Close Your Eyes Read online

  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.

  Sylvia had two hours before the next bus, bound for Chicago. She wolfed down a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milk shake. Spotting a pay phone, Sylvia thought she’d better call her best friend, Victoria. Maybe Victoria would make a WELCOME, SYLVIA! banner and hang it in the foyer outside her apartment. Maybe but probably not.

  Sylvia had left her cell phone on the kitchen table of the house she shared with Ray. (This was part of her plan—she knew cell phones could be traced, and if Ray found her, she might be persuaded to go back. She was weak and needy, but at least she knew she was weak and needy.) He was probably waking up from his afternoon siesta by now, wondering where Sylvia was and whether she’d bought a pizza from Taster’s on the way home. She was never buying a pizza from Taster’s on the way home again! Ray could take his large Buffalo chicken (extra jalapeños) and he could shove it. From now on Sylvia would pick up Perrier and macadamia nuts. She’d watch Masterpiece Theatre in a small but tasteful apartment, maybe on the Upper West Side.

  Sylvia punched Victoria’s number into the keypad. She savored the feel of the 2, the 1, the 2. Sylvia felt glamorous dialing Manhattan even as she stood next to a dented bathroom door.

  Uli, Victoria’s husband, answered the phone, barking, “Yessus?” He was Greek and did something related to importing. Or maybe it was exporting. Uli was a bald barrel of a man who loved liquor and strong European cigarettes. He and Victoria had spent years living it up, but the birth of Sunny, their first daughter, had cramped their style. Uli seemed to have adjusted to parenthood better than Victoria, who was, to put it kindly, a bit self-involved.

  Sylvia smiled, hearing Uli’s voice. When Victoria and Uli had last visited, stayi
ng at the St. Regis even though Sylvia and Ray had a spare room and a pullout couch, Uli had bought a leopard-print ski suit, wearing it all week, to his daughters’ delight. He’d performed an amiable bump-and-grind in the middle of the Snowmass mall, causing Sunny and her younger sister, Georgia, to collapse in giggles.

  “Uli? Uli, it’s Sylvia.”

  “Sylvia! Hello, Sylvia. Have you talked to her?”

  “No, not in a few weeks. Is she home?”

  “Oh, no,” said Uli. “Oh, no, Sylvia. There is only bad news in this house.”

  Sylvia’s stomach turned. “Can I talk to Victoria, please?”

  “She is not living here, Sylvia,” said Uli. “She’s gone home to her mother.”

  “What?”

  Uli laughed, but it was a mournful sound. “You call her yourself. She’s going to need you.”

  “I was calling to tell her I needed her,” said Sylvia. The words just slipped out.

  “You need her!” said Uli, laughing again. “You can have her.”

  “Uli, what’s going on?”

  “Goodbye, Sylvia. I think it’s best if we don’t talk for a while.”

  “Uli!” cried Sylvia, but he had cut the line.

  Slowly, Sylvia replaced the receiver. She felt in her pocket for change but found only a penny. Impatiently, Sylvia dialed the operator and told her to call collect. She knew the number of Victoria’s childhood apartment by heart.

  In some ways, though not officially, Victoria’s parents had adopted Sylvia after her mother died. Sylvia moved into the Brights’ apartment for her senior year of high school. It felt so good to have adults in charge—Sylvia’s mother had never cared if she’d had enough dinner (she could forage in the fridge or order something) or needed clean socks (what was Pauline, a laundress?).

  When Sylvia went to college, she stored her belongings with the Brights. Victoria went to live in Europe for the summer after high school graduation, then never returned to the U.S. She was attending the college of the world, she wrote.

  Sylvia and Victoria exchanged letters during those years. In some ways, the physical distance helped keep their connection intact. Sylvia didn’t have to watch Victoria on drugs—the way she’d get languid, lean in to people, in to men—she didn’t have to be Victoria’s babysitter, as she’d been toward the end of high school. Victoria wrote about the way winter in Venice was as gray as heartbreak. She wrote that she loved pistachio gelato so much she wished she could mail Sylvia a package full. She said she’d seen someone with the same color hair as Sylvia in Paris:

  I almost ran after her. I would have been so happy if she had been you, and we could have sat on a bench in Luxembourg Gardens and talked all afternoon! Wouldn’t that have been amazing, if you’d just surprised me like that? (Why not, Sylvie? This place would be heaven if I weren’t lonely. Can’t you see it? You and me in gay Paree?)

  But Sylvia never visited. She didn’t have the money, but she also dreaded the way things could get dark around Victoria. Sylvia felt secure communicating through letters. From across the ocean, Sylvia could have the good parts of Victoria—her loyalty, her adventurous spirit—and avoid the messy late nights and regretful mornings. Though, of course, Sylvia had regrets of her own.

  During school vacations, Sylvia claimed the second twin bed in Victoria’s room. The Brights welcomed her with open arms, even driving up to Cambridge when Sylvia played Sarah Brown in Guys and Dolls. After college, Sylvia worked in the accounting department at the Museum of Natural History and rented a windowless apartment a few blocks north of the Brights, visiting often and spending every single holiday seated at Mae’s giant mahogany table, the linen napkins rolled just so and slipped into silver rings. During those years, Sylvia still wrote to Victoria regularly, but she stopped writing back. Every few weeks, Victoria would call instead, and her messages were slurred and frightening. She began to make threats—“I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t call me back, Sylvia.”

