When I Close My Eyes

by Elizabeth Musser

  What had happened? My head had that crushing pain. I was thirsty. I closed my eyes and saw the man crying and saying he was so sorry he shot me. He shot me?

  Or had someone shot me during The Awful Year? Was that our secret, Patrick? Was that why I was here now?

  PAIGE

  When Detective Blaylock arrived, Aunt Kit left with Milton for a walk, casting confused glances over her shoulder as Milton dragged her out the back door, far away from the crowd out front. Hannah hurried the detective inside before the press could snap any photos.

  Now Detective Blaylock sat across from me in the den in an oversized tan leather chair. I was tucked under a blanket on the couch. Hannah had fixed the detective a cup of coffee, and I had my chai. A plateful of pastries sat on the glass-topped coffee table and a fire crackled in the fireplace as if this were merely a cozy visit between friends.

  “How are you feeling today, Paige?” he began, reaching for a chocolate-covered macaroon. He took a bite and then a long sip of the coffee. His eyes were red and his uniform crumpled. I wondered if he’d slept at all.

  “It’s all a bit surreal.”

  “You’re a brave kid.” I thought I saw a hint of admiration in his tired eyes. “A face-off with three armed policemen.”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, it was all a bit surreal. I was trying to protect Momma. I was afraid she could be accidentally shot.”

  He nodded.

  “And,” I added, taking a long sip of chai and not meeting his eyes, “I was afraid they’d kill Henry.”

  “Henry? You’re on a first-name basis with him?”

  “We met in the ICU waiting room Monday night. I’ve talked with him a few times. And with his wife, Libby.”

  “That’s right. The officer with you last night told me you stayed with their sick son while Mrs. Hughes was questioned.” He stared out the picture window. Then he set down his coffee, hunched over his knees, deep in thought, and shook his head, as if clearing it of a few cobwebs.

  I nibbled my lip, managed to glance up at him. “I guess I felt sorry for them. Their situation.” Now I let my gaze wander to the blazing fire. If I closed my eyes I was thirteen again and the youth were sandwiched into every spot of this room, singing praise choruses while snowflakes crystallized on the windows. And Drake was sitting next to me.

  “Henry admitted he shot Momma, but he said he was hired to do it. So I guess I reacted to that instinctively. I mean, what good would it be to kill him without knowing who hired him?”

  “Exactly.” Detective Blaylock actually smiled at me. “But just so you know, once Henry put down his gun, my men weren’t going to shoot.”

  I gave a halfhearted grin. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

  The conversation felt lethargic, as if the detective were slowly pulling a rope of information out of me, hand over hand, and I was unwinding, with no strength to resist. Why would I resist?

  “Paige, can you recall exactly what Henry said to you and then to your mother? It’d be helpful to have your testimony.” His digital recorder sat on the coffee table waiting for my answer.

  “He confessed. I mean, he literally confessed his guilt to Momma.” I couldn’t banish the image of Henry in the cafeteria asking me those questions—questions that held the meaning of life—and then the image of him beside Momma’s bed, pleading for her to answer the same things. “He’s desperate for his son, but he also just seems desperate for life. And he’s been reading Momma’s books. He told her he’s read two of them and is halfway through another.” As best I could remember, I related my conversation with Henry in the cafeteria.

  Detective Blaylock furrowed his brow, fidgeted as usual, looked like he was trying to decide about something, and finally said, “We’ve found out more about the guy—Henry Hughes.”

  “Does he have a record?”

  “Not much of one. But his father did. Small-time crook. And he was shot during a convenience-store heist—right in front of his son. Henry’s mother had died a few years earlier.”

  “That’s . . . that’s horrible.”

  “Yes, it is. Henry grew up around violence. And he’s got a sick son. Needs money. Evidently his son has had a lifetime of heart surgeries.”

  I was processing this information and placing it alongside the man I’d gotten to know. “So he hired himself out to save his son. But that doesn’t help us figure out who hired him.”

  “He claims he doesn’t know. Says his contact is the middleman in this affair.”

  “Poor Henry!” I whimpered. My head was pounding, and I buried it in my hands.

  The detective didn’t say anything.

  Massaging my temples, I said, “Yeah. I know it seems crazy, but this whole scenario is crazy, Detective Blaylock. I don’t really know why I feel protective of poor Henry and Libby and Jase. I just wish I could help them.”

