Close Your Eyes Read online

  ALSO BY AMANDA EYRE WARD

  Love Stories in This Town

  Forgive Me

  How to Be Lost

  Sleep Toward Heaven

  Close Your Eyes is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Amanda Eyre Ward

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Ward, Amanda Eyre

  Close your eyes: a novel/Amanda Eyre Ward.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-679-60508-9

  1. Family secrets—Fiction. 2. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.A725C57 2010

  813′.6—dc22 2010021115

  www.atrandom.com

  v3.1

  A sister is … a golden thread to the meaning of life.

  —ISADORA JAMES

  This book is for my sister, Sarah, with love.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Book One: August 2010

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Book Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Book Three

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Book Four

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Book Five

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  AUGUST 1986

  I can remember the taste of ocean, and the dark smell of impending rain. Our parents had given us reluctant permission to spend the night in the tree house. From our perch, high in an oak tree, we could see a faraway sliver of Long Island Sound. I can almost see myself—the way I looked before: a sweet girl, just eight. I was sturdy, like my father, with his dark hair and olive skin. My mother brushed my hair into pigtails, and I wore sundresses with bare feet, so I could climb.

  My brother, Alex, had stolen a can of Tab from the pantry. We drank from plastic teacups, remnants of my girlhood set. Clouds moved over the moon. My L.L.Bean sleeping bag was too warm, and in the middle of the night, I slipped one leg outside the heavy fabric and touched my brother’s foot with my own.

  The tree house was a small structure shaped like a pirate ship. My mother used to laugh and say it had taken longer for my father to build the damn thing than it had for her to grow and deliver a baby, but by the time I was two and could climb the ladder to the top, it was finished.

  We had a large, grassy yard; from the tree house, you could barely see the peeling paint on our back door. No matter what happened inside, as it turned out, you wouldn’t hear a sound.

  That night, our parents had given a small party. Alex and I often hid during their gatherings, and watched the adults drink wine and act strange. My father grilled elaborate Egyptian dishes on the Weber—rice-stuffed pigeon, rabbit with mint—and my mother sat with her friends at the picnic table and smoked cigarettes furtively, the embers lending her face an angelic glow. The guests that night were Phil Salinas, an investment banker; Jessica Salinas, his newest wife; Adam Schwickrath, an orthopedic surgeon; and Donna Halsey, my piano teacher.

  My father teased my mother about Adam Schwickrath. He was the man she should have married, my father said, his words edged with bitterness. Dr. Schwickrath was wealthy and well dressed, usually wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. Some evenings he and my mother would talk to each other in soft tones, my mother laughing and lifting her head to expose her throat.

  Dr. Schwickrath had given my mother a wrapped package that night, though her birthday had been weeks before. “Better late than never,” he’d said, almost bashfully. As my mother opened the box and took out a pair of high-heeled shoes, I’d looked at my father, who was staring, his jaw set. He had written my mother a birthday poem, made her a pan of walnut brownies. “I just thought of you when I saw them, Jordan,” said Mr. Schwickrath.

  “Are they the right size?” asked my father.

  My mother had peered at the strappy shoes. They were a silvery color, more expensive than anything we could afford, I knew. “Adam, how did you know I was a size seven? They’re beautiful!” my mother had said. She held a shoe to the light, admiring. But her hand fell when she saw my father’s face. “Oh, never mind!” she said brightly, dropping the shoes back in their box and placing it on a chair. “Let’s have some appetizers, why don’t we?”

  Alex and I snacked on corn chips, answering stupid questions about soccer, long division, and what we wanted to be when we grew up. Alex, who was ten, wanted to be a fighter pilot and I, a ballerina. At long last, our parents said we could take our leave.

  We climbed the ladder quietly and lit the candle we’d taken from the sideboard. The caramel light made the tree house seem otherworldly. It may have taken him a while, but my father had built our hideout with care, lining up each board, framing windows.

  My father loved to tinker in his basement workshop. My mother earned the money to pay for our real house, but my father took bits of driftwood or discarded lumber and assembled other dwellings. Besides the tree house, he made me a dollhouse that I called the Fairy Lair. He told me long stories about the fairies who lived inside, and sometimes I would come home from school to find a new piece of furniture: a bed made of daisies or a bathtub carved from wood, painted with flowers. He made birdhouses and gave them to friends as gifts.

  My father. He smelled like cigarettes and cardamom. When I was small and wanted comfort, he would put down the wooden spoon when he was cooking, or the pen when he was writing. Always, he would halt what he was doing and crouch down. I would press my cheek to his warm chest. In his arms, I was safe.

  The sleeping bags nearly filled the tree house. Alex poured the soda, and I heard my mother’s laughter as I sipped. Sometimes, when I concentrate, I can still hear her.

