When I Close My Eyes

by Elizabeth Musser

  “I’m taking the night shift. My dad and sister went back home, and I just got something to drink.” I suppressed a yawn. “I’ll go in and sit with Momma for a little while.”

  “Okay, but I’ll be here till six if you want to try to get a little sleep in the waiting room.”

  “Thanks.” This time I gave a full-fledged yawn.

  HENRY

  I left that waiting room, hurried to the elevator, and rode down to the lobby. I wandered around the bottom floor of the hospital, trying to get a feel for the ginormous place. I made my way to the main entrance and studied the map again for just a second and then hurried outside. What was I thinking? Wasn’t too smart to be traipsing around the hospital in the middle of the night. Might look suspicious.

  I went out to the pickup and drove to that same motel where I’d spent the night Friday, over on the west side of town, then knew that wasn’t a good idea either. So I ended up sitting in a Waffle House for a few hours reading the book, trying to figure out what to do next.

  I almost stopped reading that novel because it was making me mad. I was afraid the boy—the teenager who had gotten himself into all kinds of trouble—was gonna turn out to be a pushover. He’d had an awful life and been mistreated, and I understood that. And he was afraid—not of his father but of someone else close to him. And I knew just how that felt.

  Then he went and listened to the old lady—the one who was batty and wise at the same time. And that was when I got mad. The lady in the book said, “You can’t change what happened. But you can let it go.”

  “How?” the boy asked, and she’d answered, “You make peace with him.” So he went and made peace with the scumbag. I threw the book across the room. Thank heavens the place was empty, and the waitress had gone back into the kitchen.

  But Miz Bourdillon wrote it in a way that you still wanted to know the truth, even if you were mad. So I got up and picked the book up off the floor, sat back down in my little booth, and finished it. And turns out he made peace with that man and with himself.

  Well, I couldn’t make peace with my pa because he was dead. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. No way.

  But the boy did, and the old lady said it was so the boy could live with himself and go forward and get better.

  “Ain’t gonna be doing that on your own, boy. You know that, don’t you? You have to look at the part of you that fills up with thanksgiving on a crisp fall day with the sky a deep blue. You have to think about smelling the fire tickling the twigs in the fireplace and how comfortable you are under that thick handmade quilt. You think about those little things. Because they’re big. Real big, I tell you. And that’s the soul. You dig in deep to yourself and let that higher good grab you.”

  Miz Bourdillon didn’t say forgiveness like a preacher would, but that was what she was talking about. And she didn’t say sacrifice, and she didn’t say faith—words they used all the time at Libby’s church. And she didn’t say higher power like in AA or God like in the Bible. But she showed it all right there on the page. The old lady just gave up her life, if you could say it that way, and the way she did it, in one of those twisting endings, well, it floored me all right. I was blinking back tears.

  But then it got me thinking. Could that really happen? Could somebody really give up her life like that? Nobody at a church or self-help group had ever explained it to me the way it was written in that book. Leastways I didn’t remember such a thing. And I wondered, even though I knew it was impossible, what if I went up to that Miz Bourdillon and asked her to forgive me? Maybe if I told her I was sorry, maybe that would make the awful pinching inside—and the way I wanted to hit at something—maybe it would make those feelings go away. And when I smiled at Jase and Libby, they’d really see a smile, and there wouldn’t be any more fear in their eyes.

  TUESDAY

  PAIGE

  Someone shook me awake where I had curled up on a few of the chairs in the ICU waiting room. I forced my eyes opened and looked up, and as soon as I saw him, some of the burden slipped off my back. “Hey,” I said and stretched.

  “Hey yourself. You okay? I’ve sent you about a hundred texts.”

  I held up my cell phone. “I haven’t even gotten to my texts. I’ve been reading Momma’s emails and letters and talking to the police and getting Hannah and going through the past letters—you know, the ones I told you about, and—” But I broke down before I could finish.

  Drake Ellinger was the one person besides my sister who I’d let see me cry.

