Close Your Eyes

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  Sylvia had almost told Ray once, in the twilight after lovemaking. She’d turned to him and almost come clean. But something stopped her, a shadow—the memory of how lonely her life had been before Victoria.

  New York City was surprisingly desolate in the dead of the night. Walking toward Times Square, trying to find a taxi, Sylvia saw a twenty-four-hour Internet café. It was the only place open that wasn’t a strip club or bar. Sylvia went inside, thinking she could rest and keep an eye out for a cab.

  Sylvia found a crumpled five in her wallet and handed it to a young man at the front of the café. The man pointed to a computer.

  Sylvia sat down and logged in to her email account. There were a few messages from her boss but none from Ray. There was a message titled IMPORTANT PLEASE HELP.

  Dear Ms. Hall,

  My name is Lauren Mahdian. If you are the Sylvia Hall whose mother was Pauline Hall, it is very important that I speak with you. I have tried to reach you by phone and left messages. Your biography on the Snowmass Club staff Web page says you grew up in New York City, so I have a good feeling you can help me. Please help me. My number is 512-670-2398.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lauren Mahdian

  Sylvia’s hands hovered over the keyboard, and then she did it. She typed L, and then A, and then the rest of the name: LAUREN MAHDIAN.

  It took a fraction of a second, and a list of hits came up. Sylvia clicked on the first and was directed to the Web page of a real estate company, Sunshine City Realty, in Austin, Texas. Sylvia stared at the face of a chubby, dark-haired young woman with a shy smile. Sylvia had never met her, but the face—of course—was familiar.

  Sylvia had thought about her father’s other children over the years. She knew the names of her half brother and sister, though she had never searched for them. She hated her father for abandoning her. His being in jail seemed just punishment. But when Sylvia thought about his orphaned children, guilt and sorrow washed over her—guilt, sorrow, and shame.

  Sylvia felt a sensation in her stomach, the smallest flutter, like a butterfly’s wings. It was her baby, his feet, inside her. She put her face in her hands.

  5

  Sylvia pushed open the heavy door to Mae’s apartment building. Despite not having received the welcome she had expected from either Mae or Victoria, where else was there to go? It was like traveling back in time—the lobby never changed, with its high ceilings and ornate light fixtures. In the center of the room was a large wood-paneled desk with a potted plant on either side. Along the walls were leather benches the color of coffee. As girls, Sylvia and Victoria had roller-skated around the lobby, falling hard and often on the marble floor.

  The doorman, an older man in a burgundy uniform, was half asleep. “Free Bird” played at a low volume from a portable radio. When Sylvia said she was expected in Apartment 7L, the doorman turned the volume down further, straightened his hat, and said, “Lady, it’s one in the morning.”

  “I know,” said Sylvia. “Please. Will you just call up?”

  The man sipped from a blue mug that said # 1 DAD, hesitating.

  “Give me the phone,” said Sylvia. “I’ll call Victoria’s cell.” The doorman handed Sylvia an iPhone—his own, she presumed. She sat on one of the leather couches to dial, remembering the number this time.

  The doorman’s radio began playing “Sweet Home Alabama.” He watched her with suspicion. “I’m an old friend,” she said as Victoria’s phone rang. Sylvia ran her fingers through her hair, which she knew was flat and a little greasy.

  “Hello?” said Victoria. There was loud noise in the background.

  “Vee, it’s me.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Sylvia.”

  “What do you want, Sylvie? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Just call the doorman. I’m in the lobby. Can you call down?”

  “In the lobby?” said Victoria. She sounded confused. She yelled, “Can you keep it down! I’m on the phone!”

  “Are you in your mom’s apartment?” said Sylvia.

  “No, no,” said Victoria.

  “Where are you? It’s really important.”

  “Sylvie, now is not a good time.”

  “Tell me where you are,” said Sylvia. The doorman was approaching her, his hands on his hips.

  “The Lorraine,” said Victoria. “But I’m not alone.”

  “The Lorraine?” said Sylvia. Victoria had already hung up.

  Sylvia hit redial, but there was no answer.

