Close Your Eyes (10 page)

When I closed my eyes, I saw my mother the day before she died, sunbathing next to the tree house, shiny with baby oil. Her body was tan in an aqua bikini, and her hair was held back in a rubber band. She was squinting, resting a large square of cardboard covered in aluminum foil underneath her chin. I saw my own girlhood toes, painted purple. I remembered the way I had once felt: safe, bored, sunburned. These were the waning minutes of the life I’d thought would always be mine.

14

Again I lay awake past midnight. Gerry slept with his arms around me. When I sneaked from Gerry’s embrace, Handsome rose from his dog bed, expectant. I climbed from bed and went into the living room to find Handsome’s leash. My head hurt, so I swallowed a half dozen Advil.

The moon was dazzling. Handsome trotted happily as we made our way south toward downtown. The air felt like a warm swimming pool. I walked along my street, noticing the fresh paint on the bike messengers’ house and the way a couple down the street had strung lights and placed folding chairs in their small front yard: preparations for—or remnants of—a party. Though I had once loved being home with Gerry, now I was more comfortable out of my house, on the move.

I crossed under I-35, giving the people who lived beneath the bridge a wide berth, and made my way to Congress Avenue. Turning left, I had a clear view of the Capitol Building. It was two
A.M.
, which was ten
A.M
. in Baghdad; I wished my cell phone could call Iraq. Then I thought,
Well, why not try?

I sat down at the bus stop at Congress and Tenth. I rummaged in my wallet until I found the phone number of Ibn Sina Hospital. Under the bright sky, I dialed. This was going to cost a fortune, I knew. But I suddenly had to talk to Alex. He was the only one in the world who would understand what I was feeling—this soupy fear and dread. Without Alex, I was carrying the heavy memories alone.

I waited, pressing the phone to my ear. But I had mixed up the digits, it seemed. I couldn’t get the string of numerals on the scrap of paper to connect to anyone, just annoying beeps and a recorded statement: “We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach is disconnected or no longer in service.” The message was in English, so I figured I must have the access code wrong. I called the Verizon operator, but she put me on hold. I listened to a recording of Barry Manilow singing “Can’t Smile Without You” and “Mandy.” Finally, I cut the line.

Handsome was yanking at his retractable leash, ready to move on. We had made it down Congress almost to the river when I remembered the guy who lived in Le Dome, Unit 302. I was feeling reckless. I walked to Le Dome and looked up. There was a window lit on the third floor. His name came to me, unbidden: Arthur.

I stood there for a while.
Why not just go inside?
I thought.
Why not have a drink with a handsome balding man? Why not a rollicking night of sex?
I deserved some joy!

Before Gerry, I’d had lovers—short-lived physical relationships with guys who were messed up in one way or another. Heavy drinkers, manic wackos, the kind of men who told me they loved me after a night and never called again. I felt strangely safe with people who were broken. I knew what to expect from them.

Loving Gerry was different. I found myself counting on him, believing in him, dreaming about babies and wedding rings. It was unnerving and dangerous and very, very stupid.

I whispered a message to Arthur, who was likely typing in his boxer shorts. Did he have a gut? I couldn’t remember. And honestly, who cared?
Come to the window
, I thought.
All you have to do is come to the window and you can have me
.

Nobody came to the window. As I was about to murmur another message, the light on the third floor went out. I looked at Handsome, who was confused. I realized it was time to go home.

When I let myself in the door of my purple-and-yellow house, a bag of warm tacos in my hand, I saw a message light blinking on our old answering machine.

I pressed the button and heard my brother’s voice. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m thinking of you guys. I’m sorry to call so late. I just happened to be near a phone, so. Well, anyway. It’s … it’s getting hard here. It’s very disheartening. I’m doing my best, but Jesus … Lauren, I miss you. I love you. Bye.”

I played the message three times, and then I lay down on the floor and cried.

