When I Close My Eyes

by Elizabeth Musser

We each ordered a pumpkin muffin, and Hannah got a cup of coffee while I ordered my chai. We sat at one of those little square tables as far away from the big TV screen as we could get.

  I didn’t want to talk about Momma so I said, “Drake will be back in a little while. With Aunt Kit.”

  We caught each other’s eyes and grinned. Poor Drake.

  Then I teased, “Hannah, you haven’t told me if you’ve met any hot guys in France.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Can’t you think of anything better to ask about than that? I’ve been there all of three weeks.”

  “Well, then before. When you traveled around Europe with Sophie and Tess?”

  “I met the most wonderful and interesting people in the world, but no young man swept me off my feet. No worries.”

  I did worry about her a little. When you looked like Hannah, guys flocked around. I think I feared she might subconsciously slip into a lifestyle like Aunt Kit’s. Fortunately Hannah had a good dose of common sense and was not impressed an iota by her own looks. “As if I had anything to do with it,” she always said.

  “What about you, Paige?”

  “No one. Except the men in my stories, and they’re always really messed up.”

  She rolled her eyes again. “Someday you’re going to wake up and see the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About Drake.”

  “What? I got over my awful crush on him about five years ago, in case you don’t remember. I never want to be crazy love-sick like that again.”

  “No. You’ve made that point many times. But I’m talking about Drake. The way he looks at you. The way he cares.”

  I did not want to hear that. “Drake is like my big brother! You don’t fall in love with your big brother. There’s a name for that!”

  “Hey, calm down. You don’t need to tell the whole cafeteria.” She was smiling, like she’d discovered a secret. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. Of course, if you don’t have any feelings for him, I would never want you to lead him on.”

  “You’re dead wrong, Hannie.” But I thought about the way Drake looked at me, the way he’d held me. “He’s not interested in me.”

  But he wasn’t interested in anyone else either; he’d told me that a hundred times.

  “I’m just sayin’.”

  I felt a slow blush creep up my face. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. What have you been writing lately?”

  “Oh, little mysteries à la Dorothy Sayers—remember Lord Peter Wimsey?”

  “You’re writing mysteries that take place in 1930s England?”

  “Yes! It’s a blast. I did so much research for Momma about that period in England—you know—the Duke of Windsor and Wallis Simpson. So much drama and romance. And murder too. And you don’t have to worry about DNA! I love figuring out a whodunit.” I jumped up, almost spilling my tea. “That’s it! We’ve got to write it all down. I’ll bet we know more than we think.”

  “Whoa. What?”

  I sat back down, meeting Hannah’s eyes. “Maybe we can come up with possible suspects. Help the police out a little.”

  Hannah reached for my hand. “Paige, you don’t need to protect Daddy. No one’s going to find out about The Awful Year.”

  She’d read my mind, just as Drake had. Tears pooled in my eyes, and I gripped her hand forcefully. “Just humor me please, Hannie. Please.”

  She frowned and nodded, and in those small gestures I read the full extent of her love for me, for Momma. For Daddy.

  “Well, I guess suspect number one is the wacko who wrote the new snail-mail letters.”

  “Right! Yes!” I stopped, took a bite of my muffin, fished in my backpack for my phone, scrolled down, and started typing in names. For number one, I simply wrote Wacko; for number two, I wrote Diatribe fan with fancy font and flowery background.

  Hannah sipped her coffee while I typed.

  “Remember that time the guy wrote to Momma because he said she had written about his life in her novel? And he wanted to sue her until finally Daddy proved that she had no inkling who he was?”

  Hannah nodded. “And remember when that lady showed up at the house carrying a three-pound box of saltwater taffy because one of Momma’s protags loved saltwater taffy? And Momma hates the stuff.”

  “But we didn’t.” We giggled. “Charity Mordant. That was her name.” I typed it into my phone. “Although sending saltwater taffy doesn’t exactly qualify her as a suspect.”

