The Elizas

by Sara Shepard

“Hey!” Dot cried, running after her.

  Dorothy crossed the avenue. On the other side was a little bridge that overlooked the busy freeway below. Under the streetlight, her skin looked gray, and there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Dot had never seen her aunt sweat before. Dorothy was also clutching her throat as though she was choking. Her eyes were bulging out, too. Dot was pretty sure she was doing it for show. She’d never felt that way all the times she’d been drugged.

  “You were going to kill me, too?” Dot cried. “You gave me something to bring on those seizures. Something to make my condition worse. Something that would get you on the cover of Los Angeles as the saint who saved her niece’s life.”

  “I can’t believe you’d say such a thing,” Dorothy sputtered. Her vocal cords sounded pinched. “I would never do that. If it looked like that, it was set up that way.”

  “By whom?”

  “The doctors. Those nurses. And your mother. Oh God, most definitely your mother. They all had it in for me. They had it in for me from the beginning.”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  Dorothy staggered to the overpass barrier. She curled her fingers over the ledge, peering into the traffic. “They hated me. All of them hated me. Wouldn’t let me in. No one would let me in. But I had one over on them. They were all so stupid.” Saliva spewed from her mouth. Her head lolled on her neck. Maybe this was the real, true Dorothy, Dot thought with a pang. Maybe the woman she’d seen and known had been an elaborate act. A look-alike.

  “It’s why we’ve had to be incognito,” Dot persisted. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be out with me. You could get arrested.”

  “Yes, because of your moth-er.” Dorothy rolled her eyes. “Have I told you that she was a pill even as a child?” She broke off and clutched her throat, making a gagging sound. Her mouth opened wide. Dot watched as she tried to draw in a breath. The color began to drain from her face. Dot wasn’t sure how Dorothy could fake that.

  “Dorothy?” Dot asked tentatively, taking a small step toward her. Now her aunt was gasping. Her eyes rolled back toward her skull. She staggered backward toward the overpass railing. Her legs started to crumple as though her bones had been removed. She grappled for her throat. She was just supposed to pass out, Dot thought. Like Dot always did. This poison wasn’t supposed to make her lose function. It wasn’t supposed to kill her.

  Dorothy slumped against the guardrail and gagged. This time, bile came up—Dot could smell it. Her aunt spit a long string of stomach juices and saliva all the way down to the moving traffic. Horrible sounds emerged from her lips. She burped raucously, then gagged again, then threw up some more. Even in the dim light, Dot was pretty sure it was blood.

  “Dorothy,” Dot whispered, trying to pull her up by her waist. Her aunt wouldn’t budge. Out of options, Dot reached into her pocket and found her phone to call 911. She didn’t look forward to the aftermath of this—her mother finding out again, the doctors testing Dorothy’s blood, a police investigation, a finger pointed at Dot, and then, of course, Dorothy herself going to jail. Maybe both of them going to jail. But she couldn’t let her aunt die out here.

  Her fingers trembled as she pressed the buttons on her phone’s screen. Light illuminated against her face, and she pressed the 9. Then, the overhead light burned out. Dot looked up, staring at the streetlight, willing it to flicker back on.

  “Dorothy?” she called nervously. She could barely see a few feet in front of her. She heard footsteps, someone breathing.

  A hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist, knocking Dot’s phone away. Dot felt her hipbone smash against the guardrail. She could smell her aunt’s perfume and bile breath, so close. With surprising strength, Dorothy pushed Dot against the metal barrier and held her there.

  “If I’m dying, then you are, too,” Dorothy growled. It didn’t even sound like her voice, and it barely looked like her face. Someone else had taken over her body. Someone possessed.

  Dot felt her hips tip over the edge of the guardrail. Her head twisted, and she stared woozily at the traffic below. The cars swept by so obliviously. If they happened to look up, all they’d see was blackness.

