Close Your Eyes

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  “For you, Mom,” Alex would always say. She made him wear holiday vests over button-down shirts. For me, there was a new velvet dress each year, with a matching headband.

  “What a wonderful surprise!” my mother would answer.

  “Me, too,” I’d say, kicking Alex under the table.

  “And I am thankful for my beautiful family,” my mom would say, growing teary and hugging us, pinching my father’s bottom.

  We were so happy. We were, we were.

  I decided to walk around to the back of the house, and see the yard. It was late afternoon, and though the owners were surely home, I inched through the hedges on the south side of the property. Branches scratched my cheek, but I pressed on.

  I just wanted to see the oak, the tree house my father had built for us. For some reason, it seemed important to see something he had made. I reached the back and stopped. The yard was taken up by a giant pool, covered for the winter with a dark blue canvas. Wind whipped my hair. It smelled like seawater. The tree house was gone.

  “Hello?” called a woman’s voice. I turned, panicked, and began to run. Breaking free of the hedges, I heard the woman call, “Hello! Can I help you?”

  Back in the car, I found directions to La Guardia and began to drive. I ached to be with Gerry, if he still wanted me. I was done here—I’d followed almost every clue. What was left, going to Tiffany and trying to find somebody who remembered a woman named Pauline Hall? I yearned for Texas, where people watched football on Thanksgiving, and ate barbecue with pickles and sliced bread.

  On the Hutchinson River Parkway, I daydreamed about my father. I remembered a summer afternoon at the movies. My father was taking me to see Dumbo, and he bought a bucket of popcorn. I sat next to my father, the taste of butter and salt, I said something, and my father—so young!—laughed out loud. “My funny girl,” he said. He looked at me in his way, as if I were so special, the most wonderful person in the world.

  Seeing my childhood home had changed me, reminded me what was at stake. I had forgotten how my father used to gaze at me, as if my face were the source of his greatest pleasure. Everything I said to Izaan was brilliant and astute. Now that I had taken a step down the road that might lead me to him, it seemed, I could no longer stop. Hope flamed inside me like one of those trick birthday candles that can’t be blown out.

  I turned around and drove back into Manhattan.

  6

  Two men wearing black overcoats and robin’s-egg-blue scarves flanked the glass doors that led into Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue. I paused, and one of them opened the door, ushering me inside with a sweep of his arm.

  As I approached one of the glass cases, a young man with a pronounced chin smiled at me invitingly. I looked down and saw a beautiful ruby ringed with diamonds. “A lovely piece,” murmured the man, taking the ring from the case and laying it on a strip of velvet. “Would you like to try it on?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, though I felt a strange desire rising in my throat. I lifted my left hand, saying, “No, thank you, I don’t think.”

  The man opened his palm, and I placed my fingers inside. He held my wrist and, with his other hand, slid the band onto my ring finger. When it was in place, he met my eyes.

  The first time Gerry asked me to marry him, we were hiking along the Barton Creek Greenbelt. Gerry had packed a picnic lunch, and we sat at the edge of the water and watched Handsome swim. A turkey sandwich, I remember, with avocado and sharp cheddar cheese. Homemade lemonade. I lay back, settling my head in Gerry’s lap. The sun poured through the leaves, making patterns on the water. Gerry ran his fingers through my hair. “I love you,” I said.

  “Lauren,” said Gerry, “will you marry me?”

  It was an immediate reaction: I felt choked and could not breathe. I sat up. “I’m not marrying anyone,” I said. I had promised myself again and again in the years following my mother’s death. I will never fall in love, I will never need anyone, I will take care of myself. I locked away the agony as if it were a rabid animal. I made a set of rules, like armor—if I followed them, I believed, I could keep myself safe.

  “I told you,” I said, by the creek.

  “I’m not your father,” said Gerry.

  I stood up, and walked down the path by myself. Handsome jumped from the water to follow me. I reached the car in about twenty minutes, and I unlocked it and put Handsome inside. I rolled down the back window, and used my water bottle to fill a Tupperware container with water for the dog to drink. Then I locked the car (Gerry had his own set of keys) and started walking home. It took me over an hour, and when I turned on Maplewood, Handsome ambled out to greet me.