  We’d grown up together, lived in the same neighborhood and went to the same church. Our two families had gone on vacations together every year until his parents’ divorce, and he and Hannah and I had seen each other through a couple of things I couldn’t even mention. He was the big brother I’d never had, one year older than Hannah. He protected us from bullies when we lived in the same neighborhood, and he nodded understandingly when I swore I’d never go to church again, and we kept on being friends through one awkward early teenage crush (mine on him) so that we were practically inseparable. Except, of course, he now attended a college a few hours from home and was in his last year of engineering school.

  I found another Kleenex in my pocket and dabbed at my eyes. “What time is it anyway?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “You drove straight through the night?”

  “Yeah. I had a big project to turn in and then headed out. Wish I could have gotten here sooner.”

  “Being here now is great. You’re awesome, Drake. Thanks.” I started crying again. “Sorry. It’s just that it’s been awful, the shooting and all the news coverage and now the police are questioning Daddy and Hannah and me—you know, more ‘thoroughly.’” I emphasized the last word with air quotes. “Like they think it might be about Momma and Daddy and money. Money! The detective asked if they had a good marriage. And a few other things I didn’t want to answer.”

  “Shhh.” Drake wrapped his arms around me, and I felt protected. Safe. “You need to get those tears out, Bourdy. And you just answer what you can. Your father is the gentlest man on earth. I don’t think they’ll pull up much dirt on him.”

  “But they could. You know they could.”

  “I know. But I don’t think they’ll link that to what’s happened to your mother.”

  “Unless I tell them.”

  Drake cocked his head and gave a small smile. “Which you won’t.”

  Drake knew me almost as well as Hannah did, so when he assured me that I wouldn’t do what I feared the most—slipping up and saying way too much to the police—it felt lots better than the hot chocolate I had downed in the middle of the night. “Thanks for being here. I have so much to tell you.”

  He glanced at his cell and said, “Well, it’s almost six. Is it too early to see your mom?”

  “Family can visit anytime day or night—and you’re considered family—but it’ll be pretty rough on you to see her. Maybe you should get something to eat first.”

  He got a pained expression on his face. “You’re probably right—it won’t help Momma Jo for me to break down in front of her.” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “And I haven’t eaten anything in a long time. So maybe I should buy you some pancakes at the Waffle House first.”

  This he said with a hint of playfulness in his voice, so I responded in like manner. “I’d prefer something decadent at the French Broad Chocolate Lounge.”

  “Of course you would, you little snob. But as you well know, it doesn’t open until eleven.”

  We were teasing each other as usual. Maybe a little bit of normal life was possible. I stretched again and yawned. “Fine. Take me to the Waffle House.”

  As we made our way in the predawn to Drake’s car, I thought about all the nights he had spent on our couch while his parents’ marriage was falling apart. I remember asking, “Who are we going to be friends with now, Daddy, Ginnie or Bert? Will you have both of them over to the house?” I couldn’t recall if Daddy ever answered my questi
on, but none of us ever minded Drake coming around at all hours. He’d talk till early in the morning with Momma, getting out all the anger and angst that kept building up as he went through the devastation of his parents’ divorce.

  Drake wasn’t the only one who came to talk to Momma. I had images of dozens of others—teens, young women, older ladies—sitting on the couch in the den, the fire blazing in the hearth, and Momma bent forward, totally concentrated on whoever needed her attention. She was so approachable, and her books so truthful and poignant, that people just naturally felt like they’d gained a new best friend when they finished her stories. And Momma, who had a very hard time separating the urgent from the important, looked on every soul who wrote to her or asked to come for a visit as someone worth listening to, as if he or she were a true friend. She just soaked in the stories, just sat there listening and praying and caring.

  A thought flashed across my mind. Could it be that a reader had confided something dark and dangerous to Momma and then later, realizing she’d revealed way too much, decided she had to kill her? I shook the thought away. Surely not.

