When I Close My Eyes

by Elizabeth Musser

  “Elizabeth Musser’s beautifully written novels are always unique and inspiring—and this is no exception. Christian novels don’t often feature characters who battle depression—or who are hit men! Yet Musser breathes life into her characters and makes you care. When I Close My Eyes will keep readers guessing and hoping until the very end. Thoroughly engaging!”

  —Lynn Austin, author of Legacy of Mercy

  “When I Close My Eyes is an enthralling story about family secrets, regret, and shame. Not only has Elizabeth Musser courageously and insightfully addressed complicated issues of mental illness, but she has done so with compassion and nuance by creating sympathetic characters who are struggling to comprehend grace. This story of redemption is an invitation to travel deeper into the heart of a God who companions us in the darkness and offers us hope. Thank you, Elizabeth, for writing an honest book that will be a comfort to the afflicted and to those who love and long for them.”

  —Sharon Garlough Brown, author of the SENSIBLE SHOES series and Shades of Light

  “Musser pens an exciting, intriguing story of redemption and truth. When I Close My Eyes flows from scene to scene with her pristine storytelling, enticing the reader from the opening scene to the last.”

  —Rachel Hauck, New York Times bestselling author of The Wedding Dress and The Memory House

  “Elizabeth Musser has penned a unique story—a tender, compassionate, and bittersweet portrayal of mental illness and redeeming grace.”

  —Rachel Linden, author of The Enlightenment of Bees

  “Elizabeth Musser’s riveting whodunit offers a haunting look at one sympathetic villain and his victim whose lives become entwined when they discover they’re connected by more than one desperate act. When I Close My Eyes is a beautiful novel revealing truth in fiction as it exposes that ‘faith and mental instability aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  —Ann Marie Stewart, author of Christy Award–winning novel Stars in the Grass

  “I have long admired Elizabeth Musser’s stories, but this one takes my admiration to new heights! Through colorful characters and an ever-twisting plot, When I Close My Eyes takes its readers on an unforgettable journey into the meaning of grace. Thanks for sharing your very soul in this one, Elizabeth.”

  —Ann Tatlock, novelist, blogger, children’s book author

  Books by Elizabeth Musser

  The Swan House

  The Dwelling Place

  Searching for Eternity

  Words Unspoken

  The Sweetest Thing

  Two Crosses

  Two Testaments

  Two Destinies

  The Long Highway Home

  NOVELLAS

  Waiting for Peter

  Love Beyond Limits from Among the Fair Magnolias novella collection

  © 2019 by Elizabeth Musser

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-2188-6

  Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the New American Standard Bible® (NASB), copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lock-man.org

  In chapter 4, the last psalm quoted is from The Living Bible, copyright © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  In chapter 12, Scripture is from THE MESSAGE, copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson. Used by permission of NavPress. All rights reserved. Represented by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kathleen Lynch/Black Kat Design

  Cover photography by Susan Fox/Arcangel

  Author is represented by MacGregor Literary Agency.

  This story is dedicated to my firstborn grandson,

  Jesse Andrew Musser.

  You made me a grandmother,

  and it has changed my life,

  filling it up with more love than I thought possible.

  What a joy to watch you grow up!

  I love you and I like you,

  Your Mamie

  Contents

  Cover

  Endorsements

  Books by Elizabeth Musser

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: The Beginning of the End

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  Part Two: Back from the Dead

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Part Three: The End of Myself

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Find Support

  Discussion Questions for When I Close My Eyes

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  The clouds hang low, a mist caught between the carpet of mountains. I stand at the top of the lookout and gaze into a never-ending motion of undulating valleys and peaks. On and on, seemingly forever, they rise and fall in lush green hues and deep blue ridges that span past history. The mountains hold my imagination, and I feel a call to their beauty. Then they fade out of view as the mist floats above and around them, like puffs of smoke. I hover in the mist; I feel the calling of the dawn. I see the first ray of light piercing through the mist and I know. I am forgiven.

  These Mountains around Us, Josephine Bourdillon

  CHAPTER

  1

  OCTOBER 2015

  FRIDAY

  HENRY

  The lady came out of the bookstore—it was all decorated for Halloween, all sizes and colors of pumpkins making faces at me from where I watched across Haywood Street in downtown Asheville. She walked along the sidewalk, with that big church with the fancy domes in the background, then turned down Walnut Street. I crossed the street and followed her at a distance. Not many folks around for a Friday afternoon, and nobody else in the private lot where she’d parked her car, a real nice Mercedes. Seeing her close up made me hesitate—she didn’t look like a criminal to me, just a nice-looking middle-aged little lady carrying a black computer bag in one hand, walking along at a clip, like she knew exactly where she was headed and needed to get there quick.

