Close Your Eyes. Amanda Eyre Ward

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СКАЧАТЬ 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,’ she said.

      ‘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.

      The bookstore in the same shopping center had kids’ story time, and the whole parking lot was jammed with minivans and SUVs from nine A.M. on. The women (and they were almost all women) had already worked out and taken a shower by the time they arrived. They pushed expensive strollers across the parking lot, calling to each other and air-kissing.

      I didn’t really know what to make of them. In New York, my mother had dropped me at day care before dawn. My father worked on his poetry at home and picked me up around three or four. When I was in elementary school, he was often late and usually unshowered, sticking out like a sore thumb among the suburban mothers. He’d stand at the edge of the playground with his hands in some rumpled pants, his big tummy hanging over his belt. He had a goatee and John Lennon spectacles. My pride in him remained strong, even as the years went on and his scribblings seemed to amount to little. We would walk home, stopping at the Holt bakery for a snack. He bought me any cookie I wanted, asking only for a piece – the ear of a mouse or the wing of a bat – to dip in his afternoon espresso.

      But even the most polished mothers in New York were nothing compared to the Texas crowd. I felt like an anthropologist watching them. I wanted to learn how to be normal, how to be a wife and mother. I didn’t mind my life, but I hoped to transition to something else eventually. Maybe that was why I gravitated to real estate – I could observe people’s homes with a scientist’s detachment. If I could see what a house looked like when it was happily lived in, then maybe I could piece together what had gone wrong on Ocean Avenue.

      After work some evenings, I would take in a movie or walk around Hyde Park and West Campus. One night, for a change, I took myself to dinner at a cheap spot called Now and Zen sushi. I was sitting at the counter, surveying all the ingredients, when a white man in a black button-down shirt came from the back room. His hair was a bit long and curly, and he had a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He seemed genuinely glad to see me. ‘Welcome,’ he said.

      ‘Hi,’ I said.

      ‘What СКАЧАТЬ