ELIZA
IT’S TWO DAYS later. Book release day. Dr. Roxanne time.
I’m at my house. Desmond is on his way here to meet me, and we’re going to go together to Dr. Roxanne in a limo the studio is sending. I’m trying to figure out the answers to the questions the studio has sent. What inspires you? Does any of The Dots stem from your real life? What’s your writing process? I am trying to decide whether I outlined this book or went with the flow instead of freakishly writing it in one vomitus go, start to finish, with barely any shifting of scenes. I am trying to come up with a creation myth on how this story came about, but really, it just poured out of me, maybe always there.
But amid all this, something is bothering me. There’s a detail that just doesn’t make sense. I can’t believe that Gabby was at the bar at the Tranquility. Or, rather, she might have come in at the end, and she might have pushed me into the pool, but I spoke to someone else at the bar, too. It was that someone else who riled me into hysterics.
I can feel it. I know it.
I hate that my brain is fighting against what Gabby told me. I hate that reality has begun to shift again, like sand. I want to think that my tumor, surely there, is playing tricks on me, fucking with my happiness, but I know that isn’t true. There was someone else at that bar. More happened at the Shipstead than Gabby’s saying. Whatever happened before, whoever I was talking to before Gabby came in, that’s why I was so panicked when she found me.
And that’s who I need to be afraid of.
After all, who filmed that video of me in my hospital room? I’d asked Gabby, and she swore up and down it wasn’t her—she’d gone back to the hotel for the night, and my parents could corroborate the alibi. And who do I keep seeing lurking about? And who sent my novel to my parents? A different person might have let this go. You could say I chase strife and welcome complication. And yet, after I dial Gabby for the seemingly zillionth time and yet again get her voice mail—so she’s avoiding me? She knows that I know there’s more to the story?—I find myself dialing the Shipstead bar again and asking for the elusive Richie.
It’s the Aussie who answers, and I swear when he hears my voice he starts to snicker. I hang up and toss my phone to the mattress. But then I grab it again and type in the website for the Tranquility resort—if Aussie is lying about Richie being there, then maybe I can file a complaint. A picture of a stucco archway surrounded by succulent desert flowers serves as the resort’s homepage. I consider the navigation options, settling on “amenities.” A list of the bars within the resort pops up along with pictures of each. I click on the Shipstead and narrow my eyes at the familiar swaths of polished wood and the rigging ropes. No list of bartenders, though. Not even a name of a manager to whom I can grouse.
Still, I can just ask for a manager of the hotel and go from there, right? I click on a link marked Management, and pictures pop up. When I notice the face in the upper right-hand corner, my gaze brushes over him fast, the way it does when I see him in real life. But then I blink and look again. I’m confused. This guy belongs here, in Burbank. Not grinning in a suit next to a bunch of old guys in a photo titled From Our Family to Yours.
It’s Andrew. Dirty, Random-Sex Andrew from the whorehouse bar down the street.
I click on the photo to make it larger, gawking at his oily grin. How has Andrew snuck into a photo of the resort’s founding family? Is this some kind of joke?
There is no caption on the picture, but I notice a link titled Legacy. I am led to a page about how the Tranquility resort was built by the Cousins-Glouster family of hoteliers and how it’s the Cousins-Glouster family’s pride and responsibility to keep their resorts intimate, luxurious, and exclusive. There is a roster of Cousins-Glousters who keep the resorts afloat: George Cousins, second generation, balding and paunchy and pink-faced. Marvin Cousins-Glouster, second generation, taller and handsome, with an overbite. More old men, an incredibly old man, and then Andrew Cousins-Glouster, third generation, with that lascivious prep-school smile and that scar cutting across his eyebrow that I have focused on quite a few times while having a post-coital cigarette.
I gawk for a few still moments. Andrew? As in the guy who always buys the cheapest whiskey the bar sells? As in the doofus who wants to be part of a TV writing staff? An heir to a hotel fortune? A cog in a From Our Family to Yours? How did I not know about his connection to the Tranquility? Did I know?
The front door creaks open, scaring me. I run to the landing, almost expecting it to be Andrew, somehow instantly knowing what I’ve figured out. But it’s Desmond, fresh from work, carrying clothes he’s going to change into in a garment bag.