15

It might have happened right then, while I was on my carpeted floor, sobbing and then falling—finally—into a dreamless sleep. It could have been while Gerry carried me to bed, gave me a back scratch, and sang “It Had to Be You.” Maybe it was while he showered and I lay in the sunlight, smelling Irish Spring soap and feeling Handsome’s heavy head on my tummy. I lay on my expensive mattress, and two Iraqi men drove to either side of Ibn Sina Hospital and detonated cars full of explosives, demolishing the building and everything inside.

The news came the way I’d always feared: a phone call that showed up on my caller ID as
RESTRICTED
. It was late afternoon, and I was watching
First Time Home Flippers
. I answered the phone tentatively.

“Miss Lauren Mahdian?” said a man’s voice in an accent I couldn’t place, maybe French.

I said, “Yes?”

“This is Laurent Janssen with Médecins Sans Frontières. I am calling about your brother, Dr. Alexander Mahdian.”

I hit mute on the television. The man was talking about my brother and two suicide bombers and an explosion.

“An explosion?” I said.

“It is a terrible tragedy, a terrible mess,” said the man.

“A mess?” I said.

“At present, we are tending to the bodies. We believe that most inhabitants of the hospital did not survive.”

“What are you telling me?” I asked. I rose, screaming into the phone,
“What are you telling me?”

“We have not identified your brother at this time,” said the man. “We will keep you informed of any developments. You have my deepest sympathies.”

“It was a bombing?” I said.

“It was a bombing, yes,” said the man.

“They bombed Alex’s hospital?” I said.

“They bombed the hospital, yes,” said the man.

After I had hung up, I fell back onto the couch and tried to feel something—some communication—from my brother. Was he dead? Did it hurt? I felt that I should know. But I did not know.

It had been only hours since his phone call. I had been planning to call him back at nine
A.M
. his time, which was midnight my time. I’d already emailed, telling him to be near the phone. His message was still on the machine! Alex could not be dead.

I tried to call Gerry, who was out doing research. But after I dialed, I heard the ring tone (“Folsom Prison Blues”) in the kitchen, where Gerry had left his phone charging in the wall socket next to the blender.

Who could I call? What should I do? I thought about trying to reach my dad. They had phones in jail, after all. I could just telephone information and ask for the number of Attica Correctional Facility. I could say it was an emergency. In fact, it was an emergency. But I washed down four Tylenol PMs with a tumbler of Sprite and lay on my bed.

I heard the phone ring a few hours later. After the beep on the machine, a man cleared his throat. “Lauren,” the man said. I knew at once who it was, and I stood up, holding the sheet around my body. I walked toward the voice.

“Lauren,” the man—my father—said. “I’ve gotten the news about your brother. About Alex. I’m calling to tell you I love you. I love you. I’m so …” He began to falter, but after a moment, he continued. “I hope you can … can find it in you, in your heart, to call me. Or write. I want you to know I’m here. You’re not alone.” I heard a shuffling, and then he cleared his throat. “I’ll call again soon,” he said. “I love you, Little One.”

When he had hung up, I waited for the tape to rewind. I realized with a blunt pain in my gut that Izaan had recorded over Alex’s voice. “No!” I cried, pulling the tape from the machine. A piece of the ribbon caught and tore. “No!” I said, desperate. My father. My father! He ruined everything, everything, everything.

Book Two

1

Sylvia Hall pressed her fingers to the hot glass as the city bus lurched from Rubey Park. The driver, a compact woman with a ponytail, wound her way through streets Sylvia knew by heart, and she silently bade them farewell.
Goodbye, Silver Circle; goodbye, Little Nell; goodbye, my Ajax Mountain
. From Glenwood Springs, Sylvia would catch a Greyhound to New York City, where she would become the person she had always meant to be. Brittle sunlight caught a small crack in her window and blinded Sylvia for a moment, but then her vision cleared.

