Close Your Eyes

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  Alex pressed his lips together. He breathed out through his nose, then spoke in a measured tone. “Lauren, I need you to listen. For me, okay?”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “So I didn’t remember Mom having any fancy things. I didn’t want to get Dad’s hopes up, so I didn’t tell him anything, but I did ask him if Mom had any expensive jewelry, and he said no, just her engagement diamond. The earring was an antique. I got the police to send it to me, and then I traced its origins. It was bought at Harry Winston in 1968, then sent to a woman named Pauline Hall. They even had her address.”

  I felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Alex and our father chatting on the phone. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a father—I did. But I had loved him so fully, a girl’s love, and he had betrayed us all. I felt a familiar rush of anger and need; they were bound together for me. So as not to be subsumed, I shoved the surging back. In my mind, I pictured a heavy metal door. I closed it with all my strength and tried to listen to Alex.

  “I made a list of people named Pauline Hall,” said Alex. “In New York and around New York. And I … I called them. I called them all.”

  “Oh, Alex,” I said.

  “Please be quiet,” he said. He stood, facing away from me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Alex didn’t say anything. “So that’s it,” he said. He turned back around, his eyes burning. He crossed his arms over his chest. “A dead end, okay? You were right. I just wanted you to know.”

  “Is that all?” I said.

  “That’s all,” said Alex. Unburdened, he was my brother again: wistful and sad, with really good posture.

  “What do you want me to do about all this?” I said.

  “I just wanted you to hear me,” said Alex. “I just wanted you to know.”

  That night I lay awake with the name Pauline Hall spinning in my head. My heart was beating too fast. I thought I could hold it together but was scared I could not. I climbed from the bunk and took three Tylenol PM tablets. In time, I fell asleep.

  4

  Alex’s apartment, one half of a duplex, was right underneath Interstate 35. When he had parties, you could sit outside at his splintered picnic table and watch the lights of cars flying by overhead like spaceships. Alex played sad jazz music or heavy metal from his computer speakers and stood by his barbecue, poking meat with giant tongs, usually wearing his favorite yellow T-shirt, which read GOOD TIMES.

  It was completely dark on the morning I picked up Alex to take him to the airport. Though it was early September, it was clammy and warm, with no hint of fall, which didn’t arrive in Austin until late October. Around Halloween, the weather shifted abruptly from scorching to tepid, then in December to vaguely chilly. January held a few thirty-degree days during which people pulled out parkas and even fur hats, and by March it was hot again. Once every few years it snowed for twenty minutes to an hour, and people crashed their cars or stayed home from work and school to marvel. I had never seen a snowman in Austin.

  “Hey,” said Alex when he opened his front door.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Alex picked up his duffel. It was a flowered bag; Alex had bought it for cheap from REI online. It said HANNAH on the side, and sometimes I wondered about the woman who had ordered it and then changed her mind. I saw her as a stewardess from Honolulu, a woman who had finally admitted a wheelie bag was more damn practical.

  Alex seemed thin in his worn jeans and black cardigan sweater with a white button-down shirt underneath. He was good-looking in an unkempt way—you wouldn’t guess he was a medical doctor in his Converse sneakers. He looked more like an out-of-work actor or a philosophy graduate student. But Alex stood with his shoulders back and had a loping gait that told the world he was someone important despite his scruffy getup.

  I didn’t turn down the radio; it was Love Songs for the Lonely, my favorite show. On the drive to Alex’s apartment, the husband of an elderly woman had dedicated Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” to his wife. “She’s sitting right here with me now,” he had told the DJ, “and she’s as beautiful as the day I met her at the Dairy Queen on Hamilton Boulevard.” The radio show was syndicated, but it didn’t really matter in what city (or town) Hamilton Boulevard was located. At least not to me.

  “I’ve got to say, I’m excited,” said Alex, settling next to me.

  “How nice,” I said, putting the car in gear. Whitney Houston ran out of steam, and the DJ (her name was Mary Helen) began talking to a high school freshman who had been dumped by a baseball player. “My heart hurts for you,” said Mary Helen, “but you have so much happy ahead, honey, and this is just God getting you ready for your real true love.” Mary Helen cued up “Like a Virgin,” which seemed an odd choice.