  “He won’t say a word about the person who hired him. Says the guy has threatened his son, and Henry believes he’ll follow through. He’s terrified.” He cleared his voice, cocked his head, tugged on his beard. “Would you be willing to talk to him, Paige? See if he might open up with you?”

  I brightened and straightened up. “Sure! I can do that. Sure!”

  “You might be able to ask questions in a way that takes him off guard.” Detective Blaylock winked at me. “You’re real good at that.”

  I thought the interview was over, but we were only at an intermission. He checked his cell phone and said, “Paige, your father is coming back here, and he’d like to have a conversation with you and Hannah and the young man, Drake, about those months when your mother was away during The Awful Year.”

  I bristled. “What about it?” When he didn’t answer immediately, I said, “Is Daddy a suspect?”

  He reached over and took my shoulder. “Paige.” His eyes bore into me. A long pause. “Put your mind at rest. Your father is not a suspect.”

  Not a suspect, but he had kept all those letters and not told the police about them and now he was coming to “have a conversation” with us. What did it all mean?

  Detective Blaylock continued to look me in the eyes. “Paige, your father wants to tell you the real story. . . .”

  I felt a chill zip up my back. The real story? What has he been keeping from us?

  “And who will stay with Momma?”

  “I believe your Aunt Kit is heading back to the hospital. And your neighbor is there.”

  I groaned. “You should talk to Aunt Kit. She’s the strangest person in the whole family.”

  “Oh, I have, Paige. You’re right. She’s a very interesting character.” He chuckled, then added, “I’m heading back to the station.” He left the den, then reappeared a moment later, reminding me again of Columbo. “One more thing—I’ll have an officer pick you up tomorrow afternoon and bring you down to the station to talk with Henry. Will that work for you?”

  “That will work,” I answered, but the enthusiasm I’d felt about meeting with Henry had evaporated, replaced by dread of what my father was going to tell us now.

  ———

  When Drake and Hannah and Daddy arrived back home they joined me in the den, me with my cup of chai, the others with mugs of coffee. Daddy looked like an elderly stranger as he began to talk, hunched over his coffee, his eyes turned down. Hannah, Drake, and I huddled together on the couch and listened to his monologue.

  “I came home from work early . . . at noon. I planned to surprise your mother with a lunch date before we headed to the airport at two. But when I walked into the house, Milton was whining and pawing at the door. You know how anxious he always gets when he sees your mother packing her bags. I just patted him and called out to let her know I was home, but there was no answer. I started up the stairs to The Chalet, expecting to find her trying to answer one last piece of fan mail, and Milton tried to block my way.

  “But she wasn’t there, and by now Milton was barking at me. He bounded back down the stairs ahead of me and into our bedroom. I found y
our mother in bed, and at first I thought she was just taking a nap. Then I saw the way her arm was hanging over the bed, the bottles on the bedside table. . . .”

  “Oh, Daddy,” I whispered.

  “I called 911 in a panic and carried her downstairs to wait for the ambulance. Once I knew she was going to survive, I hurried back from the hospital, determined to clean everything up before you girls got home from school. My worst nightmare had come true, except—” Daddy paused, finally raised his head and looked at us one by one, his eyes all glassy with tears. “She hadn’t died. I marveled at the timing. If I hadn’t come home early . . . I decided I would make up a story, anything except the truth. Anything except that Feeny had tried to take her own life.

  “I hadn’t been able to protect her enough before. But now, now I could protect her from the aftermath. I decided not to tell anyone else, except Mamie and Papy. You girls would think your mother was at The Motte, taking a break as she always did after a novel came out.”

  Daddy’s voice kind of petered out for a moment, and I could see in his eyes that he was reliving the whole horrible incident. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter and continued. “She stayed at the hospital in Asheville for a week, until she was stabilized. Then I enrolled her in a mental health facility near Knoxville that offered a three-month treatment program for women suffering from depression or other mental illnesses.

  “I was allowed to visit her often. The program encouraged the family to take part in the healing, and I felt torn. Should I bring you girls into it? Perhaps I was wrong to keep it a secret.”

