a big deal of shoving a Styrofoam cup under the yogurt dispenser. “I thought you loved her.”

  “She’s fascinating in theory. But in person she also seemed so . . .” He glanced at her, then moved to the hot food line.

  She chased after him. “So what?”

  “Forget it.”

  She watched as the cafeteria worker slopped mashed potatoes onto his tray. Her boyfriend went to sit down. He was eating mashed potatoes and fro-yo for dinner. He had no bearing on reality. “Are you really afraid of a fifty-year-old woman?” Dot laughed.

  He looked up at her, mid-bite. “Just be careful, okay?”

  Be careful. That one amused Dot for days. Be careful of what?

  ELIZA

  I OPEN MY eyes and sit up on the pavement, the sun baking my skin. “Eliza?” says a voice.

  I blink hard. The sun burns a harsh circle onto my retinas. A shadow appears over me, and I smell overpowering deodorant. “You Eliza? You call me?”

  The man has on aviator sunglasses, a creased, pin-striped shirt, and jeans that pull tightly across the waist. Behind him, a white Honda Pilot chugs. I look around and see the familiar buildings of the Westwood Center—the Whole Foods in particular—and it all comes back. But besides the two of us, the alley is empty. When I wince, pain explodes across my face. I touch it carefully, expecting blood, but all I feel is tenderness.

  “I said, you Eliza?” The man gestures to his car. “You call Uber?”

  “Y-yes,” I manage to say, pushing up to sit. I look around one more time. No one seems to be lurking about. But there was someone.

  “I’ve been waiting,” the man says, annoyed. “I’ve probably called you six times. I was about to leave.”

  I stumble to my feet and stare down at myself. All of my clothes are still on. My bag is on the ground. I grab it and rifle through it. My wallet is there. So is my phone. I touch the circle at the bottom and look at the time. Only a few minutes have passed since I looked at it last.

  “Someone else was just here,” I tell the man. “Did you see?”

  He’s already walking to the Pilot. “I wasn’t back here until two seconds ago. You want the ride or not?” He gives me a glare. “But you can’t pass out again. And no puking.”

  I flinch. “I’m not drunk.”

  “Uh-huh.” He adds something else under his breath.

  I don’t know what to do, and my pounding head isn’t making it any easier to decide. If I leave, then I’m leaving the scene of the crime. I need to call the police now, while whoever did this is still in the area. Only, if nothing was taken, was there really a crime? All of a sudden, the details feel jumbled. The sun is too hot against the crown of my head.

  There’s a whoop, and I look up. A police car is pulling into the alleyway. Still on my ass, I watch as an officer leans out the driver’s side. “We just got a call that someone fainted back here.”

  I whip around to the Uber driver. “Did you call the police?”

  The Uber driver holds up his hands. “No way, man. I just got here.”

  The cop stares at us. His partner in the passenger seat peers over his Ray-Bans, then says to me, “Everything okay, miss?”

  My throat feels as though it’s coated with corroded metal. “Someone accosted me back here. I think a crime has been committed.”

  Driver Cop’s gaze swings to the Uber driver. The Uber driver steps away, hands shielding his chest. “I just got here, man. You can check my GPS. I saw nothing.”

  “It wasn’t him,” I say, feeling pretty confident about that. “It was someone else.” But something doesn’t make sense. I assess the alley one more time. If I was alone when Uber guy found me, and if Uber guy didn’t call the police saying I fainted, then who the hell did?

  Driver looks at his partner. Ray-Bans gives a nod. They get out of the car simultaneously, the act beautifully choreographed. Their shoes make crisp sounds as they cross the asphalt to me.

  “Uh, excuse me?” the Uber driver says. “Can I go now?”

  “Not yet,” the cop says. “We may need you to make a statement.”

  The Uber driver says something in Spanish under his breath. The cop who was driving squats down and places his hands on his knees. His uniform is a crisp black. There’s a shiny badge on his front pocket that says O’Hara. The name is too lilting, too poetic to belong to a police officer.

  “What’s your name?” he asks me.

  “Eliza.”

  “What happened?” Ray-Bans points to my face. I touch it experimentally and wince; I can feel a bruise.

  “I fell,” I say. “Someone startled me. I spun around, but I couldn’t see who it was, and then I felt very woozy.” After this all comes out of my mouth, I realize how flimsy it sounds. You can’t arrest someone just because they come up to you and touch you on the shoulder.

  “Did the person say anything to you?” O’Hara asks.

  “No. I don’t think so. But at the end, after I fell, the person said, What the hell? Get up! Please!”

  “Please.” O’Hara looks amused. He glances at his partner. “Polite.”