  “What a load of crap,” said Alex, snorting.

  “I love this show,” I said.

  “I find that really strange.”

  “What?”

  “You are the least romantic person in America,” said Alex.

  I felt a headache gathering behind my eyes. “That isn’t true.”

  “Forget I said anything.”

  I didn’t answer, but I knew Alex was wrong. I was filled with desire. I read romantic novels. I watched Lifetime television. I wanted love so badly it made me feel sick sometimes, scraped out. But I knew the cost.

  The sky lightened as we drove south on Airport Boulevard. “I’ll be honest with you,” I said. “I feel like maybe you won’t come home.”

  “Hey.” Alex put his hand on my knee. “Shhh,” he said, which was what he always said when he wanted me to calm down. Shhh also meant that he would protect me.

  “Even if you marry a beautiful Iraqi,” I said, “come home and tell me in person.”

  “I promise.”

  “Or a TV reporter. Christiane Amanpour. Is she married?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think she is. But to tell you the truth, Alex, I could see it. She’s similarly dour.”

  “I am not dour!” He shook his head, smiling. He smelled so familiar—that dirty-sock funk had been the same since we’d shared the guest room at our grandparents’ Houston house.

  “Alex,” I said, “what happened to all our stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “From the house on Ocean Avenue.”

  “It’s in a storage locker. I guess if Dad ever gets out, he’ll want some of it.”

  I ignored the bait about my father, who was never getting out, as we both knew. “Where?” I said. “Where’s it in storage?”

  “White Plains.”

  “How do you know this?” I said.

  “I’m paying for it,” said Alex.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Gramma and Pops told me to clear it out years ago,” said Alex. “I didn’t. I don’t know why. I haven’t been there. I just called and had them send the bill to me.”

  “I only have that one picture of her,” I said.

  He knew what I was talking about because he had the same photograph: our mother sitting on the living room couch, a toddler me on her lap, a boy-size Alex to her right. She was reading to us, a Richard Scarry book, Busy, Busy Town. Maybe that book was in a cardboard box, too, somewhere in White Plains.

  “Where’s the key?” I said.

  “Don’t go there without me,” said Alex.

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? You’d freak out! And you were too young when everything was put in there. You won’t know what’s important and what can be tossed.”

  “When you come home,” I said.

  “Right,” said Alex. “When I come home.”

  Austin-Bergstrom Airport was bustling with early-morning commuters. I turned in to the parking garage, and Alex said, “It’s expensive to park. You can just drop me off,” and I said, “Shhh.”

  I carried one strap of Alex’s girlie duffel bag, and he carried the other. “Did you pack any books?” I asked.

  “Blue High
ways,” said Alex.

  “I loved that in college,” I said. “This is the ultimate blue highway, I guess.”

  “I guess,” said Alex.

  “Or blue airway,” I said.

  “Hm,” said Alex, unimpressed, or maybe not listening.

  I stood with my hands on my hips as Alex checked in, showing his new passport to the woman behind the counter. I had gone with him to Kinko’s for photographs, and had applied for my first passport as well, in case Alex wanted—or needed—me to visit. I didn’t want to go to Iraq. I didn’t want my brother to go to Iraq. My general feeling about Iraq was: leave them the hell alone.

  We walked across shiny floors, past a Swatch shop, a Which Wich? sandwich shop, a Waldenbooks. I noticed a woman with a baby staring at us. Though it had been ten fucking years since the attacks, our coloring still earned us nervous glances at the airport. I wanted to meet the mother’s gaze with defiance but turned away, peering into the window of the bookstore.

  “What are you going to read on the plane?” I said. “Let me buy you another book.”

  Alex looked at his watch. “Okay,” he said.

  I scanned the best sellers, trying to figure out what might bring Alex comfort, or even better, a story that would make him think twice about leaving. What book, I wondered, would make him get off the plane, meet a nice woman who could be my friend and his wife, and encourage him to buy the 3/2 for sale down the street from us? I could even broker the deal and give him the commission for some new clothes.

