Close Your Eyes

by Amanda Eyre Ward

  “I went upstairs,” said Victoria. “There was a lady. She got out of bed. She was mad. She came toward me. I … I was scared. I thought I’d get in trouble. I just— I wasn’t thinking. I thought I’d knock her down so I could run away. I hit her. I hit her with the decanter. I hit her really hard, and she fell.”

  Mae gasped.

  “I ran. I ran to the beach, and I swam out with the … with what was left of the decanter. I swam as far as I could, and then I dropped it.”

  “Was this woman,” said Mae, her hand over her mouth, “was this woman okay?”

  “I don’t know,” said Victoria, pushing her fists into her eyes again, shaking her head. “I don’t think so,” she whispered. Then she looked up at her mother. “What do I do? Mom, what do I do?”

  In that moment, Mae made a decision. She saw the possible avenues, and she chose one. “Don’t ever tell anyone else what you’ve told me,” she said. “This never happened. Don’t say a word.”

  Victoria pressed her lips together and nodded. Mae held her tightly.

  And until she was arrested, twenty-four years later, Victoria never again told the story. When the police came to Lark Academy, when the woman’s death was in the paper, when the husband was arrested and sent to jail. They were silent, the both of them.

  And furthermore.

  Now, staring at her hands, Mae listened to Father Richard talk about sin. She thought about her husband, who had died of a heart attack on the golf course. She did not feel he surrounded her and watched over her. Nor did she believe he was in hell. He was simply gone.

  When the police came for Victoria, they handcuffed her in front of her daughters. Mae drove behind the cruiser to the Holt station. As they interviewed Victoria, Mae sat next to a soda machine in a long hallway. She stared at her wedding ring, twisted it around and around on her finger.

  Finally, between two police officers, Victoria emerged. She was still shackled. Mae stood. She almost hoped Victoria had told the police what she—Mae—had done in advising Victoria to stay silent. Then Mae would be arrested as well.

  “I told the truth, Mom,” said Victoria. She looked almost relieved. She held her mother’s gaze, and the police did not move toward Mae. She had told the truth, her eyes said, but not the whole truth. She had protected her mother.

  Mae embraced her daughter. “I should have saved you,” she whispered.

  “You tried,” said Victoria.

  A child was being baptized in St. Gabriel’s, a boy. As he poured the water, Father Richard said, “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. May the Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Who hath regenerated thee by water and the Holy Spirit, and Who hath given thee the remission of all thy sins, may He Himself anoint thee with the Christ of Salvation, in the same Christ Jesus our Lord, unto life eternal.”

  Winter sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows with a cold intensity. Mae would spend Christmas with her granddaughters and their father. After the New Year, they would move to Greece without her. Mae had bought them books that they would not read. She had unpacked the crèche, laid the wooden baby Jesus in his hay-bale bed, and set his mother next to him, watching over him, her head bowed in reverence.

  Mae rose and walked toward the altar, though she did not know the family. The baby began to cry as his original sin was washed away, and the sound pierced Mae’s heart clean through. She reached toward the infant, and he looked at her. His eyes were as green as jade.

  3

  Sitting, stunned, on the front steps of Hyde Park Café, I marveled at the fact that everything looked the same, though my whole life had changed. My father was innocent. He had loved my mother. Also, he loved me.

  The afternoon sun warmed the top of my head and my shoulders. Jesus H. Christ, I was happy. I felt like my childhood night-light, glowing. Joy, I supposed—this was what joy felt like—your body filling with light. I wanted to run into the street, screaming the news. I tilted my head upward, focusing on a lone, wispy cloud. I whispered, “Thank you.”

  I was never taught to believe in God, in anything. Our family did not go to any religious services. We did not celebrate Ramadan or Hanukkah, and we celebrated Christmas only in a secular way. But on Sunday mornings, when I was small, my mother would fix Alex and me bowls of cereal and settle us on the couch for cartoons. My parents would retreat to their upstairs bedroom and lock the door.