  “No, but remember”—Hannah’s eyes were glimmering with mischief—“Mrs. Mordant came to three different book signings in three different states, and even got Momma’s phone number, and we thought she might be a stalker!”

  “True. But she wasn’t.”

  “No, she was a really devoted fan. But let’s see if we can think of any possible stalkers from Facebook.” Hannah actually looked excited.

  So we escaped reality for a little while, pretending we were trying to solve a murder mystery in a novel. Somehow it felt less oppressive.

  “Remember when the lady said her daughter killed herself after reading Momma’s book?”

  Hannah turned away. “I don’t like to think about that one. We were just little kids, so all I know is what Momma told us. It took her weeks to recover. She even tried to see the bereaved mother, but didn’t have her name.”

  “She’s had a lot of weird things happen to her, hasn’t she? A lot of readers could have been a little off.”

  “Yeah.”

  I put my phone down. “I’ve been thinking that maybe one of her readers poured out her heart, you know, with all kinds of confidential stuff, and then realized she’d told Momma too much. And maybe decided it was too dangerous for Momma to have that information and so she had to kill her.”

  “That’s sick, Paige.”

  “I know. I know. But if that was the case, well, either you or I would have read the letter that shared the confidential stuff too.”

  “So are you suggesting we go through all those years of snail mail and email? We can’t even get through the stuff that came yesterday! And anyway, Officer Hanley still has Momma’s computer.”

  “I know, but maybe we’ll remember something.”

  Hannah started to say something else, thought better of it, and shrugged. “If there really was something confidential that someone would kill for, don’t you think we’d have remembered it already? Unless it was something less obvious. I’m going to pray that the Lord shows us if there’s something we’ve forgotten. And in the meantime, do you think we should show this list to the police?”

  “Well, actually, they’ve probably had enough of my ideas for a while. Detective Blaylock isn’t exactly thrilled with my ruminations, if you know what I mean.”

  We sat there in the comfortable chairs of Café 509, nibbling on our muffins, sipping coffee and tea, and reliving memories of Momma’s potential enemies—or overly devoted fans, I should say. And, of course, Hannah noticed how relieved I felt when we had seven names on our suspect list and not one of them was Daddy’s.

  HENRY

  Made it through work okay, and Big Dan seemed pretty pleased with the project we finished ahead of time. Before driving home, I stopped off at the library and was relieved to see that Miz Garrison wasn’t at the circulation desk. I didn’t recognize the younger woman who was there instead. I made my way back to the fiction section and sure enough, the shelf of Miz Bourdillon’s novels was still almost empty, just like before. But one book was there, a different one, and I grabbed it and probably had a ridiculous smile on my face when I set it down for the librarian to scan.

  “You and half of America are reading her books,” she commented, not really looking at me. “Did you enjoy this one?” She patted the cover of the one I was returning.

  “Mighty good. Yeah. First one of hers I’ve read.” Then I remembered that I’d told Miz Garrison I was getting the book for Libby. “Read it after my wife. Now she wants anoth
er one.”

  “Well, this one is actually my favorite, I think,” she said, as she checked it out and handed it to me. “It takes place during the Depression, but it’s very relevant for today.” She cocked her head. “Strange, isn’t it, how historical fiction can foreshadow the very future future, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Strange, yep. That’s the word.” I had thought the very same thing about the novel I just finished. Took place in the 1950s, but spoke to me as if she’d set the whole thing in my little town in present day.

  I left the library feeling real smug and comfortable to have another one of Miz Bourdillon’s books with me, but I didn’t know exactly why. When I got home I had barely cut the engine and stepped outside the cab when Libby flew out of the house and into my arms and hugged me real tight.

  “You’re my big cuddly bear!” She sounded happy. “I’m sorry I was hard on you. I know you’re worried about Jase, and you’re doing your best. You’ll take care of us. You always do. And I love you, Henry. You remember that.”

  I put my hand on her cheek real soft-like. “Thank you, Libs. I don’t deserve you one bit, but I sure love you too.”

