When I Close My Eyes

by Elizabeth Musser

Detective Blaylock had a restless type of personality, sitting, standing, sitting again, fiddling with a pen and a little notebook, running his hands across his balding head.

  After asking a few polite questions about how I was doing, he went into police-business mode. “How was your parents’ marriage?”

  I squinted at him, grimaced, then gave a dry laugh. “Why are you putting that in the past tense?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Momma’s not dead. Their marriage isn’t over. So you should say, ‘How is your parents’ marriage,’ right?”

  He gave a grunt. “Right.”

  I sat up as straight as I could. “You know as well as I do that if I say they have a great marriage, no problems, love each other deeply and devotedly, you won’t believe me. You’ll think I’m covering something up. So I’ll just say, their marriage is solid. Stable. Good. They do love each other.”

  He sat back down, gave a little shake of the head, scribbled something, and almost smiled. “How was it growing up with a writer?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, your mother got a bit of notoriety for her novels. How was that for you?”

  “She still gets a lot of notoriety,” I corrected him again.

  Now he was frowning at me.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and probably sounded a little defensive. “Look, what do you know about my mother?”

  “I know what I’ve read about her. Came from a wealthy family in Atlanta, brilliant in high school, all kinds of honors, full scholarship to college, met your dad”—he looked down at some notes—“in 1980 when they were both in college. Married in 1984. Your dad is in insurance. Your mother sold her first novel at thirty-three. Her second novel did well, and she started seeing some success.”

  “You can read all that on her website. Or on the dust jacket of her books. That’s not my mother.” I reached into the ceramic pumpkin and plucked out a piece of candy, never taking my eyes off the detective.

  “I beg your pardon?” He stood up, braced on his arms and leaned over the desk, glaring at me.

  “You know that writers write their own bios, don’t you? They have to tell you the good parts. Momma’s not afraid to tell the bad parts, but we convinced her to leave it off the website and the dust jackets.”

  Once again Detective Blaylock sat back down, leaning over, elbows on knees. I guessed he was trying to figure out how to read me, and frankly he looked a little pissed off. “Would you mind telling me the truth about your mother then, Paige?”

  “Have you ever read any of her books?”

  “No.”

  “Well, read them. She tells the truth in her books. That’s why her readers write her those emails—you should read some of them too. Or ask Officer Hanley about them. My mother’s readers thank her; they tell her she offers hope even in the midst of situations that seem impossible. If you read the letters, you’ll see what I mean. And if you read her novels, well, you’ll understand more about Momma.”

  For a moment he didn’t budge, then he sat up straight and frowned at me.

  I pretended not to notice. “Her books mean something to her readers. They touch a place inside. They’re not just entertaining; there’s always something more. That’s all she ever wanted, anyway. To make people think, to give them hope even while they wrestle with the hard things in life.” My voice was getting scratchy and off pitch. “Momma is complicated, that’s what she is. She’s got a huge imagination coupled with a really deep, dark dose of reality, and she mixes it in her stories.”

  I turned away, fished a Kleenex out of my jeans pocket, and blew my nose. “And she’s generous. She believes in people, even when there is absolutely no reason to. She’s kind.” Blew my nose again. “And I tell you, I cannot really imagine one single person on the planet who would want her dead. Not even the wacko who wrote those letters. No one would want Momma dead. Everybody likes her.”

  He was scribbling away again on a notepad.

  I let him finish, then said, “Can I ask you a question, Detective Blaylock?”

  That caused him to smile. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing? Interrogations are usually performed by the officer, not the civilian.”

  I blushed. “Sorry. I have a big mouth. But this is what I want to know. Even though I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill my mother, someone obviously did. So will he or she come back? Like on TV, the killer always somehow mysteriously gets a white lab coat and sneaks into the victim’s room and puts cyanide or quinine or something in the IV, and the patient dies. Will our crazed reader be sneaking around this hospital, waiting for someone to be careless, and then go in and smother my mother?”

  He actually laughed.

  “I didn’t mean it to rhyme.”

  “You’re very entertaining, Miss Bourdillon. I believe you said yesterday that you inherited your mother’s big imagination.”