  We pretended we were on an adventure and talked about where we were sailing. I said, “Alexandria, Captain!” and my brother told me he saw the great port outside the tree house window. The pyramids were in the distance, and the sphinx.

  At some point, our parents called to us. I remember my mother saying, “Good night, my loves!”

  “Good night!” we cried, waving to them. They stood below us, next to each other. My father, as always, was disheveled, his hand in my mother’s long hair. As they walked to the house, I saw him wrapping her hair around his dark wrist: a golden bracelet.

  This was the last night I dreamed. The last night
, anyway, that I remember any dreams. Now I don’t sleep very well, and I am scared of midnight visions. I take pills that lower me into slumber cleanly, and ebb away until morning, when I wake fuzzy, my mind pleasantly numb until after a few cups of coffee.

  That night I dreamed of dolphins, of riding a dolphin in a warm sea. I slipped underwater and was scooped up again. Then a bolt of lightning cracked in the sky and my dolphin disappeared under the waves for good, leaving me alone. Rain hammered the ocean; I felt water on my head, driving me down.

  My house was underwater. I swam across the lawn and floated upstairs. There were terrible noises coming from my parents’ room. I saw bad things—it is a blank now, a black hole of memory—and I fled the house, back to Alex.

  When I woke, my father and brother were sitting on either side of me on the floor of the tree house, tearing into cinnamon buns. My father often took us to the Holt bakery for pastries—this morning he had risen early and gone himself, he said. He held the bag open for me, and I selected a bun, took a bite sweet with frosting.

  We finished our breakfast and walked to the house to get our swimsuits. I was rummaging in my room for my red one-piece when I heard an awful sound—a cry like a screeching cat.

  There was a long carpeted stairway in the house on Ocean Avenue. I was halfway up the steps when Alex slammed my parents’ bedroom door behind him and rushed to me, grabbing my shoulders.

  “Turn around,” said Alex. His face was white as milk.

  “What—”

  “Turn around!” he screamed.

  I fought, straining to find out what had happened, but Alex was stronger. He grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me back outside. I asked him what was going on, and he said, “Shut up. Just shut up! Just shut up!”

  I was dizzy and too hot. I clutched my bathing suit in my fist.

  A police car arrived—flashing red lights and sirens. An ambulance followed. Brawny, stone-faced men rushed inside our house. When they came back out, they were no longer in a hurry. They bore a heavy stretcher.

  My father emerged on the lawn with two policemen. I heard him shouting about his children, Find my children. The men put my father in a patrol car, shut the door, and drove away. Alex and I waited to see what would happen next.

  Book One

  AUGUST 2010

  1

  “A road trip,” said Alex, sounding hopeful for the first time in a long time. “To see Gramma. We can visit her and then go to the beach. We can rent a cottage in Galveston. We can rent a condo.”

  “A condo?” I said, clamping the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I gathered tomatoes in the produce aisle.

  “I have some news, Lauren. Can you get away this weekend, so we can talk?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a hundred and ten degrees. I have three open houses on Sunday. What do you mean, news?”

  “Well, at least you have your priorities in order.” My brother sounded like he was pouting. I remembered the way he would hide under the kitchen table when our parents fought, refusing to come out.

  I placed tomatoes on the scale, printing out the price and pressing it to a plastic bag. It was August in Austin, and the cost of tomatoes was rising with the temperatures. “Oh, Alex, I don’t know,” I said. “Just tell me the news. Is it good news?”

  “I get it,” said Alex. “Mr. Cheapskate won’t let you out of his sight?”

  I shut off my phone and stowed it in my handbag. I picked out a bunch of bananas, just a bit green, then gathered organic baby spinach, fresh thyme, and new potatoes. In the meat department, I asked for lamb and a pound of ground chuck. I passed the lobster tank, grabbed a six-pack of Lone Star and a bottle of cheap white. I tossed two boxes of strawberry granola and a pint of Mexican vanilla ice cream into the cart. Cheddar cheese, skim milk, bagels, baguette, warm tortillas, chocolate-chunk cookies. I was shopping for a family of five, it seemed, though it was just Gerry and me in the one-bedroom rental. I smiled when I thought of Gerry: the slight curl in his auburn hair, his broad shoulders. Gerry had been a wrestler in high school and still had a rangy, stocky build. He was my height, and when we swayed in the kitchen to a slow tune on the radio, we fit together like wooden jigsaw pieces. Like Illinois, nestled next to Missouri in my old puzzle of the United States.

  By the register, I grabbed a lemon soda and a bouquet of tulips. I paid with my MasterCard, my shock at the total assuaged by the knowledge that I was earning a hell of a lot of airline miles. Besides, what was money for if not sumptuous evenings with your boyfriend? By the time Gerry finished work—or “work,” as he labored for himself, and what he was doing in the shed in his sweatpants was nothing I recognized as taxing or taxable—I would likely be curled in bed, asleep, but hope sprang eternal, and romance (I believed) was about faith and expensive groceries.