  A taxi approached the building and slowed. The doorman rushed outside and opened the car door. As Sylvia watched, two young girls climbed out of the cab. One was tall and slight, the hood of a sweatshirt pulled over her head. She had her arm around the younger girl, who had a powder-blue jacket. The children were unaccompanied; the doorman took their hands and led them inside.

  “Please just don’t ask,” the girl in the sweatshirt said to the doorman as they entered the lobby.

  “This lady’s here to see your mother,” he replied, gesturing to Sylvia. The light hit the older girl’s face, and Sylvia saw that it was Sunny, Victoria’s daughter. Sunny looked exhausted. She kept her arm around Georgia, who clutched a stuffed kangaroo.

  “Aunt Sylvia?” said Sunny.

  “Yay!” cried Georgia.

  “Girls,” said Sylvia, standing and hugging Sunny, who seemed resistant to her godmother’s embrace. My God, thought Sylvia, the girl is skinny. Anorexic? She looked it. Georgia clasped her neck and hung on. Sylvia picked her up, and the girl nuzzled her neck. “Sunny,” said Sylvia, “what are you two doing out at—”

  “One-eighteen in the morning,” finished the doorman, taking his phone from Sylvia.

  Sunny shrugged, casting her eyes down at her high-top sneakers.

  “We woke up in the hotel room,” said Georgia seriously, her hand in Sylvia’s hair. “We woke up in the hotel room, and Mommy was gone!”

  “Be quiet,” said Sunny. “Georgia, be quiet.”

  “Mommy wasn’t gone,” Georgia amended.

  “The last time I saw you, it was your eighth birthday party,” said Sylvia. “At the zoo, remember?”

  Sunny nodded, tracing a circle with her toe.

  “And now you’re … what are you, eleven?”

  “I’m twelve,” said Sunny.

  “Is everything all right?” said Sylvia, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  Sunny snorted, a sound that made Sylvia think of Victoria. “Define all right,” Sunny said.

  “Sweetheart—”

  “We have to go,” said Sunny. “It’s really late, and Georgia needs to brush her teeth and go to bed.”

  The adult words coming from Sunny’s sweet face made Sylvia ache. “How about this?” said Sylvia, bending her knees to look Sunny in the eyes. “How about we have lunch tomorrow? Just you and me.”

  “I’m not really into lunch,” said Sunny.

  “We could go to Maria’s,” said Sylvia. “Do you still love those pepperoni rolls?”

  “No,” said Sunny. “Come on, Georgia.” Georgia climbed down and took her sister’s hand. They stood awkwardly in the lobby, and then Sunny said, “Aunt Sylvia, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to visit you,” said Sylvia. “You and your mom.”

  Sunny’s face closed. “Let me know if you find her,” she said, turning away and walking toward the elevator.

  “Bye,” said Georgia, holding the paw of her kangaroo and making him wave.

  Sylvia was so tired. She wanted to follow the girls upstairs, but she asked the doorman for a taxi. When she told the driver she was going to the Lorraine, it seemed to make sense to him. As she sped downtown, Sylvia stared out the window, replaying Sunny’s every word.

  “Wake up!” said the taxi driver. “Wake up! You want the Lorraine?”

  “Oh,” said Sylvia. She reached into her pocketbook and paid the driver. The Lorraine Hotel was an old stone building with a sleek neon sign and
a pink and black awning. Sylvia wasn’t sure if it was really a hotel at all, but the music thumping into the street advertised that it was a nightclub. Leave it to Victoria, thought Sylvia, to find the newest, hippest spot.

  A steel door led to an entranceway lit by wall sconces. Sylvia could smell hamburgers and expensive perfume. She blinked, trying to get her bearings. A bald woman in leather pants and a silk top approached Sylvia. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” muttered Sylvia, lugging her duffel bag past the hostess.

  “Aren’t we all?” said the woman, crossing her arms over her chest but letting Sylvia by.

  Many of the tables were filled, though it was late. A live band played at top volume, the singer screeching in a language Sylvia could not identify. She felt underdressed and ridiculous as she wandered past tables of club kids and older people with faces that were unnaturally expressionless and waxen. She remembered her friend Carlos, a bartender at the Snowmass Club, who joked about giving drink specials to especially taut women on “Face-lift Fridays.”