  I loved Froot Loops and Cap’n Crunch. On Sundays, we were allowed as much cereal as we could cram in our mouths, and we lay on the couch for hours. When our parents came downstairs, our mother was freshly showered, flushed, and ravenous. The joy our parents found in each other was undeniable, and their passion never waned.

  The pleasure they found upstairs, while Alex and I munched sugary O’s, was what bound them. But after my mother’s death, I believed that my father’s passion for my mother had made him capable of something awful. I had seen his face when my mother admired Mr. Schwickrath’s present, his eyes narrow with anger. I had imagined they fought, and their love had exploded into something that could lead my father to pick up a heavy glass object and swing.

  But I had been wrong. Now the knowledge washed over me: my parents’ love had not changed into something dark. It had been complicated, like all love, but our family’s happiness had not been a mirage.

  My father, with his imported cigarettes and his fancy stereo, trying to fit in. He had written me for years, and I had not had the courage to read one letter. I felt guilty. I felt happy. I felt like going inside and finishing my lunch—so that is what I did.

  Later, I called my father. Gerry sat next to me on the couch with an open bag of SunChips. The person who answered the phone (a guard? an operator?) told me that Izaan would have to call me back.

  “Please tell him it’s his daughter,” I said. “Please tell him …”

  “What?”

  “Tell him I called,” I said.

  “Okay, lady,” said the man on the other end of the line.

  I hung up the phone. “What’s going to happen?” said Gerry.

  “There’s going to be a trial,” I said. “A new trial.”

  “Would you like a SunChip?” asked Gerry.

  “Thank you,” I said, “but no.”

  Gerry put his hand on the side of my face. “He didn’t do it,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. Gerry smiled. “It feels so good,” I said. “It feels impossibly great to have a father.” I put my arms around my boyfriend and I held him tight.

  The sky was luminous outside the windows of our house. On the coffee table were two glasses of sweet tea. Handsome wedged his nose into the space between us. The phone rang, and I took a breath before lifting my head from Gerry’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter what you say,” said Gerry. “That’s the point of love.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes,” said Gerry.

  I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I said.

  “Is this Lauren Mahdian?” said a strange voice. It was a man’s voice, but there was nothing about it that was familiar. I felt a sinking sensation in my gut. The voice did not sound right.

  “Yes,” I said. “Who is this?”

  “Ms. Mahdian,” said the man. “I’m calling about your brother, Alex Mahdian.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “This is the wrong call.” I dropped the phone and stood quickly. “It’s not him,” I said to Gerry. It took seven steps to reach the front door, which I flung open. “It’s not my father!” I yelled as I ran outside. I looked wildly up and down Maplewood Avenue. There had to be a direction I could turn, I thought. There must be a place I could go where I would not have to hear what the man on the phone was going to tell me. Going west on Thirty-eighth led downtown, past a coffee shop, a piñata store, and the Fiesta grocery. If I turned east, I would hit Patterson park and pool and the neighborhood surrounding it. I chose east, and began to sprint.


  Gerry came outside. I head him yell, “Lauren!” I didn’t turn around. “Lauren!” called Gerry. “Come back, Lauren!”

  I was barefoot, but I kept going. I felt the blood pumping through my body. I turned onto Ashwood Road, passing broken-down houses, very nice houses, yards that were cared for and yards that were a mess. I ran without a destination in mind, just away, just away.

  But Gerry was faster. He overtook me at the corner of Ashwood and Green, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me down. I fought him, I screamed, I bit his arm and said, “No, no, no!”

  “Stop,” whispered Gerry. “Stay still,” he said, “shhhh.”

  “Please,” I said, looking into his clear blue eyes.

  “They found him,” said Gerry. “They found Alex. He’s alive.”

  4

  Everyone loves their siblings. Gerry has a brother and a sister, and when the three of them get together, it’s like a reunited tribe—Gerry gets giddy, goofy, he’s completely understood. But I can scarcely describe how I felt when I first heard Alex’s voice on the phone from Baghdad. It was as if I’d completed the most arduous journey, and was taking my last steps toward a golden door.

  I began crying as Gerry handed me the phone.

  “Is this Lauren?” Alex’s voice was shaky, confused in a way that reminded me of Gramma.