“Hello, mistress,” he trills, dropping a kiss on my forehead. “I’m going to take a quick shower and then we’ll go, yes? Are you excited?”
“Uh, sure.” I take too long to answer.
Desmond frowns and steps back. “What’s the matter?”
Don’t tell him, a voice in my head begs. I chew on the side of my hand and make a distracted mm.
He starts to massage my shoulder. “If you’re nervous about the show, don’t be. You’re going to be great.”
I dig my nails into my leg. I just can’t hold it in. “Say you just found out someone you know has insider knowledge to the Tranquility. Maybe access to security cameras. And say this person is more than likely down the street at the wine bar that used to be a brothel right now. Would you maybe call that person, or pop in quickly, and ask some questions?”
Desmond sinks onto the couch. “Why does it matter?”
“But it would prove unequivocally what happened.”
“But didn’t Gabby tell you what happened?”
“Maybe not everything. Maybe there’s more. I think Gabby only came at the end. She might be lying about what else I saw . . . or she might not know. If I had a video feed, something, I would know for sure what all went on.”
Desmond looks shaken. “But didn’t that guy you were talking to from the police say the cameras had been out during that time because of a storm?”
“So we ask a bartender. Just something to prove I spoke to Gabby and only Gabby.”
“But why does it matter? Gabby’s the one who pushed you in the pool, right?”
“Yes, but I want the whole truth. I want to make sure . . .” I’m not sure what I want to make sure of. I’ve lost so many memories; it’s puzzling why I’m so driven for this particular one back. Or is it?
“Eliza.” Desmond’s eyebrows knit together. “You know I totally support you on unlocking your memories. But maybe today isn’t the right time. Your mind should be clear. You should be thinking about being on TV. It’s going to be live, after all. You have to be at your best.”
“I know, but it’s not like this would take very long, and . . .”
“Don’t,” he advises. “This seems like sabotage. It’s like you’re setting yourself up for failure. Besides, isn’t the limo picking us up soon?”
“Yeah, but I just thought . . .” I trail off and sigh.
“Drop it. At least for today. If it’s still bothering you tomorrow, we can ask this guy. But for today, just focus on being on the show. Focus on everyone loving your book. Focus on being amazing, because you are amazing.”
I lay my head on the couch pillow. Desmond is right, of course. Why can’t I just be happy? Why can’t I just accept what I’ve been told? Why am I so dreadfully mistrustful?
“I’m going to take a shower,” Desmond says again. “I’ll be out in a second, okay?”
He goes upstairs, and soon I hear the water start to run. Desmond hums a minstrel song he has on auto-repeat in his car. I lay on my back for a moment, trying to relax, but it feels like there are pins driving into my skin.
I rise, walk to the third floor, and look out the window. From up here, I have a perfect view of the bar down the street. There are a few cars in the parking lot. One of them might be Andrew’s. But even if he’s there, there’s no guarantee he knows the information I need. And just going there, just risking seeing him, opens a can of worms I’d rather keep closed. I know what Andrew’s terms will be for giving me the information. I don’t want to have to be faced with that decision.
Then again, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering.
My phone pings with a new email. I glance at it, eager for distraction. It’s from the Imaging Center. Your MRI results are in. I frown. It’s a whole day early. And what, the place is so cheap they don’t have someone call you and personally tell you you’re dying?
I peer up the stairs, knowing I should wait until Desmond is out of the shower, but there’s no way I can keep the email closed for another second. I select it, then open the attached PDF. At the top, it says my name. In the radiologist’s notes, most of it is medical mumbo-jumbo, but I know which line to look for: the radiologist’s impressions at the bottom. I blink several times, unsure of what I’m looking at. No abnormalities.
It can’t be possible.
I check my watch—half-past four, meaning the office is probably still open. I dial the number, and a nurse answers. “This is Eliza Fontaine, and I just got some results that I think have been switched with someone else’s,” I say in a rush.
The nurse asks me to spell my name slowly and give my date of birth. I hear keyboard tapping. After she asks me to respell my name and go through about fifteen different security indicators to prove that I am, indeed, Eliza Fontaine, she says, “Ah, yes. An MRI. We sent the results today. What did your PDF say?”
“Negative. Normal.”
“Well, it is negative. The radiologist signed off on it—I see it right here. So there you go.”