Sylvia was forty-one years old and five months pregnant. When the bartender at the Snowmass Club said, “No offense, Sylvie, but maybe you need less cheese and more elliptical,” Sylvia realized it was time to put her getaway plan into action. She had packed a bag after Ray had fallen asleep, had lain on the couch all night, wide awake, as if plugged in to an electric socket. Instead of going to work, she had walked into town, bought a last bear claw and a coffee at Main Street bakery, and caught the Roaring Fork. She read a discarded
Aspen Daily News
as she waited for the bus to arrive:
Aspen Club not energy-efficient today, but it could be. Elk and bighorn sheep give birth in proposed wilderness area
.

Sylvia sighed and pulled her knees to her chest. Maybe she could fall asleep, despite the coffee. Goodbye, J-Bar; goodbye, sunburned men reading the condensed
New York Times
in the Black Saddle Bar & Grille; goodbye, Ray, who was never going to sober up, who was never going to be a great painter, who was—in the end—a jerk with a dwindling trust fund who’d made Sylvia get two abortions and a navel ring.

In other words, Ray Junior was out of the question, name-wise.

Sylvia figured she would tell the baby that Ray had died. In a car chase. A Denver cop who died in a car chase. That would be a good father to have, she thought. And as soon as that whopper was out of the way, Sylvia would be honest. She was going to use her college degree, wear cashmere. She would read Proust, the whole thing, whilst eating madeleines.

Reflected in the bus window, Sylvia’s dirty-blond hair was the same as when she’d been a teenager, but the skin around her light blue eyes and generous smile was puckered. One afternoon Sylvia had seen a leather change purse in the Junior League thrift shop and thought,
That change purse looks like my face
.

Life was short, as it turned out. Sylvia picked at her chapped lip. Maybe you got one chance to reinvent yourself, maybe two. She had been lazing along for so long, assuming there was always more time to begin her
actual
life, her adulthood. But the child inside her had changed Sylvia already: she was stronger, brave enough to climb out of the sluggish quicksand of her days with Ray. She couldn’t say he had been mean, or even distant. He loved her the best he could, and the truth was, she loved him, too. The way his hair stuck up at the crown of his head—who would smooth it down now?

Sylvia opened her window, and cold mountain air filled her nostrils. The bus accelerated, and Sylvia told herself it was done: there was no turning back now.

2

In Denver, Sylvia disembarked. The late-afternoon light was murkier, less crisp than in Aspen; Sylvia felt as if she were wearing smudged glasses. Though she didn’t wear glasses except for the red-framed sunglasses she’d taken from the lost and found at the club. As the driver hauled bags from underneath the bus, Sylvia stared at a discarded bouquet of flowers.

“What’s it look like?” said the bus driver.

“Sorry?” said Sylvia. An image sprang to mind from one of the pregnancy websites—a five-month-old fetus complete with finger nubs and alien eyes.

“Your
bag
,” said the driver wearily. “What’s it look like?”

“Oh, I’ve got my bag,” said Sylvia, gesturing to her navy duffel. “I’m just … enjoying the sunshine.”

The driver smiled, and the friendliness in her face surprised Sylvia. The woman angled her face to the sky and took a deep breath, her hands on her hips. “It’s a nice one,” she murmured, and then she shut the cargo door with one smooth motion and climbed back onto the bus. She gave the horn a light tap as she pulled away.

The Denver bus station was large and sterile. Like a hospital, thought Sylvia, or the veterinary clinic where she had brought her cat, Dickens, when he’d been hit by an asshole in a rented Hummer. (Dickens died that night, though Sylvia had resolved to pay for whatever it took to keep him alive—heart transplant, traction for his little broken leg, one of those wheelie carts, anything.)

It was cool inside the bus station, and most of the benches were occupied. Sylvia seemed to be in the minority: she was white, female, and not wearing headphones. She felt distinctly dowdy in her jeans (held together at the top with a rubber band—a trick she’d gleaned from a mom-to-be website) and floral shirt. Her boots clonked against the linoleum floor as she approached the café.