  I slipped into the narrow alleyway beside the parking lot, steadied my Glock, and took aim. As she clicked her key and went to open the Mercedes door, I pulled the trigger.

  In the same moment I heard a voice at the end of the alley call out, “Ms. Bourdillon! You forgot—” and the lady turned as my bullet raced its way silently through the air, so that it hit her on the right sid
e of the head instead of full force in the back, as was my intent. But I saw her fall to the ground, lying in a puddle of blood, as the voice turned into a piercing scream. I disappeared around the corner and through another narrow alley to where I’d parked my pickup, out of sight. Nobody saw me—they were all hurrying to that poor lady, I imagine. And I would’ve congratulated myself if I hadn’t been trying my best not to retch all over my truck.

  SATURDAY

  I walked into the store like Pa told me, bought a soda and some chips like any lazy teenager, and then Pa came in with a stocking over his face and pointed his gun at the terrified cashier. Who musta been calm enough to punch an alarm button, because the cops came in a second later and blew Pa’s brains out right in front of me.

  I woke myself screaming. If only it were just a dream, and not a memory.

  On my way to the john in the motel room, I flipped on the TV, only half-awake after last night’s binge. I had drunk myself into oblivion after the kill. I called it that in my head, a “kill,” like Pa did when I downed a deer or even one time a bear. Except this time it was a once-living-and-breathing human being. My head felt like it had received the bullet, and I threw cold water on my face. I looked into the chipped mirror at my red eyes and stubble, ran my hand over my chin, and said out loud, “Well, that’s over, and the money’ll be in the account soon.”

  I tried to crack a smile but instead watched my eyes get all teary. I swore. Threw more water on my face. My doc kit lay by the toilet, its contents scattered on the stained linoleum floor. I reached down and fumbled for a couple aspirin, swallowed them down, and then got out my razor and shaving cream, letting the spigot run the water warm. From the bedroom I heard the jingle of the morning news.

  “Today’s top story: Beloved author Josephine Bourdillon still lies in critical condition in the Neuro Trauma ICU at the Memorial Campus of Mission Hospital in downtown Asheville. . . .”

  I dropped the razor, heard it hit the sink. Then I grabbed the thin white towel and rushed back to the TV, wiping shaving cream off my face as I listened to the reporter—a blond girl who hardly looked old enough to be out of high school—standing outside of some hospital.

  “Police are calling it an assassination attempt. Ms. Bourdillon had just left Malaprop’s Bookstore, where she was doing a reading and book signing, when she was shot. Police have released no other details. . . .”

  I felt my stomach twisting, felt last night’s alcohol and pizza churning up inside, and hurried to the john to throw up. Then I yelled, way too loud for the thin motel walls, but stopped myself before putting a fist through one.

  Now what?

  You’ll receive the second half when the job is done, cash, four days after.

  I turned back to the screen where the reporter was listing this lady’s accomplishments, but I couldn’t pay attention to what she was saying. All I could think was: You gotta die, lady. You gotta. Or I won’t get the money for my son. I’m sorry, lady. But you’ve just gotta die.

  Then I put my head in my hands, unable to process the horrible mess I was in now. What were you thinking when you agreed to murder, Hughes? What in the world were you thinking? And the tears just came while I remembered. . . .

  It was two weeks ago, right after Libby called me at work with the bad news. At the end of the day I left the printing plant and stopped off at the bar with a buddy. No way could I go straight home to Libby. Not till I’d thought of a solution.

  The third beer got me to feeling better, loosened up a bit so I felt like telling Birch my problems. “It’s my boy, Birch. They say he needs another operation on his heart.”

  Birch still wore a crew cut, his hair almost as blond as mine. We shared the same tattoo on our right forearm. Got it done in a parlor when we were on leave in Fort Bragg. Used to shake hands every day when we were serving in Afghanistan together, just to show off the tattoos. It made us feel real close. Connected.

  Now I stared at the image of the sun on Birch’s forearm. “Sun ain’t risin’ in the Hughes family today, Birch. In fact, feels like it might be settin’ for good. Jase needs surgery and boss’s acting like he might let me go if I miss work again.”

  I took another gulp, finished the beer, ordered another.

  “Tough break, Hughes.”

  “We’ve not got money enough for rent and groceries, much less another surgery. Being already so far in debt makes all the nightmares come back in full color. Screaming sound effects too.”

  Birch knew all about my childhood, and we’d witnessed the Afghanistan horrors together.

  “Libby still working?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll find something else to bring in more cash—you always do.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t you sometimes just want to give it all up?”