  “Alex,” I said, and my voice broke.

  “Lauren,” said my brother. “Alex,” I repeated, and then we were quiet. There was nothing else to say.

  I called Gramma after Alex’s nurse made him hang up the phone. When I told her Alex was okay and coming back to Texas, she said, “That’s the best news I’ve had all week.”

  Alex came home on Thanksgiving Day. You would think he’d have a parade to welcome him, trumpet players and high-stepping girls in bright skirts. But it was only Gerry and me, clutching helium balloons and a six-pack of Shiner in the arrivals area. We watched the escalator silently.

  I almost didn’t recognize my brother. He was very thin—emaciated. He wore loose clothing, so the change was most pronounced in his face. His skin was discolored and raw. I guess I had imagined he’d be the same.

  Alex stood on the escalator, not running to greet us, not even scanning the crowd. He didn’t have the floral duffel or his books; all that was gone. As we approached Alex, he looked up. When he saw me, his face brightened, and I began to cry. “Why the hell are you crying?” said Alex.

  “I thought you were dead,” I said.

  Alex shook his head tiredly. When I hugged him, he hugged me back. “I’m not dead,” he said.

  We drove home on Airport Boulevard. Alex was silent in the passenger seat. He opened a can of beer but took only a few sips. He stared at the pawnshops, strip clubs, gas stations. “I called your landlord,” I said. “I told her to kick out the new guy. Or girl. I told her you’re home.”

  “I can find another place,” said Alex.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “What do you want for dinner?” said Gerry.

  Alex shrugged.

  “I know!” I said. “Crown and Anchor. Your favorite. Cheeseburgers for Thanksgiving!”

  “Okay,” said Alex.

  “Don’t order wine there,” said Gerry. “Remember, Lauren?”

  “Right,” I said. “I once ordered wine there and it was terrible! A mini-bottle. They just unscrewed the little cap and handed it to me.”

  Gerry chuckled desperately. “Right,” he said. “That was really funny.”

  “It was so funny!” I said.

  Alex didn’t respond. Gerry took a left on Thirty-eighth Street, then another left on Duval. The Crown and Anchor was packed—students spilled into the parking lot, drinking beers and throwing Frisbees for dogs. We parked on Harris Park Avenue and walked over. Alex’s hands were in his pockets. He seemed folded into himself.

  There were no tables available, so we ordered glasses of beer and stood between a pool table and the dartboard, sipping and ducking to avoid being hit. “This is really not relaxing,” said Alex after a while. The music in the pub was loud. It sounded like Pearl Jam, but I wasn’t sure if it was Pearl Jam. It might have been John Mayer trying to sound like Pearl Jam.

  “Do you want to leave?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” said Alex.

  “Let’s go,” said Gerry. “Come with me.” He put his beer down on the bar, and Alex and I followed him out the door. In the parking lot, Gerry said, “Eat or drink?” to Alex.

  Alex lifted his bony shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Al,” said Gerry.

  “Both,” said Alex.

  “Done,” said Gerry. We got back in the car, and Gerry drove south on Lamar, all the way to Artz Rib House. “Wait here,” he said. He went inside.

  “Are you okay?” I said, once Alex and I were alone. “You seem kind of down.”

  “I’m just getting used to it all again,” said Alex.

  “Can you believe it,” I said, “about Dad?”

  “I knew all along,” said Alex.

  “I know you did,” I said.

  “Have you talked to him?” asked Alex.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Every day, actually.”

  “Me, too,” said Alex. I looked out the window at a man in only a thong bicycling up Lamar, at a dog gnawing a rib in the parking lot. “Now I guess I need a new mission in life,” he said.

  “Or you could relax awhile,” I said. “I’m actually pretty happy hanging around. I made pasta from scratch last night. But Handsome ate half the noodles while I was taking a shower.”

  Alex nodded seriously. “Ah,” he said. “There is rapture to be found in the ordinary.”

  If he wanted to be pretentious, he had certainly earned the right, so I bit my lip. “You need to eat,” I said after a minute. “You’re really skinny.”