  “Lauren, I should go,” said Alex.

  “Wait—just one—” I grabbed For Whom the Bell Tolls off the shelf. “Hemingway,” I said, moving to the register. “You can’t go wrong with Hemingway!” I paid and brandished the plastic bag.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Let me …” I said. I sat on an airport bench and rummaged in my purse for a pen. I found a ballpoint and wrote, Dear Alex, on the title page. Then I wrote Love, Lauren. I added the date. I stared at the blank inch I had left for something careful, something meaningful, some poetry.

  “I’ll come home for your wedding,” said Alex.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  “Seriously. He’s going to stop trying eventually.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” said Alex.

  I glared at him. Then I admitted, “You’re right. I do.”

  “Say it to Gerry,” said Alex, “not to me.”

  We were still for a moment. I looked back at the book but couldn’t think of anything to write. “It’s okay,” Alex said finally. “I’ve really got to go.”

  I stared at my message: Dear Alex, Love, Lauren, 9/08/10. Starting to cry, I wrote, Goodbye.

  Alex took the book and pulled me into his arms. We hugged for a minute, and then Alex broke free. “Here,” he said. He took a small object from his pocket. “It’s the earring. I don’t want it anymore.”

  “What do I want with one damn earring?” I said.

  “What do I want with one damn earring?” said Alex.

  With that, he kissed me on the forehead and walked toward security. The earring was cold in my hand.

  5

  The listing was a 2/1 on Texas Avenue. White picket fence, yard that needed landscaping, minimal termite damage. My clients, a day-care worker and her musician boyfriend, were waiting for me, their Vespas parked side by side in the gravel drive. I waved gaily as I pulled to the curb.

  “Hey, Lauren,” said Mitch, touching the top of his hipster fedora.

  “Hello, hello!” I said, smiling hard. Liz was slim with red hair. On her jeans she had small handprints in green and yellow paint.

  “I like it,” said Liz. “I like the window boxes.”

  “This is a great street,” I said. “Close to campus, but more young families than students.”

  “Let’s go in,” said Mitch. “Lead the way, lady.”

  I smoothed my Ann Taylor pantsuit. I was too old to be called lady by some skinny drummer, but I knew when to keep my mouth shut. “Follow me,” I said, heading up the cement walkway. I found the lockbox, entered my Realtor code, and removed the key.

  “There’s a big crack in the foundation,” said Liz, pointing.

  “Interesting,” I said. “These old houses …” I couldn’t really think of what to say, so I trailed off.

  “These old houses what?” said Liz.

  I cleared my throat. “Some have foundation problems. Some have charm. Some, Liz, have both. Foundations can be fixed.”

  “Oh, okay,” said Liz, taking Mitch’s hand and stepping across the threshold.

  “The fireplace works,” I said. “Nice light here in the living room.” I consulted my cheat sheet. “Built in 1942. Kitchen renovated last year.”

  Mitch looked around, nodding. He was so thin it made me wince. Liz made her way through the house. It was empty and smelled a bit like mold. If the homeowners were my clients, I would have put a simmering pan of apple cider on the stove.

  “Whoa!” said Liz. We followed her voice and found her in a top-of-the-line kitchen. Stainless-steel fixtures, Corian countertops, stained concrete floor. “This is amazing,” she said. “Look, hon, if I’m washing dishes, I can see the trees!” She mimed scrubbing a pot, gazing at the large backyard. Mitch stood behind her and put his arms around her waist. She leaned in to him. “It’s wonderful,” she said.

  Mitch kissed the top of her head.

  Out of nowhere, I felt a panic attack coming on. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds.” I walked quickly, finding a bathroom off the master and slipping in, shutting and locking the door. In the mirror, my face was very pale. I sat down and put my head between my knees. I concentrated on my breathing.

  “Lauren?” said Mitch. He was knocking, hard.