  “We got some positive news, finally. The surgeon’s assistant called, and they’ve scheduled the surgery for Friday, so we have to take Jase in the night before. But it’s a different hospital this time. Dr. Martin said it’s one of the best in the country for heart surgery. He prefers it, since this time it’s open-heart surgery—” She stopped and sniffed. “But Jase will have the best treatment possible, and I told my boss, and he let me off for Friday and Monday. It sounds like the hospital is really nice, and it has a place for families to stay. Isn’t that great? And now that you and Birch got another job that pays so well—” She stopped again. “Henry, are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  “It’s good news, Libs, about the doctor and all. But I’m beat. Lemme take a little nap, and then you and me and Jase’ll go out to a restaurant and celebrate.”

  She wrapped her arms around me and said, “That will be perfect. Perfect.”

  I lay there in bed trying to figure it out. I shouldn’t have mentioned Birch’s name to Libby. Didn’t want him dragged into this mess. Poor Libby thought we were doing some great service for the country to earn a bunch of extra cash. I couldn’t even remember what kind of lie I’d made up.

  I wondered if I should call him, though. I figured somebody was still expecting the job to be done, the “loose end” to be tied up. Should I ask Birch what to do? Or just wait to see what happened?

  I’d wait. Well, heck, I knew how to do that. Been waiting most all my life.

  JOSEPHINE

  1976 . . . Kit stormed into the bedroom and tossed the school newspaper on the rug. “You sneaky, backstabbing excuse for a sister. . . .” And there followed a string of curse words that Josephine had never heard her sister use. “You wrote this about me, didn’t you? You thought you’d get some attention by ratting on your big sister.”

  Josephine had never seen her so furious. “Kit, I didn’t say one thing about you in the article.”

  “You might as well have just said I was an alcoholic.”

  “I wrote that paper for science class, and they asked me to shorten it and put it in the school paper. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “Right, Miss Goody-Two-shoes. As if everyone isn’t going to read it and know you were talking about me. You’re just jealous because you can’t get a date.”

  “Kit, stop it! You’ve been drinking. You don’t mean what you’re saying.”

  Kit gave a bitter laugh.

  “Everything is always about you,” Josephine pronounced in a tiny voice. Her hands were shaking, and she felt like a child. “I think you need to get help, Kit. And that has nothing to do with the article. I’m worried about you.”

  “Help? Ha! Where am I going to get ‘help’?”

  “There are loads of places, Kit.”

  “And you think our darling, sophisticated parents would put their daughter in a rehab center, and ruin their pristine reputation?”

  “Of course they would. They aren’t exactly thrilled to have a daughter who’s an alcoholic. You’re breaking their hearts.”

  Kit slapped Josephine with such force that she stumbled backward and fell against the wall. Then Kit ran to Josephine, crying, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Oh, JoJo. What is happening to me?”

  Josephine pretended her head wasn’t pounding ferociously from where she’d collided with the wall. She sank to the ground with Kit beside her and held her sister in her arms. “I write what touches my heart, Kit. What I care about. Injustice, cruelty, prejudice, addiction, depression. I know they’re upsetting things in our society, but I can’t stop writing about them. I swear I never meant to hurt you. Can’t you see? In my stories, there is always hope.”

  “I lost hope in hope a long time ago,” Kit said, chuckling a little at her play on words.

  “Then let me believe for you, Kit. I’ll help you find a place to go. I’ll explain it to Mother and Father. Please, Kit. I love you, Kit. Please.”

  Kit’s face was streaked with tears. “Do you really love me, JoJo? In spite of all the mess I’ve made of my life?”

  She hugged her big sister close. “I love you just as you are, a beautiful mess. You’re going to get through this, get stronger. . . .”

  She did love her sister, so much it caused her stomach to cramp every time Kit lay drunk on the bed. She would help her. But sometimes Josephine wondered if she carried the yoke of her sister’s defiance, if it weighed her down more than it weighed down Kit herself. Sometimes, Josephine felt she was responsible for her parents’ reputation and Kit’s sanity and a whole lot of other problems from friends who constantly confided in her. And it all felt way too heavy on her own skinny shoulders.

