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 empty. 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.”
I feel like my whole body is tumbling down a deep, deep well, its sides slick and full of spiders, its bottom miles away. “None of this is possible. I can’t have forgotten a whole fucking aunt.”
“But you did. It’s understandable, Eliza. Explainable. Horrible things happened a year and a half ago. Horrible things we should have stopped, had we known. All we could do was try to cover it up after the fact and protect you from further damage—hide what you did from the police, try to find you a treatment. We all understood why you did it, honey—we knew what she was doing to you unfortunately when it was too late. So we sought out a doctor to remove those memories. He had this method that he used on PTSD patients, a mix of drugs and a whole lot of psychotherapy—it was supposed to work. What it did instead was shove the memories into a bottom drawer. They were always there, though. And the emotion was always there, the fear. It broke through in your book. And now it’s breaking through for real in other ways, too.”
There’s suddenly a tinny taste in my mouth. “What happened a year and a half ago?”
“Everything in your book. Aunt Eleanor hurting you in the hospital. Aunt Eleanor coming back into town. That dinner out. Her . . . death.”
I stare at him. “Are you suggesting what I wrote is true?”
He looks pained. “Yes.”
“Even the part where Dot . . . where I . . . ?” I can’t even say it out loud.
Bill’s hands grip mine hard. “It’s why you kept diving into those pools. You felt guilty. Responsible. And unsettled—there was no body for the service. You kept thinking she was still alive, and that terrified you. So like I said, we got you help. You couldn’t go on like that. We had to do something.”
I widen my eyes. More pieces snap together. “I didn’t have a brain tumor, did I? That’s why there’s no record of me at UCLA. I checked, you know. I made a fool out of myself, claiming I was sick when I wasn’t. I even got an MRI because I thought the tumor came back!”
He licks his lip. “You had a mass as a child, but it was benign, and everything was removed. But not last year. That’s just what we told you. It was a more rational story. And no, you weren’t at UCLA. You were somewhere else.”
I’m horrified. “Doing that other thing? That PTSD bullshit?”
He looks wrecked. “It’s very cutting-edge. Scientists have targeted genes that make proteins that either enhance memory or interfere with it. There’s a new drug that acts on those genes, turns them off so certain memories are suppressed. You talked to a therapist a lot, too. He had you do hypnosis a lot, and for a while, you seemed cured. You forgot . . . and that seemed like the best thing for you. We thought we were protecting you. From the police—and from yourself.”
Bile rises in my throat. “I wouldn’t agree to that. It sounds like bullshit.”
“Well, we forced you to. We got a court document and everything, but you probably don’t remember. And . . . well, it was bullshit, kind of, because instead of you forgetting, you created Dot.” He presses his hands to his eyes. “We thought the process had worked. You seemed so well. So happy. And we thought that when you were writing a novel, it was about something else. We should have asked to see it far sooner than we did. We shouldn’t have believed you when you said it wasn’t going to be published for a long time. We just didn’t want to push—we were afraid you were fragile. So we let it go. But we’re afraid people will read it and realize that it’s true. We don’t want anything to happen to you, Eliza. You shouldn’t be punished for what you did.”
“I didn’t do it,” I insist. “I mean, Dorothy—Eleanor—isn’t even dead! She was with me at the Shipstead at the Tranquility the night Gabby pushed me into the pool. A bartender saw her! And she’s here, now. I’ve seen her everywhere.” Something else strikes me. “For all I know, she’s impersonating me, all over town. People have seen me out and about—at yoga studios, at the shop I work at, at clubs—but I distinctly remember not being in those places. It’s like she’s trying to take over my life!” Just saying it chills me. Could it be true?
Bill shakes his head. “Eleanor is dead. I promise you.”
I look at him through tears. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because the police told us so. It was her ID. But she was taken away. I guess she didn’t want any of us to see her. But it was her, Eliza. I promise you.”
I blink hard, trying to let this sink in. It just doesn’t seem possible. “And you’re sure I did it?” He nods sadly. “How are you sure?”
“Because you kept saying so. You said it over and over. You were like Lady Macbeth. Possessed.”
I shut my eyes. All of a sudden, an image swims against my closed eyelids. I see two women standing near a highway overpass. One of them is an older, pretty woman wrapped in a fur. Her shoulders are hunched, and her mouth is open in a scream. Behind her is the guardrail; to the left glows the sign for St. Mother Maria’s. Orbs of neon headlights gleam below.
Then I look at the person next to her. She’s yelling, too. And though I can’t see what she’s wearing—something in the foreground cuts out the lower half of her, only showing her face—she looks awfully familiar. She is standing in the same way I pictured Dot in those final moments. It’s possible she’s thinking what Dot was thinking in those final moments.
I look at Bill in horror. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.” But even as the words spill from my mouth, I’m not sure I believe them anymore. Because it was me. It couldn’t be anyone else.
This seems to unlock a door, because memories smash through a wall. The feeling is almost palpable; I want to cover my head to protect myself from the deluge. All Dot’s memories can’t be mine. They can’t.
But then I try it out. Eleanor Reitman. My aunt. And there it comes, spilling over the dam. Little me, prancing through a beautiful room at the Magnolia Hotel, trying on gowns in Eleanor Reitman’s closet.