  I knelt down and rubbed his ears. Then I climbed the three steps to the front door. When I opened it, I saw Gerry sitting on the couch with a beer. “I get the picture,” he said. “You’ve made your fucking point.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Go to hell,” said Gerry.

  I moved out for a while, answering a Craigslist ad for a house share, but Gerry and I met for lunch every few days and took care of Handsome together. After two months, Gerry asked if I would come home.

  Now I stared at the giant ruby ring. “Take it off,” I said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I’m not interested,” I said. I grabbed the ring and pried it off my finger. I dropped it onto the velvet. “I’m here for research purposes.”

  The guy laughed. “Research purposes? That’s a new one.”

  “You almost had me there,” I said. “Phew, that’s a nice ring.”

  “Women and jewels,” said the guy.

  “It’s like a drug,” I said. “Cocaine or maybe crack. I don’t know. Fine white wine? Anyway, I’m trying to find out about someone who used to work here. A long time ago. I need to speak with her.”

  “Carole might be able to help you,” said the man. “She’s been here forever.” The man pointed to a trim, white-haired woman staffing a display case in the far recesses of the store.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You sure about the ruby?” said the man. I laughed. “When you find the right guy, send him in,” he said.

  “I’ve got the right guy,” I said.

  He looked at my naked fingers and shrugged, already scanning the room for a more likely commission.

  I made my way toward Carole. She was talking to a couple about a watch. When they moved on, I stepped in front of her case. “How can I help you today, young lady?” she said. You could see the bones beneath her porcelain skin, and her eyes were deep brown. She wore heavy rouge and lipstick. Her wrinkles evidenced years of animated sales pitches.

  “I’m trying to find out about a person who used to work here years ago,” I said. “I need to ask her … something.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “Pauline Hall,” I said. “I have some … I have an earring of hers.”

  “Oh, Pauline,” said Carole. She sighed and shook her head. “Poor old Pauline.”

  “Is she still working here?” I said.

  “Pauline died a lifetime ago,” said Carole. “Cancer. I went to the funeral with my husband, Ralph. Pauline had a hard life. You say you have her jewelry?”

  “It’s an earring,” I said.

  Carole squinted as if seeing a faraway place. “She was such a bookworm, Pauline.”

  “What do you mean about … when you said she had a hard life?”

  “She fell in love with the wrong fellow,” said Carole. “He got her pregnant, and then he left.” She pursed her lips primly. “You have to be careful who you choose. I have three babies of my own. Three boys. Men now. But I waited until I was married, didn’t I? Time flies, I tell you,” said Carole. “Sweetheart, would you like to try on one of these watches?”

  “Oh,” I said. “No, thank you.”

  “Pauline’s little girl was so sweet,” said Carole. “She’d come in after school, do her homework in the break room. She had a little plaid uniform.”<
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  “Okay,” I said.

  “Her name was Sylvia,” said Carole.

  “Sylvia?” I asked.

  “After Sylvia Plath, I think. Pauline fancied herself an intellectual.” Carole shook her head. “I wonder what became of little Sylvia. Heaven only knows.”

  “Heaven only knows,” I said.

  Book Four

  1

  Mae Bright woke in her mauve-colored bedroom. For a moment she forgot that she was not alone in her apartment. Mae was a sixty-nine-year-old widow. She was accustomed to leisurely (if lonesome) mornings with the crossword puzzle and a pot of coffee. But as she yawned, she heard noise in the guest bathroom. With a start, she remembered: her daughter, Victoria, was getting a divorce and had moved into Mae’s apartment with her two daughters until “things were sorted.”

  Divorce. Mae tasted the word—dead leaves in her mouth. No one in her Catholic family had ever gotten a divorce. As always, Mae thought drily, Victoria was breaking new ground. (She’d also been the first in the family to be arrested—for selling her own prescription Ritalin out of her high school locker.)