  What I did know was that Drake had got out a lot of anger and moved forward, and so had many others. But what we had not understood, for the longest time, was the toll it took on Momma.

  HENRY

  Wasn’t any use staying at the Waffle House or anywhere else in that town. I had to be at work at eight or else, and I didn’t need no more or elses in my life. Hadn’t gotten one better idea about what to do next, but boy, did I keep thinking about that book. I wished I could just go see Miz Bourdillon, ask her a few questions, but that wasn’t gonna happen. I had a job to do, and it wasn’t talking.

  I hated to think about that, though. It sounds crazy, but I had started feeling real close to Miz Bourdillon. Maybe I could get another one of her books from the library. They say writers put a lot of themselves in their stories, so maybe another book would tell me more about her. Not the same as talking to her, but it was the best I could do.

  I liked her daughter too. She reminded me of Jase, and not just because her hair was the same color. Libby and me, we always said we were glad our Jase had a lot of spunk. He was a fighter. And Miz Bourdillon’s daughter, I could just tell she had a lot of spunk too.

  Driving along I kept reciting to myself: Four days since the shooting. Three days till Jase’s operation.

  Then I started trying to come up with a way to have Miz Bourdillon die, because it didn’t look like she was gonna do it on her own. There wasn’t any way my contact could make me kill—legally, of course. But there were plenty of ways he could convince me that the job had to get done. I dreaded those things.

  All those thoughts were swimming round and round in my head, like to make me dizzy and sick. I thought about the meds again. I could hear Libby saying, Henry, you know cold turkey is bad. You get so confused. And every time, it takes you longer to see the effect of the meds when you start back.

  But I couldn’t start back till I knew if I’d have to pull the trigger again. One thing I knew for sure. If I did, I sure as heck wasn’t gonna miss.

  My eyes were blurring on that dark, curvy I-40, so I pulled off at a rest area and parked way far away from the lights and the little bathroom. Set my phone to wake me in three hours, and I slept.

  CHAPTER

  6

  TUESDAY

  PAIGE

  I ordered a stack of blueberry pancakes at Waffle House and smothered them in butter and blueberry syrup.

  “Still got your sweet tooth, haven’t you?” When Drake smiled, his dimples showed. He had somehow turned out to be rather handsome. But to me, Drake was just Drake. Curly, sandy blond hair, blue-green eyes, thin, the body of a long-distance runner, intense and intensely loyal.

  “Yes, and don’t say anything else about it.”

  “Bourdy, you could eat pancakes nonstop and still be thin as a rail.”

  I nodded. “And thankful for it. I don’t plan to quit eating anytime soon.”

  He laughed, and I peppered him with questions about school, thankful to forget the horror of Momma for a few minutes. “Are you dating anyone?” I always got around to that question.

  And his answer was always the same. “Bourdy, you know I’m not looking.”

  My response was too. “Ha, that’s impossible.” And I could have quoted verbatim what he said next.

  “The way I see it, I don’t need to spend a lot of time hunting for the perfect girl. As long as I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, I’m pretty sure she’ll cross my path, and then I’ll know.”

  One thing that had rubbed off on Drake during his late-night talk sessions with Momma was faith. Like I said, many people came to see Momma, and somehow as they were pouring out their hearts, Momma just naturally directed the conversation to faith. In God and the Bible. I’d overheard enough of those conversations to know that she never tried to force anyone to believe a certain way. But as she listened and shared her own story, with all its bumps and bruises, and how faith had played such an important role in helping her through the journey, well, it seemed a lot of those people started wanting what Momma had.

  That I had not embraced this faith that she and my father held so dear must have torn her heart out, but it never showed. All I saw was Momma doing her best, with God’s help, to hold her life together—along with the lives of about half the world.

  Drake and I dozed in the Neuro Trauma ICU waiting room till eight, full from our breakfast at Waffle House. The ICU staff—professional and yet humane—said he could go in for a visit after the nurses finished their rounds. When I asked the attending nurse about Momma’s score, she gave a tight smile and said, “She’s still at six today, Paige.”