  Victoria was nowhere to be found. After searching for what felt like an hour, Sylvia gave up. She exited and sat down on the steps outside the club. For the love of God, she was tired. She could try to book a room at the Lorraine—if it was, in fact, an operating hotel—but she didn’t want to go back inside. Maybe she could find somewhere cheaper. After a good night’s rest, things might seem clearer. Sylvia sighed and stood up. Her duffel bag seemed heavier with each step.

  She was not in a great neighborhood. It was very dark, and Sylvia saw three figures emerge from an alleyway ahead of her. She heard the wail of a police cruiser or an ambulance. She felt a flame of fear, but there were no taxis in sight.

  Sylvia stood still and said a silent prayer. She had never believed in God, but she had never not believed in Him, either. Please help me, she prayed. As the words formed in her mind, she felt warmer. She felt as if someone were holding her, wrapping her up. I am here, Sylvia thought, or thought she heard. Sylvia opened her eyes and saw a pay phone under a streetlamp about a block or so away. The three figures were gone.

  The phone booth was next to a bar. The name of the bar was painted in black on the heavy door: Claiborne’s. It was a rough place, from the looks of it: dirty brick exterior, sidewalk littered with cigarette butts and broken glass. Above the bar, a light was on in a dingy apartment. Sylvia lifted the receiver. Miraculously, there was a dial tone. She could call information, she thought, or a car service.

  And then, through the window of the bar, Sylvia saw Victoria. She almost didn’t recognize her old friend sitting in a lonely corner. Victoria looked old, bony. It was as if her skin had sunk into her cheekbones. She stared at her drink. As Sylvia watched, Victoria brought the glass to her lips, drained it, and called out for another. When a man placed a fresh drink on the table, she did not look up.

  It was cold. Standing in the street, holding her duffel, Sylvia understood: Victoria was broken. Sylvia was on her own—Victoria was not going to save her. Still, the number she dialed into the keypad was her best friend’s phone.

  Sylvia watched as Victoria drew her cell from her purse, squinting to see who was calling. Please, thought Sylvia. Please. But after looking at the phone for a minute, Victoria placed it on the table without answering. She set it next to her glass, and then she drank.

  Sylvia remembered the first day she had been invited home to the Brights’ apartment on East Eighty-sixth and Park. A uniformed maid had met them at the door, taking their after-school snack orders (“chocolate Yoo-hoo and Cheetos” for Victoria, “Um, the same” for Sylvia) and then bringing the food on a tray with folded napkins.

  Victoria’s room was enormous and had a four-poster bed with a canopy made of pink fabric. When Mae popped in to say hello, Victoria treated her with complete disdain, a revelation to Sylvia, who gave her own mother cowed respect. Mae wore a crisp tennis dress; she was on her way to “hit some balls with the girls.” As she left, shutting the door firmly behind her, Victoria yelled, “And don’t forget, I need new shoes!” in such a demanding tone, Sylvia almost gasped.

  Victoria’s room had floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with hardcover books and wooden toys in wicker baskets. There was a table with small pink chairs and brand-new art supplies lined up in a row—markers, paints, fat brushes. Kennebunkport, a medium-sized goldfish, was housed in an aquarium built into the wall. Victoria slid open a drawer underneath the tank and removed a plastic container of foul-smelling fish food. She pinched a few flakes and sprinkled them over the water. Kennebunkport ate greedily.

  “Eat some fish food,” Victoria had said, turning to Sylvia. “I dare you.”

  Sylvia would have done it—she would have done anything—but felt nauseous from the pet-store smell of the flakes. She lied feebly, “I have food allergies.” She walked over to the tank and peered in. The fish darted playfully. “I’ll get sick,” said Sylvia.

  Victoria moved closer to her, holding up the open container. Her chocolate-colored hair was held back by pink barrettes; her eyes were seductive, mischievous, inviting. “Do you dare me?” she said.

  “No,” said Sylvia quietly. She leaned toward Victoria, readying herself. If having a friend meant eating something disgusting, she could do it. Life was full of challenges to be surmounted, as Pauline always said.