  Mae sat up and sighed, tucking her white hair behind her ears. She’d recently had it cut into a chin-length bob, like Anna Wintour. It suited her, Mae thought. She donned a pink robe and walked into the kitchen, opening a can of Maxwell House and taking her favorite yellow mug out of the dishwasher.

  In the sink was an empty wineglass (not rinsed), and on the counter, an empty wine bottle and a discarded cork. Mae picked up the bottle and peered at the label: Victoria had drunk the 1995 Château Lafite Rothschild. Mae remembered her husband, Preston (may he rest in peace), choosing the wine at a shop in Virginia. It had cost some eight hundred dollars.

  “What are you doing?”

  Mae was snapped out of her reverie by the loud voice of her daughter. She looked up and there was Victoria, wearing a scarlet peignoir and socks. “Why are you staring at an empty bottle?” said Victoria, raising an eyebrow.

  “This was one of your father’s favorites,” said Mae.

  “He always had good taste,” said Victoria.

  “Victoria …” said Mae.

  “Uli is such a jerk,” said Victoria. “Don’t blame me, Mom. I wanted something nice at the end of a horrible day.”

  Mae shook her head, trying to stay on track. Victoria often did this—derailed you while you were trying to admonish her. “Victoria,” said Mae. “If you’re going to be here awhile, we’re going to have to …” She swallowed. “Are you going to be here awhile?”

  Victoria rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out a Budweiser. “I’m going back to bed,” she said.

  “Is that a beer?” said Mae.

  “You know damn well it is,” said Victoria. Mae pointedly checked her watch; it was eight-forty-five in the morning. Victoria took a bottle opener from a kitchen drawer and daintily opened her beer, then poured it in a glass.

  “Would you like some melon?” asked Mae.

  “Uli wants full custody,” said Victoria. “He says I’m unfit. An unfit mother.”

  “Please don’t drink that beer,” said Mae. “I’ll make you an English muffin, honey.”

  Victoria took a sip from the glass and set it on the counter. “What gets me is that it’s all about him. He just wants to win. Greece! I’m not letting him bring up my girls in that backward shithole. Did I ever tell you about the toilets in that country? Fuck me.”

  A shudder ran through Mae: a wave of revulsion. She composed herself with a deep breath. “You can’t be drinking, Victoria,” she said with as much kindness as she could muster.

  “I know, Mom.”

  “Just pour it down the drain,” said Mae.

  Victoria sighed, wrapping her hands around the glass. “It’s only beer,” she muttered, avoiding her mother’s eyes. She added more loudly, “I can hide it from you if you want me to.”

  Mae felt deflated. “Is this a relapse?” she asked.

  “My husband is divorcing me,” said Victoria. “I am sad. I had some wine last night, and now I am having one fucking beer. That’s what this is.”

  “By the way,” said Mae, hoping that if she changed the subject, the pain in her stomach would go away, “did Sylvia reach you?”

  “Sylvia?” said Victoria.

  “She called here last night. She sounded sort of strange, come to think of it.”

  “She always sounds strange,” said Victoria.

  “At least she has that nice young man. What’s his name? Raymond.”

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Victoria, picking up the beer and sipping it with measured nonchalance.

  “What, dear?” said Mae.

  “Is that some sort of pointed comment?” asked Victoria. “Because the last thing I need is my own mother turning against me.”

  “No, dear, no,” said Mae.

  Victoria snorted, a horrible thing to behold. Then she said, “God, with you and Dad as role models, what chance did I even have?”

  “What does that mean?” said Mae. Though she should have been immune to her daughter’s jabs, this one struck unhappily close to Mae’s midnight worries. She had not been a good role model for her daughter. She’d always been a doormat—Victoria had seen her mother walked all over by her husband and life in general. Mae had not protested when Victoria herself treated her mother terribly. But it was not too late! The truth be told—and maybe it was high time to tell the truth, before she was labeled an old bat and everyone could call her opinions dementia—Mae didn’t even like Victoria very much.

  Victoria stared into space. She shook her head, her lovely curls reminding Mae of when she’d been a little girl. Victoria had loved those ribboned barrettes. “Maybe if I had told the truth,” said Victoria, “things would have turned out differently for me.”