  I did not return a smile. “I’m perfectly serious. Could you please answer my question?”

  “I guess it could happen. That’s why we’ve got police everywhere. No one will sneak into her room, Miss Bourdillon. Don’t worry.”

  He stood, and I guessed the interview was over.

  “But you still don’t have any clue who tried to kill her, right?”

  “We’ve got those two letters, we’ve got the bullet, and we’re working on other leads.” He opened the door, and I walked back into the gift shop.

  “I hope so,” I said. “I sure hope so.”

  As I walked away, I felt satisfied. I hadn’t revealed anything at all. Certainly not about The Awful Year.

  CHAPTER

  5

  MONDAY

  JOSEPHINE

  1975 . . . She and Kit were curled up together in bed, giggling. Josephine wished this night would never end. Kit’s eyes were bright with mischief and good, clean fun, and they weren’t talking about Vietnam or LSD or the boys Kit was sleeping with. They were talking about ballet!

  Kit pulled her out of bed and announced, “Now I present to you my stunning little sister, JoJo.”

  She lifted Josephine’s hands and whispered, giggling, “Like this.” They stood in ballerina form. “Now a pirouette.” One by one, Kit led her through the basic steps of ballet. “See, silly Sis! You could be a ballerina, too, if you wanted to.” She twirled Josephine around and around and around. “But you’re not meant to be a ballerina, JoJo. Everyone knows you’re meant to write.”

  She was twirling and twirling with Kit, dizzy, dizzy, and then they tumbled on the bed together, laughing again. “So just write.”

  Out of breath, Josephine felt her cheeks flush. “Kit, should I write even if it hurts?”

  Her big sister didn’t hesitate. “It will hurt, JoJo. But you’re brave. I’m not so brave, but you, you could dance to the moon and back with that heartfelt faith you have.” Kit started to cry. Then she hugged Josephine to her fiercely. “So dance your stories onto paper, JoJo. No matter what.”

  PAIGE

  When Daddy, Hannah, and I got back upstairs after our interviews with Detective Blaylock and stepped into Momma’s room, Aunt Kit looked completely wrung out—her airbrushed former-model allure had faded, and her face was pinched and drawn, her deep blue eyes red from crying. She was holding on to Momma’s hand almost fiercely, and when she glanced up there was a wild expression in those eyes.

  “It’s terrible.” Aunt Kit swiped a bright orange fingernail where her mascara had smudged and said, way too loudly, “She hasn’t moved at all. No response to all my wild stories. Nothing.”

  Daddy put his finger to his lips to indicate Aunt Kit needed to lower her voice. “Thanks for staying with her, Kit.”

  Aunt Kit, oblivious, continued talking too loudly. “I made her life so hard.” It came out as a sob. “I made her be the good girl, the perfect, intelligent, talented girl. I was the drop-dead gorgeous girl.” She gave a thin smile. “That’s what they called me. Can you imagine what that did to me? And to your mother? She did ev
erything right because I did everything wrong. She had to drag that weight around. The little sister to the goddess Kit.” Now Aunt Kit sounded drunk, although I was almost positive she was stone sober. “She picked up after me and kept writing her stories. And I ridiculed her for it. I laughed when she begged to go to parties with me. . . .”

  “Shhh, Kit,” Daddy said. “This is old news. You and Josephine worked all that out years ago.” Daddy’s face was pure annoyance as he took her by the elbow and escorted her out of the room.

  I followed and said, “Daddy, you go on and stay with Momma.” He nodded, looking relieved, and left us in the hall.

  Indeed, we’d all heard the stories. Momma had even written one of her novels with a Kit-figure in it—with my aunt’s permission.

  “I know it’s old news,” Aunt Kit said. “But just because we said the truth out loud, that doesn’t take away the scars. And now look at her, so still. I’ve been trying to tell her again that I’m sorry.”

  Her remarks irritated me. Somehow my aunt’s dramatics always came back to spotlight herself. “Aunt Kit, please, don’t be talking to Momma about hard things. She needs to hear lots of love and hope. Don’t ease your conscience by unloading on Momma when she can’t defend herself.”