  I try to stand, but my footing feels wobbly, uncertain. I grab on to O’Hara’s shoulder for balance, my mouth nearly kissing his cheek. O’Hara reaches out to steady me, and once I’m upright, I notice that his eyebrows have hitched up. His partner glances at him, a small sliver of a look. His mouth curls into a smirk.

  “You all right there?” O’Hara towers over me, at least six-two.

  “I don’t know,” I insist. “I might have a head injury. I feel . . . dizzy.” I look at them expectantly. Neither makes a motion to write this down. There are no efforts to call an ambulance.

  “Well.” O’Hara clears his throat. “I think what you need, Eliza, is some coffee.”

  “It’s possible you might have misinterpreted whoever you saw in the parking lot,” his partner, whose
nametag reads Larkin, adds. “Maybe they were just trying to help. Maybe they were worried about you.”

  My cheeks burn. I’m not drunk, I will silently. I might have a brain tumor. It’s not my fault. But then I remember the meade I’d drunk before leaving Steadman’s. How many shots had I taken—two? Three? More than that? What was in meade, anyway? Was that why I was so fearless when intercepting Leonidas’s phone?

  “We can give you a ride home,” O’Hara says, kindly. “Or to the hospital, if you want to get checked out.”

  “No hospitals,” I say.

  “Uh, can I go?” Uber Driver says again.

  “Yeah, go ahead.” Larkin waves him away.

  I’m out of options. I trudge to the cruiser and slump into the back. It smells like old leather. There’s some sort of paper bracelet in the footwell with the logo from a seedy strip joint. Larkin shuts the door behind me. I slump down as far as I can go in the seat. If my mother saw me now, she’d probably forcibly send me to the Oaks. I’d have no say in the matter.

  I swipe to unlock my phone, then press the photos button, eager to look at the picture I’d taken of Leonidas’s call screen. One of the numbers on the list is needling at my memory—I know it, I just don’t know why I know it. But when I access my gallery, the image is gone. I swipe and swipe, but it isn’t anywhere.

  “Uh?” I eke out, jutting my chin toward the silent figures in the front seat. O’Hara raises his eyes to me in the rearview. There was a crime, I want to say. Something was taken from me. When I was passed out, someone went on my phone and erased a photo.

  I try to compose my words, but even before saying them, I know how they will sound. I will then have to explain sneaking into Leonidas’s dad’s office, which seems like too much of an effort and probably not something I should be talking about. This is my punishment, I suppose, for snooping.

  It just doesn’t seem like this punishment fits the crime.

  From The Dots

  In mid-April, Dorothy surprised Dot by taking her to a resort. It was in the middle of the desert and Dorothy loved it because she could hear coyotes howling all night.

  She got a suite for them to share. It had a large balcony that overlooked the warren-like courtyard of grassy nooks, flowering planters, and sleek wooden benches. A woman sunned herself on a towel in the nude.

  Dorothy turned to Dot, grinning. “There’s a marvelous story about a murder at this hotel. Celebrities used to come here in the sixties, especially those who slept their way to the top. This one girl, she must have been mixed in with the wrong crowd, because someone killed her in that courtyard. Hit her over the head. And the next day, when the staff found her, they identified her as a different starlet—a more famous one. They planned this elaborate funeral for her. Friends and family from out of state came in droves. The FBI was doing a full-scale investigation. But then the starlet emerged, alive and well. Turns out, being dead for three days did wonders for her career. She made quite a few movies after that! Married a good friend of Sinatra’s!”

  “But what about the real murdered girl?” Dot gasped.

  Dorothy shrugged. “Oh, I have no idea what happened to her. She probably got in over her head with some goons, and that’s why they killed her.”

  “They never figured out who did it?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. This other girl wasn’t much of a priority.”

  “Did the star who lived pay some sort of homage to her?” Dot asked. “I mean, it was because of this poor dead girl that her career took off, right? I hope she was grateful.”

  A thoughtful look crossed Dorothy’s features, and then she looked at Dot squarely. “You know what would be interesting? If the famous starlet was actually the one in trouble with the goons in Palm Springs, but she sent this other gal in her place to bear their wrath. She got out of a jam and a career boost, lucky thing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, don’t listen to me.” She playfully slapped Dot’s arm. “I’m just making up a plot.”

  When they went to the bar, Dorothy wore her sunglasses and scarf. “Why don’t you want anyone to notice you?” Dot asked as her aunt checked herself out in the mirror.

  Dorothy’s mouth made a straight line. “I just don’t want to answer questions.”

  “Questions about what?”

  “I wear many hats, Dot. I have my hands in many pies.”

  Someone started playing a piano, an old-timey twenties tune with lots of trills and flourishes.

  “Why does my mother hate you?” Dot blurted.