  “You know it.”

  “I’ve screwed everything up for Libs and Jase.”

  We sat there, just drinking and not talking.

  “Just need to win the lottery or something,” I threw out after a while.

  “You still got your guns, Hughes?”

  “Of course.”

  “You were the best shot in the platoon. Best shot of anyone I ever knew.”

  “That ain’t gonna get me a job, Birch.”

  He hesitated, ordered another beer, then said, “I might have something for you. Not the lottery, but pay’s dang good.” He lowered his voice so as I could barely hear him over the noise around us.

  The more he talked, the more I told myself No way! Wouldn’t ever have agreed without the help of four beers and the desperate feeling way down in my gut.

  “I know the guy—he’s good for the money. He’s the middleman. You never even have to know who hired you.”

  “You already done a job like that?”

  Birch gave a shrug. Looked up at me. “Doesn’t have to be a career, Hughes. But it’ll give you some fast cash. You could try it, this once.”

  He reached over to shake my hand, nodded down to the tattoo. “You’re real good with the gun. Might as well use what you’re good at. Might let you see the sun a little too.”

  It sounded like a good idea at the time. . . .

  PAIGE

  She lay on her back, her mouth half-opened, the tube inserted, a string of drool escaping beside it, which was, excuse me, just gross. Her head was shaved on the right side, where the bullet had penetrated, and now she resembled a corpse beginning to be mummified, her head swathed in white gauze that ended right at her eyebrows. The rest of her face was very pale. The labored breathing, done by machines, reminded me of the even drone of the ceiling fan in my parents’ bedroom. Pretty spooky.

  I sat beside the hospital bed and stared, blurry-eyed, at the apparition of my mother. My soft and kind fifty-something mother, petite, with dark brown eyes that either filled with compassion or fantasy, now closed. I wondered if they’d ever open again.

  Coma. The word struck terror in my soul. The thing that most people did not emerge from or, if they did, emerged as vegetables. That my mother lay in this state, so still, so unalive, so lost from me, I could not grasp.

  Yesterday we’d watched the sunrise from the porch of our home on Bearmeadow Mountain, both of us speechless as always before the vista of mountains spread out like a rippling carpet on every side.

  “We live in a paradise,” Momma had said. “We get to watch God painting the mountains day after day after day.”

  In the spring the mountains looked green and soft as velvet, but when October came around, the velvet blanket turned into an intricate tapestry of reds and oranges and deep yellows.

  I blinked back tears at the memory, a sharp contrast to my surroundings. The hospital room, white and sterile, was filled with sights and sounds that came not from nature but from technology, and were indispensable in keeping my mother alive.

  Yesterday, before I rushed off to school, I gave her a high five after reading her the latest letter from an adoring fan, an elderly woman who had found hope
in one of Momma’s stories.

  When I turned sixteen last year, I took over the job my older sister had been doing, answering the fan messages that came through her website or Facebook or email, doing the social media stuff. Momma paid me for it, of course. She was embarrassingly hopeless with technology. Her job was to write. And write. And write.

  It was beyond fathoming that someone had deliberately tried to kill her. An assassination attempt, the police were calling it. As if Momma were the president of the United States. Who assassinated a middle-aged novelist? I suppose if she wrote horror stories or trashy novels or something defaming a religion, someone might wish her dead. But my mother wrote historical fiction. Sure, some of her stories made white people feel uncomfortable, even guilty, but the issues she raised had been decided by a president who got himself assassinated a long time ago.

  Well, it wasn’t quite beyond fathoming. We’d enjoyed reading that letter yesterday, but I thought about a couple of other letters that had arrived about three weeks ago, handwritten in big bold print. Just some wacko, I’d thought. But I never should have shown them to Momma.

  Wackos are exactly the type of people who kill their heroes, right?

  My line of reasoning was interrupted by my father coming into the hospital room.

  “Daddy!”

  “Hey, Paige,” he greeted me, and we hugged tightly. For a long time.

  Then he tiptoed over to the bed, as if he might wake Momma—oh, if only he could—with his footfall. Daddy was tall and lean, with black, black hair, even in his fifties. He had only an edging of gray around his temples, which Momma liked to say gave him a debonair look. They were both aging well, my parents. Or had been.

  Now the word gaunt flashed through my mind—Daddy’s ashen face, always clean-shaven, was now covered with a salt-and-pepper beard, and his eyes looked hollow. He hadn’t slept at all, had only left me alone with Momma long enough to get a cup of coffee in the ICU waiting room down the hall. Now he stood over the bed looking displaced, as if he had somehow ended up in the wrong room, staring at someone else’s wife.

  “Any more news?” I asked.