  “Okay,” I said, standing and brushing dust off my pants. “I’m fine. There’s an oversize tub. Chrome-plated faucets!”

  “You’ve been in the bathroom for, like, a half hour,” called Liz. “Um, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Right, right,” I said. I unlocked the bathroom door and opened it. I smiled as brightly as I could. “So, looks like we’ve got some Kohler bathroom fixtures.”

  “Have you been crying?” said Mitch.

  “No,” I said. But when I touched my face, it was wet.

  “Thanks for showing us the house,” said Liz. She was holding Mitch’s hand. “We’ll, um, we’ll be in touch.”

  “Great!” I said. “Awesome.” I followed them out of the house and returned the key to the lockbox. I waved as they made their way down the street. Then I called Gerry.

  “I am going crazy,” I said when he answered.

  “What?” said Gerry. “Where are you?”

  “Texas Avenue and Liberty Street,” I said. “I’m having a heart—or a panic—attack. Maybe both.” But just being on the phone with Gerry made me feel calmer.

  “It’s okay, honey,” said Gerry. “I love you. Do you want me to come get you?”

  I lay down on the lawn underneath a coffee tree. “I’m sober, I swear,” I said. “The sky is very bright.”

  “Good God,” said Gerry, laughing.

  “I’m scared, honey,” I said.

  After a while, I heard a car pull up. When I opened my eyes, Gerry was standing above me, his sweet face blocking the sun. “Get up from underneath that tree,” he said.

  “Or maybe you should join me,” I said.

  Gerry lay down. I rolled on my side and rested my head on his shoulder. “What happened?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I kind of blacked out.”

  “Are you all right now?”

  “I guess,” I said. “But I’d like to stay here awhile, if that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s a Wednesday afternoon,” said Gerry. “I think this is the perfect place to be.”

  I lay back and he touched his head to mine. We watched the blue, blue s
ky.

  “I’m going to therapy,” I said. “I’ll fix this. My brain, I mean.”

  “This is a very comfortable lawn,” commented Gerry. His lips were close to my ear, and his words made me turn and kiss him.

  “Do you think you’ll still love me when I’m not crazy?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Gerry.

  6

  I went on the Blue Cross Blue Shield website and found a list of therapists in Austin. Because she was located down the street from Texas French Bread, which had great coffee, I called to make an appointment with Jane Stafford, MA, LPC. On her answering machine, Jane’s voice was warm. She sounded like my college friend Amy’s mother, who used to send packages of homemade chocolate-chip cookies. As I left a message, I remembered how Amy was always worried about her weight so gave the treats to me. I used to nibble while I studied, cookies and Diet Coke.

  While I waited for Jane to call back, I Google-searched my symptoms. According to WebMD.com, it seemed I might have OCD, ADD, or generalized anxiety disorder. Perhaps it could be disassociation.

  Jane called back, and I told her about my self-diagnosis. “Are you free next Wednesday morning, September twenty-fourth, four P.M.?” she asked.

  “Um,” I said, “yes, yes, sure.”

  “I look forward to meeting you, Lauren,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I said. Then I hung up and wondered why I had said Me, too, and what Jane Stafford would make of that.

  Gerry finished his latest podcast an hour later, and when he came inside, I told him about my appointment. He gave me a hug and then said, “Put on your flip-flops. Two-for-one kebab night at Fatoosh.”

  7

  With Alex in Iraq, time passed slowly. Though he had been gone only two weeks by the time I first met Jane Stafford, it seemed much longer. I thought of him all the time and read his daily emails over and over. He was happy and tired, was the gist of them.

  Iraq, wrote Alex, is both boring and brutal. People are on edge, waiting for more bad news. But they’re living their lives anyway—what else can they do? A boy came in today with a broken elbow, but his injury had nothing to do with war. He’d been playing soccer on pavement and had taken a dive to keep the ball out of the goal. His mother brought me a syrupy dessert thing to thank me for taking care of him. I told him about how we sign casts in the U.S., but I couldn’t find a marker to show him. Maybe can you send one, and some stickers or something? And Double Stuf Oreos?