  Conjuring strength, she pushed hard against her aunt. Dorothy staggered backward with a grunt. Dot managed to tilt herself upright before Dorothy came raging back for her. She slid off the guardrail and ducked to the side, avoiding Dorothy’s charging form. What made her grab her aunt’s thin, shapely calves, she wasn’t sure. What made her hoist those calves up, tipping the top half of her aunt’s body at the guardrail, she couldn’t say. She didn’t intend to tilt her aunt so forcefully, and when she let go, she had no idea Dorothy was angled so far over the guardrail that most of her body dangled over the edge. As soon as her fingers freed themselves from those ankles, though, Dorothy’s whole body slipped away effortlessly. Dot whirled around and gasped, instantly understanding what she’d done. She lunged for her aunt’s tumbling feet, but it was too late. Her fingers grappled darkness and air.

  Dot peered over the guardrail and screamed. It was so dark, and there was no sound of her aunt’s fall, but maybe that’s because the highway was too far down for her to hear. The cars kept rushing, their headlights betraying nothing. But Dorothy was definitely down there. Soon enough, someone was going to hit her. And soon enough, they would be looking upward, trying to figure out what had happened.

  She turned and ran.

  ELIZA

  OH GOD, THERE it is, there it is: I’m dizzy, my vision is cloudy, I’m wavering in my seat at that bar, but I can make out a body sliding into the stool next to mine. I smell the bergamot oranges and the sickening creamy mintiness of the stinger. Everything inside me goes still, and when I look over, there she is. Me, and not me.

  It can’t be possible. It can’t. It was part of a dream. The worst part is I don’t even know who I’m afraid of. Myself? A clone of myself? An evil twin?

  Stop staring, she said. I knew the voice. I need to talk to you. I need you to listen.

  “Miss Fontaine?”

  Roz is touching my arm. I realize I am standing in the parking lot with my phone in my hand. She looks at me cautiously, her clipboard under her arm. “We need to get you back in hair and makeup.” Her mouth makes an O when she peers into my face. “Are you okay?”

  I am desperate to muster a smile, but it’s probably more of a snaggle-toothed cringe.

  Roz pats my shoulder. “Hey, it’s going to be great. Just relax. If it’s any consolation, Katie’s out there right now getting the audience drunk. They’re going to think everything you say to Roxanne is positively scintillating.”

  She extends her arm and leads me back to the trailer. My stomach heaves, and for a moment my vision tilts, but I manage to remain upright. Somehow I get up the stairs. The makeup artist says nothing about my greasy face. She hums as she puts on my lipstick. “Now go like this,” she says, popping her lips together. I pop, too. I’m amazed I can pop.

  “Roxanne’s about to go on for her introductions,” Roz says. “You’re first, Eliza. Get ready!”

  I’m a zombie as she walks me down the trailer steps and across the lawn. When we get to a blue curtain, she tells me to stop. “Wait here, and she’ll call your name, and then you’ll walk through there.” Roz parts the curtain just slightly to reveal a makeshift set inside a gazebo festooned with flowers. Six cameras are trained on Roxanne, who has ash-blonde hair cut to her chin and wears a white doctor’s coat. I wish, suddenly, she was a real doctor, and that I could be lying on a bed, hospitalized.

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. A sound tech rushes over and rechecks the microphone he’s threaded up my blouse and into my ear. But when I turn my head just so, I see her.

  It’s just a flash of light and skin. A wink from a full-length mirror a few feet away from the curtain. When I look closer, I see my face staring back. Only, the me in the mirror flashes an eerie smile I don’t think I know how to make. I yelp and turn around so quickly that
the cord of the microphone goes taut in the sound tech’s fingers. The microphone clip leaps off my blouse.

  “Oops,” the sound tech murmurs. “Can you stay still for me, honey?”

  I stare into the mirror again. The reflection is gone. I glance at Roz, who’s looking at me questioningly. “Are guests allowed backstage?”

  “Nope, they’re all in the bleachers. And you got off easy—it’s a small group compared to when we shoot on our normal set.” She studies me, then tucks in her chin and speaks into her microphone. “Amanda, can you get out here? Eliza needs a touch-up.”

  “Already?” I can hear the makeup artist complain through the headset. Yes, Amanda. Already.

  I study the mirror again. Still nothing. But it doesn’t matter. I saw it. I know she’s here. Now that I believe in her, I suddenly believe in everything—all those shadows I wrote off as nothing, all those feelings I was being watched, all those eerie, uncanny prickles on the back of my neck. The mysterious video on my phone in the hospital room. The reason I felt so afraid when I ran toward the pool at the Tranquility; the reason I fled from the bar at the Tranquility when I was with Desmond. It’s her. This strange second Eliza is everywhere, as magical and omnipotent as Santa Claus.