  “I know,” said Alex. He had been knocked out by the bomb blasts, burned badly on the face, and transported with many of the sick and injured to a small hospital over an hour from the city. It had been complete mayhem, and patients from Ibn Sina had been relocated wherever beds could be found. Things moved slowly, and a month later, some Iraqis were still unidentified. Unbelievably, it wasn’t noted that Alex’s comatose body was American. Maybe because of his Arabic tattoo, no one connected Alex to the missing American doctor the State Department was trying desperately to find.

  “It just seems impossible,” I said to Alex on the phone, the day before he flew back to Texas.

  “A clerical error,” said Alex. His laugh was bitter.

  “I guess they happen everywhere,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just want to come home.”

  When Alex had finally come to, he was disoriented, bandages covering much of his healing face. A nurse spoke to him in Arabic, and he was confused and frightened. But then Alex remembered who he was, and spoke his name.

  Gerry came out of Artz, carrying two big bags. He got in the car. “Now more beer,” he said. Neither Alex nor I answered him. Gerry drove to Barton Springs Road, stopped at a gas mart, and ran inside. When he returned, he handed me a six-pack of lemonade. Then he drove to Zilker, paid three dollars, and parked. “Come on,” he said. “Carry something.”

  Trailing Gerry, we went to the water. Gerry paid for a canoe and tossed paddles and life preservers inside. The river was shot with golden light; we slid the canoe down the bank. The metal seat burned my thighs, but I said nothing. Gerry and Alex paddled toward the Congress Avenue Bridge. Once we were underneath and could smell the guano, Gerry passed around cold cans and hot meat.

  The brisket was perfectly cooked, tender and slightly sweet with sauce. I ate sausage links, pickles, smoked turkey. Gerry had remembered that Alex liked the giant pork ribs. We finished the beans and the potato salad. Alex ate listlessly, then with vigor.

  The sun went down slowly, and still we waited by the edge of the bridge. The sky turned scarlet, deep blue, the orange of a marigold. Gerry touched my hair. Ale
x almost looked happy, one hand in the water and one around a beer. The paddle rested on his lap. “Here they come,” he said, looking up.

  It was like another river twisting toward the heavens: the bats—hundreds of them, thousands. A flood of beating wings, streaming above us, breathtaking. They flew from the bridge into the fire-colored night, looking for food. Above us, people clapped and shouted. The bats came out every night, but you would never know it from the cries of celebration. I looked at my brother, and he had tears in his eyes.

  “And now,” said Gerry, reaching into the last bag and handing us plastic spoons, “bread pudding for dessert.”

  “With brandy sauce?” asked Alex. I looked at Gerry, hope like a balloon in my chest.

  “Of course with brandy sauce,” said my love.

  Epilogue

  It was dim in the motel room, the thick shades drawn. Beside me, Gerry dreamed, but I remained awake. In an Econo Lodge in upstate New York, I let myself rest in the space before sleep. Handsome lifted his head, then settled back down as I ran my fingers through his fur.

  Cars drove by, scattering squares of light along the wall. I tried to remember my father as a young man, a glass ashtray at his side. He had been striking, commanding, his hair the color of licorice.

  I must have fallen asleep eventually. When I awakened, Gerry and Handsome were gone. My head felt scraped out and strange, but it wasn’t a hangover or Tylenol PM—I’d switched to chamomile tea and scalding baths. I sat up and stared at the motel desk, yellow with faux-bamboo edging. A white and yellow lamp, a giant mirror. The last time I had seen my father, I’d been a girl in pigtails, a bathing suit in my hand, frosting from a cinnamon bun on my lips, taking the stairs two at a time. In the mirror, which was edged in the same bamboo pattern, I was an adult—thick, messy hair, circles under my eyes.

  Meeting with my therapist the week before (I had gone back to therapy after I called and apologized, and Jane Stafford told me no apology was necessary), I had felt myself sink into the couch. My voice had come from me, hoary with tears, high-pitched. “I’ve always felt alone,” I’d said. “I’ve felt that way since the morning of the murder. I’m alone, and no one can take care of me.”