  Dorothy grew still. “Is that what she said? That she hates me?”

  Dot didn’t answer.

  Dorothy’s head drooped. She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “We used to be good friends, marvelous friends, especially growing up. I mean, we didn’t see each other much, but there was still a bond, you know? I was always the pretty one, but I was unlucky in love. Your mother’s husband, your father? He was a peach. A good man. Took care of her and you. He lived in Los Angeles, which is why you all moved there. I moved to follow you. I bet you didn’t know that.”

  Dot shook her head. She did not.

  “But your mother is . . . Well, you know her. She didn’t give your father what he needed. I was over a lot—I could tell what was happening to their marriage. I saw him looking at me, too. I tried to ignore it, but I had needs, too. I’d just gotten divorced. I’d just lost Thomas. I was single and rich and miserable. I only kissed him once, but your mother caught us. She banished me from then on. Said I was no longer her sister.”

  “You kissed my father?”

  “No, darling, he kissed me. But he wasn’t a bad man. Please don’t think that. It just . . . happened. Sometimes things do. But anyway, your mother read it how she wanted to read it. I was the instigator, she thought. We didn’t speak for a time. I think she understood what I meant to you and what you meant to me. She also knew how I could help out, financially. So she agreed that you and I could still visit. But she made it clear she wasn’t happy with me.

  “I did everything in my power to win your mother back. After your father passed away, your mother found out he had bad debts and no life insurance policy. She really did work like a dog to keep you two afloat. I said I’d help out, but she wouldn’t accept my money.” Dorothy paused to sip. “Your mother is very proud.”

  Dot widened her eyes. So Dorothy had offered to help out. She curled her fist under the table.

  “From then, things started to fall apart between us again,” Dorothy explained. “She enjoyed working, and she made excuses to work, but I think she sensed it wasn’t right. The guilt weighed on her. She took it out on me. She was jealous of our relationship. Yours and mine. I could do for you what she couldn’t.”

  “Did she send you away?” Dot cried.

  Dorothy stared at the table. Slowly, she licked her lips. “I don’t want to drive a wedge between you, dear,” she said softly.

  Dot snorted. The wedge was already there. “Mom says you’re unwell.”

  A muscle in Dorothy’s cheek twitched. She took Dot’s hands and looked at her hard. Her eyes were so clear and violet. “What do you think? Do you think I’m unwell?”

  “No,” Dot answered. But then she thought of what her boyfriend had said. That Dorothy was a bully. How much do you know about her? Why was he so mistrusting?

  A group of boys about Dot’s age passed through the bar just then. Dot watched them carefully—they were bearded, dirty, their jeans cut skinny, their shoes carefully weathered. They were probably coming from the three-day concert that was taking place the next town over. It was the kind of concert where you camped out and took a lot of drugs; Dot and Marlon had thought about going but then had decided not to because neither of them had anything appropriate to wear.

  The boys slunk up to guests in the bar and whispered in their ears. They were targeting other young people, it seemed, and each person they asked frowned, digested their question, then shook their heads. Finally, th
e boys made their way to Dot, but when they noticed that Dorothy was older, they started to move on.

  “Wait!” Dorothy cried. The boys turned. “You guys either have something or are looking for something. Which is it?”

  Dot nudged her. “What are you doing?”

  Dorothy’s gaze was still on the group. “I’m not a cop, fellas. I’m honestly curious.”

  The boys shifted their weight, stuck their hands in their pockets. They all exchanged a glance, then shrugged. “We have a bunch of flakka,” the shortest and dirtiest one, his dreadlocks literally caked with mud, said. “We’re looking for takers.”

  “What’s flakka?”

  “Not for you,” the tallest one said quickly.

  “How do you know?” Dorothy asked. Dot stared at her in horror.

  The boy in the middle, who was the most normal looking, his brown hair only a little shaggy and his face clean-shaven, shrugged. “It’s kinda like ecstasy, and it’s kinda like a roofie, except not as dangerous.” His friends nudged him and gave him sharp looks. “What?” he murmured to them. “She asked.”

  “It’s not like she knows what a roofie is, dude,” Dirty Dreadlocks spat.

  Dorothy scoffed. “I know what a roofie is, boys. And sure. We’ll take some.”

  “No we won’t!” Dot cried.

  Dorothy was already getting out some cash. Dot looked around frantically, paranoid someone in the bar was going to be wise to their drug deal. The police would come, Dorothy would go to jail, and Dot would somehow be implicated, and then her mother would find out.

  It was over quickly, though, the exchange fluid and discreet. The boys slunk away. The biggest one’s dreadlocks bounced cheerfully. They all had slow, dumb laughs; Dot wondered if they were already high.

  She turned to Dorothy. “What are you trying to prove?”