  Aunt Kit swiveled around and glared at me for a long moment, and then her face softened. “Yes, you’re right.” She flashed a plastic smile. “I’ll behave. I promise.”

  “Daddy’s staying with Momma right now. Why don’t I take you back to the house? There’s tons of food. And you can get set up in the guest room. I’ll come back later and spend the night here.”

  Aunt Kit merely nodded, making a racket with her high heels on the shiny hospital floor as she followed me down the hall.

  We were greeted at the front door of our home by three small postal bags overflowing with letters. Our neighbor, Mrs. Swanson, had left a Post-it on one bag that read Saw the postman bringing these in. He said they were all addressed simply to Josephine Bourdillon, Asheville, North Carolina. I told him he could leave them on the porch. I’m keeping watch.

  “Wow, this is what I’d call fan mail,” I said, unlocking the door. I picked up one of the bags and carried it into the kitchen, where I set it beside Milton’s water bowl. Aunt Kit followed me into the house, empty-handed. “Would you mind bringing the other mail bags inside?” I snapped. “I’m going to take Milton for a walk.”

  I’m pretty sure Aunt Kit rolled her eyes at me. Then she kicked off her high heels, went onto the porch, and picked up the two other bags. I grabbed Milton’s leash and hurried him out the door before she could say anything. When we returned twenty minutes later, the bags sat right where she’d left them inside the door, and Aunt Kit was nowhere in sight.

  I got myself a plate full of baked goods, sat down beside the bags, emptied the letters onto the kitchen floor, and counted them. There were almost three hundred. I ate cookies and cake and opened them, one by one.

  HENRY

  Took me three hours to get back to that mountain town in North Carolina. I got to see a real colorful sunset—all oranges and reds—the sky almost the same colors as the trees on those mountains. I drove nice and respectful—no use getting picked up by the police—and got to the hospital around ten. Dang big place, all spread out and not just one building. But that Lucy on TV had said Miz Bourdillon was on the “Memorial Campus in the Neuro Trauma ICU.” Felt real thankful to Lucy for that information.

  I finally got parked and found my way inside. Had my Glock strapped under my shirt. The map in the lobby of the hospital said that trauma place was up on the fourth floor, but I knew there was no way I’d get near that lady. Cops were everywhere. Wondered if I could get a little information from someone—maybe a reporter. I went up to the cafeteria on the second floor—nice place, all clean and decorated for Halloween—and got a burger.

  There weren’t any reporters around that I could tell, but other people straggled in, all of them looking sad and lost and confused, like they didn’t have any idea of what was coming next. But I couldn’t tell if any of them was kin to Miz Bourdillon. I tried to sit still, act calm, but I kept drumming my hands on the table. A lady with a little kid looked over at me, kinda annoyed like. I felt sorry for the boy—he was younger than Jase, and I could tell he’d had just about enough of this big ole hospital.

  Picked up Miz Bourdillon’s book, but I couldn’t concentrate. What could I do? The map had shown several waiting rooms on each floor, so I finally decided to go on up to the fourth floor and sit up there. I rode the elevator up and followed the signs. Walked right past a policeman who was pacing the hall, and I broke into a cold sweat. I knew he couldn’t see the Glock, but what if they were frisking people on this floor, trying to protect Miz Bourdillon?

  I hurried on down the hall, my heart hammering in my chest. I needed to hide from that policeman and was glad to open the door to the waiting room and disappear inside. It was more private than the cafeteria, but still plenty of space, and the chairs were cushioned and looked comfortable. The room had two vending machines and a little kitchen area with a microwave and a little fridge and a spot where you could serve yourself a hot drink for free. Several ladies were sitting in chairs, all huddled together, and looked like one was crying.

  Got myself a cup of coffee, but my hands were shaking a little, and I spilled a bit on my jeans. The ladies didn’t seem to notice. I sat down on the other side of the room and took out my book again. Pretended to read, but I was really listening to see if they were talking about Miz Bourdillon. Didn’t seem like it, and after about fifteen or twenty minutes they got up and left.