  Someone on the other side of the curtain calls for quiet. There’s saxophone music and applause, and the host begins to talk. Roz hears something through her headset and scuttles away a few paces. I look around freely. There are more cabanas behind us, chaises and thick palms. She’s crouching somewhere. I can feel her readying a laugh. I want to comb through the plants until I find her.

  “Eliza.” Roz is back by my side, poking my arm. “Go.”

  The host must have called my name, because the audience is clapping. I am pushed through the curtain. The cameras swivel over and record me as I stand, transfixed. I try to smile, but my fear has taken control of the muscles of my face. Past the cameras, I see an audience sitting in grandstand-style seats. One figure stands out from the others. My heart jumps all the way up to my brain.

  I point at her. “You!”

  The me in the audience touches her breast. Her lips part. Shapes rearrange, and it’s a middle-aged woman, well-dressed, with red lipstick and a big handbag on her lap. The kaleidoscope turns again. Now it’s all Elizas in the audience. A hundred clones of me, out for blood. I blink. It’s back to bleachers of strangers.

  I wheel around to Roxanne. “Help me,” I whisper, not loud enough for the microphone to pick up.

  “Eliza?” Roxanne beckons from the couch. “Come over here, darling, and let’s talk about this amazing new book of yours!”

  I see an excited expression on her face, but I don’t know how to respond to it. I can feel the sweat running down my forehead. “I know you’re here,” I say, loudly. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Pardon?” Roxanne asks.

  My gaze sweeps the set again. Cameras. Tech people. Audience. Blue Los Angeles sky. “Just come out. Show me who you are.”

  “Eliza!” Roz hisses from the wings. “What the hell?”

  Roxanne, still standing, smiles at the audience. “Uh, I believe we’re having some technical difficulties, so this might be a good time to break for commercial.”

  “No!” a voice hisses from stage right. “Keep going! This is great!”

  Roxanne presses her lips together. Behind her, I see a glint of light followed by a flash of dark. It’s the other me. I lunge for it. The audience screams. Roxanne steps away from my outstretched arms, stumbling in her high heels, but I barely notice her. I reach the chairs and shove them aside, their legs making angry scrapes against the concrete. I peer behind the Dr. Roxanne banner; there’s a small, landscaped Eden full of flowering plants. A rippling pond burbles happily. I know this pond, I realize. I sat here, one morning, wickedly hungover, and pitched pennies into its lowest tier.

  No, you didn’t, a voice inside me shouts. Dot did. Not you.

  But I did. I did.

  I fumble out from behind the curtain and face the audience. “Where are you? Come out so I can talk to you!” I can hear my ragged breathing. I can sense the expression on my face. And yet I can’t stop myself. I can’t stop any of this.

  “We’re going to commercial,” Roxanne decides, walking straight for the camera.

  There’s that loud buzz; the director reluctantly yells cut. The audience’s murmurs grow louder. Everyone is staring at me. Roxanne scuttles off the set. Roz hurries over to me. “Eliza,” she whispers. She doesn’t sound angry anymore. More like shaken and frightened. “I think it would be best if you came backstage with me, okay?”

  “No.” I say it so forcefully spit flies out of my mouth, landing on her cheek.

  “You’re clearly having some sort of . . . moment. It’s upsetting our guests.”

  “I’m being hunted. It’s not going to stop until I’m dead.”

  Roz notices my microphone and pulls it off my shirt. “If you just come backstage, if you have some water—we’ll get this sorted out.”

  “Don’t you understand?” I scream. “I’m in danger! I’m. In. Danger!”

  A gasp from the onlookers. “Stop!” someone else screams, and I feel hands pulling me backward. “Eliza, stop!”

  I stare down at myself. Somehow, I’ve grabbed Roz’s shirt, and I’m shaking her. “I’m sorry,” I start to say, but Roz has already turned backstage.

  I turn around to assess whoever has pulled me backward. A tall, hefty security guard with a shaved head takes my arm. “Time to go, miss.”

  I stare at his dark, fleshy fingers around my biceps. “W-where are you taking me?”