Little me, playing Oscar Night, coming out in a gown way too long for me, answering Eleanor’s questions about who I was wearing (“Wednesday Addams Couture,” I always said) and what my beauty tips were (“No sleep, lots of cookies”).
Little me, playing Funeral, lying in that silk coffin, the two of us giggling, my arms reaching out for my mother to come play, too. Sometimes she’d join in, but others she’d rush off, late for work.
Little me in the hospital, miserable, terrified. Aunt Eleanor bursting through in that silk wrap dress, carrying that Chanel bag, making everything perfect.
Stella the look-alike taking my blood pressure. Los Angeles magazine. The ICU. Me hearing my doctor’s voice yelling at someone outside the hall. Eleanor’s frostiness. Her paranoia. Don’t tell them anything. I hear her voice through the phone.
Bill and Gabby coming to the door of our house, me pouring that glass of vodka, Gabby looking on with wide, spooked eyes. Maybe you shouldn’t be doing that, she’d said—but not because it was taboo. Because I’d been sick. Because she felt sorry for what I’d been through. They’d told her everything—including the part about Eleanor. That’s why Gabby took the blame. That’s also why Gabby didn’t want to rehash it, days ago.
Memories come back of my mother changing on me, growing silent, angry. Telling me Eleanor was in France, then taking it back. And then I see myself meeting Eleanor in the parking lot near school. My ass in that booth at M&F, taking that sip of champagne. Leonidas—there he is!—and I going out with Eleanor to that club. My mother hunting me down the morning I awoke woozy and sick in Eleanor’s suite. Telling me the truth. Me not believing it. Doubt creeping in. Leonidas making me promise not to see her that last night. But I went anyway.
I can hear myself screaming, but I can’t stop. I cover my ears to block out the sound, but it just echoes inside my head. I can feel my knees buckling again, and from the end of a long, long tunnel I have the vague sense that Bill is trying to lift me to stand. My legs are limp and boneless. I can’t move.
The memories bulldoze on, crashing, crashing. Details I’d packed into the novel: Aunt Eleanor handing keys over to my mother so she could take possession of her chopped-up, meringue-like house in the Hollywood Hills.
“It’s the least I can do, Francesca,” she said. “At least accept this.” And my mother looked so angry, so doomed, but we’d moved in, hadn’t we?
Waking up in Eleanor’s bed at the Magnolia and seeing her slow-dancing with Dr. Singh in the front room. And afterward, after she was dead, Leonidas looming over me at that pizza parlor, which I’d stumbled to, fled to a back hallway, and stayed there. I remember smelling Eleanor’s bile on my hands and nearly puking. Leonidas was furious at me because I’d gone against his wishes, but he said that at least we could go to the police now.
“No, we can’t,” I said. “She’s dead! She’s dead!”
“Quiet!” he hissed, glancing in horror over his shoulder. We were only steps away from the pizza ovens, but the music was cranked so loud, it didn’t seem like the guys working behind the counter heard us. Still, Leonidas dead-lifted me and dragged me out an emergency exit at the back. “You can’t go around saying that,” he moaned. “Eliza, we have to get you out of here.”
But instead of going back to the dorms, I found myself at my parents’ front door. My mother opened it and went pale. Bill pushed through and grabbed me by the arms before I fainted.
“What did you do?” he whispered. “Eliza, what did you do?”
I blurted it all out. Everything, in lurid detail, starting with Eleanor showing up at my dorm that morning. Then I got to my revelation about what she’d done to Thomas, and then how Dorothy—Eleanor—had confirmed it. My mother went white.
“No,” she said. “Thomas shot himself. With that gun.”
“You really believe that?” My laugh was cruel. “Dorothy did something to him to poison his mind—and then took him to doctor after doctor, trying to get pity, trying to get attention, exactly in the way someone with Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy works. You’re the one who schooled me on this disease—you should have made the connection. Maybe he pulled the trigger of that gun, we’ll never know—but she was the one who basically put it in his hands.” I shake my head. “How can you not see? How can you look at my situation and not understand what she did to him?”
My mother pressed her hand to her mouth, but there was a light in her eyes. All sorts of emotions crossed her face. Horror. Guilt, maybe. Regret.
And then she shot into action.
“Get inside,” she told me, pressing her hands on my shoulders. “You’re not talking to anyone else about this. No one. We’ll do the talking for you. What you did, you did out of self-defense, but it’s better if people don’t even know about it. Okay, Eliza? Okay?”
Then the memories come to a screeching halt. My brain goes still and silent. I open my eyes and look around. Bill has sat me down on a chaise inside the pool area. The water is flat, untouched glass. I can hear a Taylor Swift song lilting from the Dr. Roxanne set.
I have to stand. I have to move. I jiggle my legs and arms wildly, hoping to shake the memories free. I need to get rid of this brain, rid of myself. That I have forgotten something so huge, so devastating, seems like a crime in itself. I rise and stagger away from Bill, half-blind.
“Eliza?” I hear Bill calling out. “Eliza, what are you—”
And then I see it: a rippling, blue, welcome respite. I tumble toward it, arms wheeling around, and then I leap. The space between ground and water is lovely. I wish I could open my arms and fly.
As soon as I hit the water, the pain inside me begins to dull. The voices stop, the memories subside. I open my eyes and enjoy the blue bubbles. I give in to sinking. My lungs start to give out, but something inside me tells me that I just need to wait. It will feel bad, but then it will get better.
And then the pain will be gone.