  Sylvia always called back. In her terry-cloth robe, flipping through channels with her television volume on low, she listened to Victoria’s complaints (they were rants, really, fueled by booze and anger and who knew what else). Victoria was often betrayed, abandoned, bereft. It seemed that no one could handle her impossibly high standards, her volatility. No one else understood; no one else was honest, always there for Victoria; no one else was a true friend who always called back.

  Only Sylvia.

  When Victoria eloped with Uli, they settled down in Greece, and for a time, the late-night calls stopped. Sylvia was relieved, but she found she missed Victoria, too. Sylvia felt less important somehow—she didn’t matter as much to anyone else. Life with Victoria was scary, but it was fierce and hot. Sylvia was lonely, her days a little colorless without her best friend in the background.

  One March, Sylvia had taken a spring ski trip to Aspen with some colleagues. Sipping a glass of wine in the Caribou Club, she met Ray. Sylvia had never found a calling (being an assistant to an accountant suited her fine—she had no desire to go to accounting school) or a boyfriend; when Ray asked her (after four passionate days) to move in to his house on West Hopkins Avenue, she accepted. It turned out that Sylvia was scared of skiing; she was the only person in Aspen who would rather just read.

  As the years went by, Sylvia and Victoria gradually lost touch. When Victoria’s father, Preston—a tall, regal man with a distracted but loving demeanor—died, Sylvia sent an enormous bouquet. It had taken her a while to decide what flowers best honored the man. Calla lilies, she had decided: elegant, assured, a little snobby.

  Sylvia’s heart beat fast at the thought of being near Victoria and her family again. Life was so luxurious and exciting around the Brights. In the end, Victoria, despite her flaws, had been a loyal friend.

  Sylvia waited for a ring, then two, and finally, Mae answered the phone sleepily and accepted the charges.

  “Mae?” said Sylvia.

  “Sylvia, dear? Is that you?”

  “It’s me! I’m coming home. I mean to New York. Which will be home from now on. Again. Anyway, is … is Victoria there?”

  “No.” Mae sighed, and in a tone Sylvia wasn’t sure how to translate, she said, “No, Victoria is most certainly not here.”

  “What’s going on?” said Sylvia nervously. She had always counted on Victoria if she ever got the courage to run.

  “It’s a long story,” said Mae. “I’ll leave her a note to call you. Did you say you’re at home?”

  “I’m …” said Sylvia. She stared at her feet and swallowed. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “No, dear,” said Mae. “I have no earthly idea.”

  “Does she have her cell phone?”

  “Yes! Why, yes, she does. I’m glad you thought of it. Let me get the number for you right now. I keep it on a pad in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia.

  “How are things in Aspen?” said Mae.

  “I’m … Well, like I said, I’m thinking of moving back to New York,” said Sylvia. Idly, she wondered if Ray had even noticed she was gone. She could still, she supposed, change her mind. She hadn’t quit her job or anything. She could tell her boss in membership relations that she’d had the flu. She’d had the flu and been too sick to call.

  “Back to New York! Well, well,” said Mae.

  “Do you think I should?” said Sylvia. “Do you think I should come back?” She twisted the phone cord around her finger until it hurt.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mae. “Where would you live, dear?”

  Sylvia had figured she’d live with Mae. She’d imagined staying in Victoria’s sumptuous childhood bedroom, the way she had as a girl. There was plenty of room! Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly exhausted. Her getaway plan was a flimsy fantasy, it seemed, though it had gotten her out of the valley.

  “I guess …” Sylvia couldn’t bring herself to say it. “I have some money saved up,” she said instead.
<
br />   “Here’s Victoria’s phone,” said Mae, listing the digits slowly.

  Sylvia fumbled in her bag, found a ballpoint pen. She wrote the number on her hand.

  “Goodbye, sweetheart,” said Mae distractedly. “You know you’re like a daughter to me.” She had always said that, from the time Sylvia’s mother died.

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia. But she didn’t feel like Mae’s daughter, not at all. She felt like no one’s daughter, abandoned. Sylvia got change for a dollar, then called Victoria’s cell, but there was no answer.

  Sylvia and Victoria hadn’t been close in years. But just the imagined safety net of the Brights had brought Sylvia comfort. Where else would she go? Sylvia had certainly helped Victoria—she could only hope Victoria would be there for her now.

  From a vending machine, she bought a pack of gum and a can of Cherry Coke. She found an empty bench and sat down. The Coke was cold and sweet in her mouth. A bus pulled in to the station, but it was not her bus. A few people filed in, looking disoriented and sleepy. Sylvia wished she had an iPod filled with dance music. She wished she had a book to read. Now would be a good time to slip into a fictional world—Queen Victoria’s castle or Jane and Rochester’s giant house.

  There was a newsstand next to the café, and Sylvia stood in front of the bright paperbacks, looking for a book that would transport her. She didn’t need a bodice ripper (Taming the Tycoon), and she didn’t want to be worried about a mutant disease (Ebola and YOU) or a deepening economic depression (The End of the American Dream) or terrorism (Bombs in the ’Burbs).

  For a time, Sylvia had taken Paxil to calm her anxiety, but then she had realized that she really was living the wrong life. She was sick of having to mingle with rich people in the hope that they’d buy one of Ray’s elk paintings; disgusted with Ray, who slept all day on the couch in their overheated house; bored to tears of conversations that revolved around snow accumulation and kind bud. So she’d jettisoned the Paxil and started saving.