“But that’s not possible.”
She laughs incredulously. “I’m sorry?”
“The tumor I had a year ago isn’t gone. I can tell. I’m having symptoms. I can practically feel it inside me. I really think my scan got confused with someone else’s.”
“I don’t think so . . .”
“Look, can I just speak to a doctor?”
“Hold on,” the nurse says, a slight groan in her voice. She clicks off. Muzak lilts into my ear. I rub my fingertips against my silken pillow. Desmond is still humming in the shower. I feel a pang in my head and touch a spot between my eyes. I want it to be the tumor, I realize. I want it to still be lurking in there, messing things up.
“Miss Fontaine?” A man’s voice. “This is Doctor Geist, the radiologist on staff. How can I help you?”
I go through my spiel, explaining my tumor and surgery. I try not to sound hysterical—or like I completely mistrust doctors. After I’m done, there’s a silent gap. “Where did you say you had surgery earlier this year, Miss Fontaine?”
“I wrote it down on my forms. UCLA.”
“With which surgeon?”
“Doctor Forney. He’s on staff there.”
“No, he’s a neurologist. I mean your neurosurgeon. Who operated on you?”
“I don’t . . .” I’d been so out of it. A guy with glasses, maybe? “Isn’t it in a chart?”
“That’s the thing. We tried to get your chart from UCLA so we could compare your new scan to an old scan. But you have no chart with UCLA.”
“What?”
“You have no recent records at UCLA. Certainly nothing about brain surgery.”
My legs go numb. As do my cheeks. I feel dizzy, too, so I slide off my bed to the ground until my butt touches the carpet. “What about the neurologist I just mentioned? Doctor Forney?”
“He says he’s never heard of you.”
I press my hand into the carpet fibers. Hadn’t I spoken to Dr. Forney before? Wasn’t that who discharged me from the hospital? “But I was at UCLA. I remember.”
“We checked the system, Miss Fontaine. We have access to UCLA’s records, and they do a good job with patient data. There’s no record of you there.”
I pinch the skin on the top of my hand hard, hoping this will steady my memory and bring back the right details. But I can’t locate anything. All I remember is the day I left the hospital. My mind was clear. I sat up, swung my legs over the bed, got dressed, and went back to my parents’ house.
My parents. They must know, then. They were in the room when I was discharged. They paid all my bills. They can straighten this out. Or can they? If they were lying to me about Gabby and the pool, then what else are they lying about? After all, why didn’t they insist on my getting an MRI when I was in the hospital in Palm Springs? Because they knew nothing would show up, a voice in my head tells me. Because they knew the doctors would say I’d never had surgery in the first place.
I can’t believe I didn’t think this through sooner. But maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe a deep part inside me urged me to just look the other way.
I shudder with fear. A second fear nestles into me, too, iron-cold and blade-sharp: it was comforting when I thought the errant wiring in my head was what led to my skewed decisions and the memory loss and the recent delusions. So where does this leave me now?
Dr. Geist advises me to check my insurance company—perhaps I was at another hospital and have the names confused. But somehow, I know that isn’t the case. I hang up and look at the blank screen, then dial my mother’s number. She doesn’t answer. Heart in my throat, I try Bill, Gabby. Nothing. It’s like they know I’m looking for them. It’s like they realize I’ve found out.
But what did I find out?
I walk into the hallway and listen to Desmond in the shower. I want to tell him the news, but I’m afraid of what he’ll think. Bizarrely, a clear scan is terrible. Because what was that recent freak-out at the Tranquility about, then? The one where I ran from the bar, from Desmond, and started trembling in the lobby? If my messed-up brain wasn’t synthesizing the fear, then what the fuck was making me afraid?
I try my family again, blam, blam, blam, all in a row, but still they don’t pick up. I need answers, though. I need the answer to something. I walk to the window again and stare at the bar down the block. All the same cars are still there. The neon Budweiser bottle blinks in the window.
It’s not a good idea. I stare down Olive, then at the Batman symbol superimposed over the WB water tower. It’s really, really not a good idea. I squeeze my eyes shut once more, begging the memory out of me. Any memory. But nothing comes. There’s only darkness, a blank hospital, a drunken day, “Low Rider,” and a few useless words.