  Lord, I don’t know how to put down all these things I’m carrying. It seems like the wedge is growing bigger and bigger and that deep, dark hole is beckoning. But you say that your yoke is easy and your burden is light. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean at all.

  ———

  1978 . . . The yard smelled like spring, every tree boasting flamboyant blooms, the roses hanging heavy and pungent as they twisted up the latticework. The backyard overflowed with young graduates, the girls in bright floral sundresses and the boys in their khakis and polos. Her parents’ friends stood in tight groups interspersed among the high school students.

  A band played in the gazebo.

  “Your parents must be so proud, Josephine. You stole the show with your valedictory speech! And a scholarship for your writing—congratulations!”

  Josephine smiled politely at Mrs. Lincoln. She wished the movement would travel down to her heart and her gut, but they were fluttering with fear. Kit had called last night to report on her latest modeling excursions in Venice. Her parents had begged her weeks ago to come home for Josephine’s graduation, but if Kit even remembered the date, she made no reference to it on the phone. “Venice is a dream world, JoJo. You should come on over.”

  Kit’s modeling career had started after high school and took her first to New York and then to Paris. And though Kit only confided the truth of this pseudo glamourous career to Josephine, her parents weren’t fooled. Josephine watched them shrink more and more into their isolated lives, a smile pasted on her mother’s face as she described Kit’s life in the best possible light. In truth, as Kit’s letters to Josephine revealed, Kit was in self-destruct mode. Drugs, boys, fashion, self-absorption.

  “Doing okay, Miss Josy?”

  Josephine turned to see Terence, impeccably dressed in his tux, sweat beading on his forehead, his snow-white hair a mass of tiny curls. He held a tray filled with cheese straws and little cucumber sandwiches cut in triangles.

  She reached out and took his free hand. “Oh, Terence. You know I’m not. Kit is killing herself, and that is killing Mother and Father. And they fight all the time.” She felt her eyes brim
with tears.

  Terence squeezed her hand and looked her in the eyes, his so dark and full of love. “Miss Josy. This is your party. All these folks are here to celebrate you. So for this night, I’m asking the good Lord to help you forget about Kit and enjoy what is here. You deserve that, young lady. Ain’t nothing you can do about Kit tonight, angel.”

  ———

  1979 . . . The ski camp with her college church group during spring break was supposed to be fun, but she’d had such dark thoughts pursuing her for the last weeks. Bad news from home, from Kit, and not a date in sight. While her hall mates primped in their beautiful gowns, preparing for the spring formal, Josephine locked herself away in the library.

  Here in the mountains of Colorado, she felt surrounded by hyperbole—the brightest white snow, the boldest cobalt blue skies, the deepest green firs, their branches peeking out under the heavy sleeves of snow. Josephine fell to her knees and cried out to God. “Help me, Lord! Help me leave the guilt and helplessness behind!”

  That evening, as the students gathered around a bonfire, she watched Marcia, the beautiful thirtysomething chaperone, smiling with warmth and joy into the night. The next day Josephine rode on the ski lift with her and found her to be a fascinating, wise, and godly woman, an artist who exuded compassion. Josephine felt it so strongly, a tug in her spirit. God had put Marcia in her path to help her.

  Heart hammering forcefully, Josephine made her lips pronounce the words. “Marcia, could I talk to you sometime . . . about some things . . . things about faith? I mean, could we maybe meet for lunch or coffee once in a while when I get back to school?”

  She felt her face turn scarlet, but Marcia, eyes soft and deep, said, “I’d like that, Josephine. I’d like that very much.”

  Their weekly meetings were a gift, a great gift, and gradually Marcia helped her understand how to let go of the burdens, helped her redirect her spiraling thoughts, pointed her more fully to Christ, encouraged her to meditate on Scripture, to let God’s Word tape over the cruel voices that played like a cassette in her mind. The voices didn’t go away completely, but she learned to recognize them sooner, to prepare herself for the mental fight. And she learned that she could not fix her family.