  “Why don’t you dare me to eat Kennebunkport?” said Victoria. She was inches from Sylvia, who felt invisible waves between them. Do the right thing, she heard her mother tell her. Do whatever you have to do.

  Victoria gripped Sylvia’s fingers. For a moment, Sylvia thought Victoria was going to kiss her, and the thought was thrilling.

  With her free hand, Sylvia took the cover off the tank and reached in. The water was viscous and cold. It took her a minute, but she trapped Kennebunkport in a corner and grasped his tiny tail. She pulled the fish—so defenseless!—from the water and held it next to Victoria’s lips.

  “I dare you,” said Sylvia.

  Victoria opened her mouth, her focus never leaving Sylvia. Sylvia lowered her hand, placing the shock-still fish on Victoria’s tongue. Victoria closed her mouth and swallowed.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” said Sylvia.

  “Believe it,” said Victoria.

  Now, decades too late, Sylvia turned her back on Victoria. Putting more change into the metal slot, she dialed another number. Lauren Mahdian. The phone rang three times, and then a sleepy but scared voice answered.

  “Is this Lauren Mahdian?” asked Sylvia.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Sylvia Hall. You … you asked me to call you?”

  “Oh,” said the girl. She cleared her throat. Sylvia thought of the picture she had seen in the New York Times after Lauren Mahdian’s mother had been killed. It was a grainy shot: a girl in pigtails holding the hand of her skinny brother.

  “I … This is going to sound crazy,” said Lauren.

  “I don’t mind,” said Sylvia.

  “Do you know anything about an earring that belonged to your mother? Pauline Hall?”

  “An earring?” said Sylvia. She felt her lungs seize up—she could not breathe.

  “It’s made of jade, let me get it,” said Lauren. “Okay, it’s jade and silver …” Her voice trailed off, and then she sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to ask you.”

  “My mother’s dead,” said Sylvia.

  There was a silence, and then Lauren said, “My mother’s dead, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sylvia.

  “It happened a long time ago,” said Lauren.

  Sylvia didn’t answer. Something in the pure sadness of the girl’s voice brought tears to Sylvia’s eyes. The girl was her half sister, though she didn’t know Sylvia existed. “That must have been terrible,” said Sylvia. “Growing up without a mom.”

  “What can you do?” said Lauren.

  What could you do? This seemed like an important question to Sylvia
, even essential, though Lauren had said it with a mix of bravado and sarcasm. Sylvia could do plenty for Lauren. She could tell Lauren about the earring, about the murder. She could bring a measure of peace to someone, to her blood sister—that she could do. “I’ve always wanted a sister,” said Sylvia; she just blurted it out.

  “What?”

  Sylvia glanced briefly at Victoria, shadowed in the corner of the bar. “I’ve always wanted a sister, I said,” said Sylvia. “I think a lot of things I did that were wrong were because I wanted … someone. A family.”

  “Yeah,” said Lauren. “But we’re alone, really. We all are.”

  After a moment, Sylvia said, “That’s so sad.”

  “Sad but true,” said Lauren. Then she repeated, “Sad but true.”

  Despite the serious tone of their conversation, Sylvia laughed. “You make me think of this quote I heard once. ‘She was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.’ ”

  Lauren snorted. “You said it, sister.”

  Sylvia grinned. She liked Lauren’s dark sense of humor. She liked Lauren, which was nothing she had expected.

  “Listen, do you know anything about this earring?” said Lauren plainly.

  Sylvia wanted to keep talking to Lauren, wanted to know her, to be her friend. “It’s jade?”

  “Yes.”

  Sylvia drew a deep breath but could not bring herself to speak.

  “I’m sorry,” Lauren said finally. “This is … I don’t know why I’m doing this. There was an earring … I thought that maybe it would help explain what happened. My father’s in jail, and now my brother … I think my brother’s gone.”

  “I don’t know about an earring,” said Sylvia. The lie was bitter in her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” repeated Lauren.

  Sylvia wanted to be honest before the memory of that night burned her up from inside. Instead, she murmured, “I’m sorry, too.”