  It didn’t get any easier, taking the people who loved Momma in to see her. Drake’s expression mimicked Hannah’s and Aunt Kit’s, mashing his lips together, hand drawn over his mouth, clearing his throat, wiping at something in the corner of his eye. Finally he sat down in the chair by Momma’s bed.

  “Momma Jo? Hey, it’s me. It’s Drake. So good to see you, Momma Jo. Looks like you’ve got the best bed in the whole place. I’ll bet you’re comfortable.”

  He glanced at me, and I rolled my eyes and whispered, “Act normal, you moron!”

  He frowned a little, wrinkled his brow, and then started talking like the Drake we all knew. “So the last year in engineering school is pretty rough. I told you when we talked in the summer that I was dreading it. My grades are okay so far—I’ve only had a few—but everyone is feeling the pressure to get noticed. I’ve got my first interview scheduled in a week. A big plant down in south Georgia. They’re going to fly me to Columbus and drive me to the plant. It’s in the middle of nowhere, but the pay is awesome.”

  I nodded my approval and slipped out into the hall.

  Daddy and Hannah had come back to the hospital—Aunt Kit was still sleeping at the house. I told them that Drake was with Momma, so we all went into the waiting room.

  Hannah’s eyes glistened with tears as she told me, “The CaringBridge site is getting so many comments—people from all over the world are praying for Momma. I believe God is going to heal her, Paige! I really do.”

  I admired my sister’s faith. I just didn’t share it.

  Daddy acknowledged her comment with a slight nod and said, “I had a good talk with Mamie and Papy this morning.” Now his eyes filled with tears. “Zey sure are worried about your momma.”

  Whenever Daddy talked on the phone with his parents, or when he was overly tired, his French accent grew a little more pronounced. I loved him all the more for it.

  He sat down in one of the cushioned chairs. “Get any sleep?” I asked him.

  “A leetle.”

  Daddy was completely worn out. He hadn’t shaved, maybe hadn’t even showered. He must have fallen asleep in his clothes, because he was still wearing the same thing from the night before.

  “Long night with Aunt Kit?”

  He winced. �
��Don’t even get me started.”

  I knew what he was thinking about as he sat there all hunched up, looking disheveled and lost, and I wanted to tell him that I would never, ever say a word to the police about it, would never hint at anything that they couldn’t find out themselves—and they could find most of it, anyway. But the truth was, I didn’t know everything either, and that sent a little shiver through me.

  Normally Daddy had a very welcoming and unintimidating personality; he was someone who attracted other people easily, gained their confidence. That worked very well in his line of work—people just naturally trusted him. And he was trustworthy. Thoughtful, hardworking, kind, attentive, observant. And fun. With that trace of a French accent.

  But I’d seen nothing welcoming about him since the shooting. He’d withdrawn, and he barely addressed Hannah and me. I imagined he was torturing himself about The Awful Year. Or maybe about Aunt Kit.

  I trusted my dad, but what I really wanted to ask him was something I had never quite dared to bring up, in spite of my big mouth: What actually happened back then, Daddy? Can you please just tell me what really happened?

  ———

  Drake stayed with Momma until noon, when I shooed him off to our house to get some lunch. Then Hannah and I alternated sitting with Momma, talking and hoping desperately for some tiny movement, but none came. Hannah pulled me away, saying, “Daddy’s turn again,” trying to sound lighthearted. Momma had not made any progress in the past twenty-four hours. Reluctantly I followed Hannah to the elevator and rode down to the all-too-familiar Café 509.

  The cafeteria felt almost cozy. Facts about pumpkins were written in fancy lettering on a wooden-framed chalkboard with a reminder: Try our delicious pumpkin bread or mouth-watering pumpkin muffins. Gluten free! All different sizes and colors of pumpkins tumbled artistically around a display table.