  Though I had finished squiring around a couple named the Gelthorps by four, dropping them at the Four Seasons for dinner and discussment (Mrs. Gelthorp had assured me she’d call in the morning with an offer on either the Tuscan-style palace in Pemberton Heights or the Provençal villa in Westlake), it was already dark as I wheeled my booty out of Central Market. I angled the cart toward my Dodge Neon. I had hoped for a glamorous convertible, but Gerry had been firm, armed with a stack of old Consumer Reports and Epinions printouts. I unlocked the car, opened the trunk, and screamed when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” said my brother, panting in the cool evening.

  “How did you—”

  “You had that calm I’m buying foodstuffs tone,” said Alex. “I rode my bike over.”

  “From the hospital?”

  Alex nodded. He wiped his forehead. “I came to say I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to insult Gerry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “He is Mr. Cheapskate, after all.”

  “I just think a trip would be fun. The two of us. We need to visit Gramma—and I’ll reserve the campsite, or condo, whatever. We haven’t camped since … since we were kids, you know? I’m feeling a bit mortal.”

  My older brother filled me—always—with bafflement, irritation, and gratitude. He had never recovered, not really, from that morning. I had not made it all the way upstairs, so in some sense, I had been spared. By the time I saw my mother, she had been cleaned and made up, slipped into her favorite dress. He had taken care of me ever since. Instead of parents, I had Alex.

  “When are you thinking?” I said.

  “How about tomorrow? We can leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow! Can you help me with these bags?”

  “Time’s wasting, sister,” said Alex, grabbing bags roughly and tossing them into the trunk.

  “What does that mean?” I said. “Be careful—that’s wine!”

  Alex placed the paper bag down gently. He turned around and held me by the shoulders. “Have you heard of Doctors Without Borders?” he asked.

  “Oh, God,” I said. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like this news.”

  “I applied last year,” said Alex. “And I just got my assignment. I’m going to Iraq, to Baghdad.”

  “You …” I said, trailing off. I felt as if I had been sucker-punched. “You can’t leave.”

  “I’ll go in a few weeks,” said Alex gently.

  “What about me?” I said.

  “Lauren, this has nothing to do with you.”

  In the Central Market parking lot, beneath the CITRUS FRENZY banner, I began to cry. “I’ll be all alone,” I said.

  “Lauren, you’re thirty-two,” said Alex. “Get ahold of yourself.”

  “Go to hell.” I threw the last bag in the car, slammed the trunk, and went around the side to the driver door, wiping my nose with my arm. I felt alarmed, woozy. I opened the door and tried to breathe evenly.

  Alex ran to me and grabbed my elbow. “I knew you’d freak out,” he said.

  “It’s so sudden,” I said.

  Alex hugged me, smelling of sweat and fast food. “L
et me just lock up my bike,” he said. “I’ll come over for dinner.”

  Gerry and I lived in French Place, a historic neighborhood on the wrong side of the interstate. Fault lines made foundations crack and shift; while many houses looked great up top, there were problems under the surface. As opposed to Hyde Park, where professors and rich hippies lived, French Place was for the young and working-class. I loved it. Our landlord had painted the wood siding purple, which would not have been my choice—I preferred sage green—but the trim was a soothing yellow. Some people in our neighborhood went all out, with giant metal roosters or actual chickens in their yards, but we’d splurged on two lemon-colored chairs and a café table from Zinger Hardware and called it a day. When we had our fabulous pumpkin-carving party every year, nobody minded sitting on the steps or on one of the blankets we spread across the lawn.

  Our street, Maplewood Avenue, was situated behind an elementary school. In the mornings, I could sit on our sagging front porch and watch kids arrive for school, their hair still mashed from bed, small fists rubbing their eyes. We had a house of bike messengers on one side of us and an elderly couple on the other side. Gerry and I often shared a cold six-pack with the neighbors.

  When I turned onto Maplewood, I could see that the lights in our purple shed, which was now called “The Studio,” were still on. “How’s that all going?” asked Alex. “The, uh, podcast or whatever.”

  I shrugged. Gerry had lost his job at Dell six months before, and after a week or so of moping around, he had declared his life’s dream. I thought my boyfriend’s “life’s dream” was finally getting me to marry him (he had been asking for years), but no. In his boxer shorts and a DELL BOWLING ’08 T-shirt, Gerry had stood in the living room and announced that he was going to start a blog and begin calling himself “Mr. Cheapskate.” Wild-eyed, he showed me elaborate plans scrawled in a notebook he’d bought at Walgreens in the middle of the night.

  “There’s this guy who loves wine, okay?” Gerry had said the next morning as I edged my way into the kitchen and began spooning coffee into the French press.