  “Off the property. If you go quietly, no one will press charges.”

  I dig in my heels. “Don’t leave me out there alone. She’ll find me.”

  His expression hardens. “You’ve created enough of a disturbance. Let’s go.”

  “Please!” I beg. I can feel the tears running down my cheeks. “Please, I’m scared!”

  We push through the cut in the curtains. The whole production team is standing there: Amanda the makeup lady; Cathy, who blow-dried my hair; about fifty PAs. They are staring, slack-jawed. I sense the Eliza vibration again, and the world starts to wobble. Nerves snap at the surface of my skin. I can feel my legs crumpling, and suddenly I’m on the ground. I can’t move. At least if I stay here, I’m around people, and she won’t get me.

  “Miss Fontaine.” The guard yanks at my arm. “Get up.”

  “I can’t,” I whisper. “Don’t make me. Don’t leave me alone.”

  “Get up.”

  “I’ve got her.”

  It’s a new voice, one I know. Bill stands above me. I peer at him, fearful, paranoid—why is he here? I wonder, suddenly, if he’s also in on the plot—maybe they all are. Maybe they all know who this woman is who’s lurking around, ready to hurt me. Maybe they’re all best friends.

  I scuttle away from him. “Leave me alone!”

  But Bill is quicker, and he scoops me up under my arms. I kick my legs, trying to get free. “Eliza. Honey. Stop, okay? Please stop. It’s me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “How do I know that? How do I know anything?”

  “I knew this was going to be too much for you. Your mother and I both said. We’re going to get you help, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

  He drags me past the craft services table, where about twenty more people who work on the show stare at us in astonishment. “But she’s here,” I say. “I know it. And she’s going to follow me out here. She’s going to follow us.”

  “Just . . . come on. Let’s not talk about this here.”

  Still holding me, Bill drags me away from the set and down a leafy path. The sun bores down on my head. In the distance, I can hear the audience applauding. It’s strange to think that Dr. Roxanne has gone on as though nothing is amiss. Meanwhile, my life is crumbling before my eyes.

  Bill takes me through a pool gate and sits me down on a lounge chair. The pool area is emp
ty. Every table offers a neat stack of towels. A hot tub burbles to the left. It’s tranquil, but the desolation unnerves me. As soon as I sit down, I start to tremble from head to toe. “Why are you here?” I ask Bill. “What are you doing?”

  Bill sits next to me. “I was afraid something like this might happen. Gabby told us what she told you about the pool. We had a feeling you might start putting the pieces together.”

  “What pieces? What are you talking about?”

  “How about you start by telling me who you’re afraid of? And maybe I can explain.”

  There’s a lump in my throat. So he does know who she is? Part of me wants to bolt, but his voice is so trusting and gentle. I want to believe he won’t hurt me. “This . . . woman. She looks just like me. I’ve seen her everywhere. I think she wants to hurt me. For real, Bill. Not like the other times. At least I don’t think so.” I peek at him. “You know who she is, don’t you? And you’re not telling me. No one is telling me. Am I right?”

  Bill’s hands loosen from my legs. A look I can’t decipher at first floods his face. Regret, maybe. Devastation. He takes a long breath. “You’re right. I do know her. I believe you’re talking about your aunt. But . . . she’s dead.”

  I recoil. “What aunt?”

  “Your mother’s sister. Her name was Eleanor. Eleanor Reitman. You two look exactly the same.”

  I jolt away from him. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s natural you’re terrified of her. She’s been trying to kill you for years—in the hospital, when you were young, and then after. But she’s dead, Eliza. She really is. She was hit by a car when you pushed her over that overpass.”

  I rear back. “No. No. That was Dot and Dorothy. From my book. That was in my book.”

  “Eliza. Calm down, okay? Calm down. She is Dorothy. And you are Dot. You’re the exact same, just with different names. You disassociated. You created Dot and your book as a way of dealing with what happened to you. Don’t you understand? This is why we were so upset about your book when we finally read it. This is why we don’t want you to publish it. This is why your mother unsuccessfully tackled you in that parking lot. She was hoping . . . well, I guess she hoped you would come with her willingly. And that she could convince you, somehow, to call your editor yourself and pull the book. We hadn’t really planned it all out. We just knew we had to do something.”