Close Your Eyes (6 page)

“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 sky.

“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?

Jane’s office was in a house. Her own house? There was no way to know. There was a taxi parked on the street in front. Was a taxi driver in therapy? Did someone take a taxi
to
therapy? (A DUI?) Again, there was no way to know. I parked behind the cab. I began to get a light-headed, hysterical feeling.
Keep it together
, I told myself.

On the front door was a printed sign reading
NO SOLICITATIONS
. I was glad of this, because a Jehovah’s Witness knocking at the door while I confided my innermost feelings was something I did not need. What
did
I need?

I was wearing my work clothes. I wanted Jane Stafford to know that I was a professional. Coolly, I estimated her home office/home to be worth about 300K. It was a one-story ranch with ugly siding but a nice yard, room for a pool. I stopped before entering, noting that you could hear MoPac Highway. That would knock 10K off the price, give or take. Some people didn’t care about highway noise, but some people did.

I opened the door. A sparse living room with a pale blue couch led to a hallway. I sat on the couch and picked up an old
Glamour
. I didn’t open the magazine, just tried to look relaxed and waited. In fact, I did feel a bit relaxed. What could possibly happen to me here? I felt secure, if a bit loopy, in this 3/2 (I guessed) ranch with original hardwood flooring.

After a few moments, I heard a door open and the click of footsteps coming toward me. Hurriedly, I opened the
Glamour
and shifted my gaze, trying to seem engrossed. I appeared to be in the middle of an article about faux-fur shoes.

“Lauren?”

I looked up into the brown eyes of Jane Stafford, who, despite her WASPy name, was Asian. I stood.

“I’m Jane Stafford,” she said, holding out her hand. She was wearing a cream-colored sweater and dark pants.

“I’m Lauren,” I said stupidly.

“Please,” said Jane, turning and walking back down the hallway. She opened the door to a small room with a sound machine whirring in the corner. She sat down in a chair and gestured to a couch. I sat on the couch, which seemed to be elongated; my feet dangled. I felt like Alice in Wonderland or Lily Tomlin in that big chair. I crossed my hands in my lap and swallowed.

Jane said nothing.

“So,” I said. “I’m …”

Jane was silent, only raising her eyebrows. She had black hair cut in a swingy bob. She was quite a bit older than I was, maybe fifty.

“My father killed my mother when I was eight,” I said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

To her credit, Jane’s face did not change. Her expression was kind and interested, like that of a good bartender. We sat quietly for a while, and then I continued. “I’m here because … my brother is in Iraq. He’s not a soldier, he’s a doctor. I can’t sleep. I’m frightened, more frightened than I should be. Like I’ll crash my car or get cancer or something. I feel out of it. Weird.”

“Weird?” said Jane.

“I get this feeling like I’m about to pass out. I can hear my heartbeat but nothing else.”

“That must be frightening,” said Jane.

“Yes,” I said. “It is frightening.” I felt a wash of relief, as if my fear had finally been validated, as if someone cared. I remembered my mother putting her cool palm to my forehead to see whether I was sick. I knew, if I had a fever, she would take care of me.

“Were you there on the night your mother was killed?”

“Murdered,” I said. “Yes. No. I was in the tree house out back. With my brother. Or I might have been inside. I don’t know. I can’t remember. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“I see,” said Jane.

“It’s not that I don’t want to marry him,” I said. “Gerry. I do want to marry him.”

“You want to marry Gerry,” said Jane, a solid statement.

I nodded miserably. “Sometimes,” I said, “I wake up in the middle of the night and think,
I have got to get out of here. I have to go.
” I felt my heartbeat speed up, and I struggled for air. “I feel like I have to get out. But I don’t know why or where I have to go. There’s nowhere to go.”

Jane nodded. “Tell me about Gerry.”

“What?” I said.

“Where did you meet him?”

I had a whole story about this: any half of a couple does. Gerry fed me seaweed, was the story. I was a lonely college graduate taking real estate licensing exams and working at an upscale children’s clothing store in Westlake. The store was called Caramel Apples. Every morning I woke in the run-down house I shared with four of my college friends, bought a giant cup of coffee at Quack’s, drove out 2244, and opened Caramel Apples in time for the barrage of beautiful but bored mothers who arrived almost as soon as I turned on the lights. They settled their kids into carts and shopped, gathering cute T-shirts with dinosaurs and fruit appliqués. Some used the Germ Blockade, a fabric contraption that covered the cart seat, took about five minutes to set up, and cost $25.99; the Germ Blockade was our second biggest seller, after the Hooter Hider nursing apron.