  “Victoria,” said Mae, touching her daughter’s arm.

  “What?” said Victoria. The anger was gone from her voice, and she seemed disoriented.

  “Honey,” said Mae, but then, as always, words failed her—or she failed with the words. “It was so long ago.”

  “Right,” said Victoria. She nodded as if convincing herself of something. “Right, right,” she said.

  And furthermore, thought Mae. It had been her mother’s favorite expression; it meant: end of conversation.

  Sunny, Victoria’s twelve-year-old daughter, came into the kitchen. She was tall and painfully thin. Mae had begun to wonder if Sunny had an eating disorder, like the ballet dancers Mae had seen in a PBS documentary. Sunny wore a green tracksuit, her earbuds firmly in place. She looked like a skinny gym teacher. Without speaking to anyone, she filled a glass with water from the tap.

  “Good morning, Sunny,” said Mae loudly.

  “She won’t answer you,” said Victoria, crossing her arms over her chest.

  But Sunny took the earbuds from her ears and met her grandmother’s gaze. “Good morning, Nana,” she said.

  “Would you like some eggs, dear?” asked Mae. “Some melon?”

  Sunny picked up the empty beer bottle her mother had left on the kitchen counter, then set it down. “You promised,” she said to Victoria.

  “It’s just one beer,” said Victoria.

  “Sunny?” said Mae. “Honeydew?”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Sunny, leaving the kitchen. A moment later, Mae heard the front door open and then shut.

  After dressing, Mae sat in her room, looking out the window. Unbearable. The word came into her mind unbidden, but it was the right word. Mae simply couldn’t bear the thought of Victoria going back to rehab. Uli would have ample evidence to take the girls to Greece for good; Mae would drain her bank account to pay for another six weeks of massages and meetings; and for what? Mae didn’t believe that Victoria would ever get better, not anymore. That naïveté had been worn down to nothing.

  Mae looked down at the park. It was a balmy day already, and people wore shorts and sleeveless shirts. Mae could see a couple sitting on a bench, d
eep in conversation. A woman pushed one of those expensive strollers, stepping lightly, a cell phone pressed to her ear. Mae squinted but did not see Sunny among the joggers.

  They told you, in those depressing rooms, as you sat in a circle of metal chairs, they told you to hold fast to the person your loved one had been, before the booze. Before the booze? Mae could scarcely remember. Victoria hadn’t had a chance to be much of anyone before the booze. When she was four years old, she’d taken sips from all the glasses left on tables after a cocktail party, done a little dance in the middle of the living room, and passed out. How they’d laughed that night. “Look out, skid row,” a guest had joked.

  Let go and let God, they said in that basement on Seventy-second Street, sipping tea from Styrofoam cups. She and Preston had attended the Al-Anon meetings for almost a year until one night he had stopped outside and said, “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.” He had kissed Mae on the forehead, saying, “You keep going, sweetheart, but I’m done.”

  Mae had almost gone inside by herself but, in the end, had taken his hand. They’d eaten at Sardi’s, she remembered, then had gone home and made love—tenderly, sadly. Victoria was in worse shape than ever that spring. Mae searched her bags every day after school, ransacked her room, but found nothing. It took Mae until midsummer to realize that Victoria’s shampoo bottle was filled with whiskey, right there in the bathroom.

  Mae had forgotten to buy new shampoo, had borrowed Victoria’s Pert Plus one morning. With hot water running down her back, Mae had upended the bottle and watched, mystified, as amber liquid ran through her fingers. She smelled it but could scarcely believe her own nose.

  She only drank it to go to sleep, Victoria confessed tearfully. She had nightmares, Victoria said. Southern Comfort! In a bottle of Pert Plus!

  Unbearable. It was unbearable to give up on your baby.

  Maybe this was all Mae’s fault. Surely. Surely it was all Mae’s fault. She had never given Victoria a moral center. She had loved her too much, or too little. She should have had another baby, a sibling for Victoria. Maybe she should have sat by Victoria’s bed all night to calm her nightmares. Maybe Victoria drank to fill a void. Maybe it was the money. Maybe she drank to forget.