  I was sitting there all alone still wondering what to do next when a young woman came in. I recognized her right away as Miz Bourdillon’s daughter who’d been talking on TV.

  Wasn’t that some luck! Smiled to myself, then kept repeating in my mind, Slow, Henry, slow.

  She had on a baggy gray sweat shirt and jeans and a baseball cap, and I figured she didn’t want to be recognized any more than I did. But there wasn’t any hiding her pretty little face with the turned-up nose and her hair—chestnut, the same color as Jase’s, except hers was thick and long. She got herself a little Styrofoam cup of something hot and sat down on the other side of the room.

  “Hey,” I said, nodding across at her.

  She jumped a little and glanced up at me. “Hey.”

  “Fine time for a cup of coffee, right?”

  She shrugged. “Hot chocolate.”

  I pretended to go back to reading, then looked up and said, “Hey, you’re that writer lady’s kid, aren’t you?”

  She looked at me suspiciously and nodded.

  “Sure am sorry about your mother. Right awful thing.”

  Another nod.

  “Is she doing any better?”

  She was holding the cup in front of her face, staring down at her hot chocolate. “If you don’t mind, I’m not very interested in talking. You can find everything you want to know on the internet.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. Yeah, it’s pretty awful to have your private life on display. But at least it lets people know. I bet they pray. I mean, it sounds like people really loved your mother.” I held up the novel. “In fact, I decided to read one of her books.”

  The girl didn’t smile. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Yeah. You and everyone else on the planet. Great way to up your sales. Get yourself almost killed.”

  I chuckled, then wished I hadn’t. “I guess you’re right about that. Went to get this at the library, and it was the only one of her books left on the shelf. Anyway, I hope she’ll get out of that coma soon. I bet she will. My boy—he’s had a bunch of operations. His heart. We thought he wouldn’t live, but now they’re sayin’ one more surgery and he’ll be okay. So see—I bet it’ll work out okay for your mother.”

  She shrugged again but didn’t reply. I tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t come up with anything. Then I thought about the policeman I’d seen i
n the hallway and got shaky all over again. Better be going before he caught me here. I got up to leave, and she called after me, “Good luck with your son.”

  You said too much, you fool. Too much, too much. Maybe I should have started back on the meds.

  PAIGE

  I watched as the burly man lumbered out of the waiting room. He was big. Huge, but all muscle. Probably midthirties. His hair was whitish blond, long, and scraggly, and his pale blue eyes twitched a little when he looked at me, like he was nervous, or worse, maybe not quite all there. He was the kind of man that made people afraid at first glance, with eyes that couldn’t focus very well and tattoos all over his neck. There was one that looked like a medieval sun peeking out from under his sleeve. He talked like a redneck and didn’t seem like the kind of person who would be reading one of Momma’s books. But as he left the room, all I felt was pity. My mother was in intensive care, but his son had heart problems. I thought that must be even harder.

  When I returned to Momma’s room around midnight, I found Detective Blaylock sitting outside her room, intently reading something on my father’s laptop.

  I flinched.

  Officer Hanley had taken over reading all of Momma’s incoming emails—she had, in fact, taken Momma’s computer completely. “Confiscated it,” I’d said under my breath earlier in the day, which had not escaped Officer Hanley’s hearing. She’d also taken Momma’s cell phone.

  “We’ve granted them access to our devices and signed a consent to search form, Paige, so it’s perfectly normal,” Hannah had chided me.

  Normal, yes, but Momma kept her journal on her laptop and didn’t allow anyone to read it. Occasionally she’d read us something she’d written there. Her journal was a prayer and a petition and a record of her life—of our lives. What if she’d written something about The Awful Year?

  Now, seeing Detective Blaylock with Daddy’s computer, I felt my stomach tense into a hard knot. What were the police going to discover about my family’s life?

  Detective Blaylock looked up at me, his face about as washed-out as Daddy’s. “Up mighty late, aren’t you, Paige?” He still seemed a little pissed at me, but at least he was calling me Paige instead of his infuriatingly condescending Miss Bourdillon.