  In Daddy’s eyes I read a desperate plea for us to understand his dilemma. I did understand and felt sick to my stomach. But before I could reassure him, he kept going with the story.

  “I was trying to protect your mother. I was absent from you girls, and that made everything even worse than it had been during that truly awful year.”

  He took a long, low breath and let the air out slowly. Then he wiped his hands over his face and sat back in the wing chair. I started to say something, and Hannah rose to go over to him, but he shook his head and said, “Let me finish, kids. I need to tell it all, at last.”

  I braced myself. Were there worse secrets to be revealed?

  “I started drinking. I missed some important deadlines at work. Then I got the DUI. I didn’t seek help—from the Lord or from others. I thought keeping the secret was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t.

  “Your mother needed me to be near her, but so did you girls.” Daddy met our eyes again and said, “I’m so sorry. So very sorry about it all.”

  ———

  Daddy wasn’t away on business or “gallivanting,” as Aunt Kit had accused. He was trying to save Momma.

  Because Momma had tried to kill herself.

  That was Daddy’s secret, the one that made him stop smiling. He was living with the knowledge that his wife had attempted suicide. And he feared that if he didn’t protect her from everyone and everything, if he didn’t make her well, she might try it again.

  My parents rarely argued, and never in front of us, and Daddy had the softest voice. Momma said it always surprised her to see him so competitive and almost ferocious playing soccer, since he was kind and even-tempered off the field. For all my growing-up years, he had played on a local amateur team, just for fun. He’d dreamed of playing on a professional team when he was young. According to Momma, he had the talent but had sacrificed the dream for her because she didn’t do well when he was away.

  She’d get a little teary whenever she’d tell this, and Daddy would look at her tenderly, with the sweetest smile, and what I read in his eyes was his great love for Momma and how he didn’t think of it as a sacrifice at all.

  But I thought of that word sacrifice a lot.

  I grew up seeing my parents sacrifice for each other in lots of little ways and some great big ones. I didn’t know as a child if those sacrifices were wise or foolish, but I knew one thing. My parents knew a lot about real, deep-down love. They knew it hurt, they knew it cost something valuable, they knew it was worth keeping.

  But now I understood the full extent of Daddy’s sacrifice. I had been right. Daddy had loved too much.

  I didn’t realize until he finished telling us the story that I was clutching Drake’s hand, fiercely clutching it, and resting my head on Hannah’s shoulder. Daddy gave a huge sigh, wiped his face with his hands again, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry we never told you before. We thought it was for the best. I’m so sorry, kids. I’m going to tell Aunt Kit tonight. I just . . . I just wanted to share it with you three first.”

  I read sorrow and relief in those soft brown eyes. As one, Hannah and Drake and I got up and surrounded him. When he stood up, we engulfed one another in a tight and desperate hug.

  HENRY

  They fed me some lunch and a lady brought me my meds and sat there watching as I popped them into my mouth. One was for my PTSD, I knew, but the others were the same as they’d given me the night before to calm me down. She stuck her finger in my mouth to make sure I swallowed them down. Of course I did. Wasn’t any need for me to be holding my Glock anymore.

  I wondered about a lawyer. I figured we’d need one real bad, but we sure didn’t have money for that. But then I remembered the detective said the state would get me someone if I needed.

  They took everything from me—the Glock, of course, and my phone and my keys and my wallet. I wondered if there was any way the police could figure out which phone number was my contact’s. Kept thinking about the instructions Nick gave me and the way he shouted at me over the phone the other day. I still thought it was real strange that a woman wanted Miz Bourdillon dead. And saying, “Take her life and let it be consecrated,” or whatever. Even when Nick was shouting that at me, I recognized those words. They were from a song they sang at Libby’s church. I thought it was pretty strange that whoever hired me knew about that hymn. For sure they did, because no way would someone say those words who hadn’t ever heard the song. And why would anybody want Miz Bourdillon dead in the first place?

  Ended up surprising myself by praying that somehow, whoever had the idea to kill Miz Bourdillon would step out of the shadows and into the light.

  JOSEPHINE

  2007 . . . Josephine held the familiar-looking pink envelope, pink like cotton candy or summer roses or a child’s barrette. It looked light and delicate and innocent. But she knew what was inside. A voice of wisdom in her head said she shouldn’t open it. She ignored it.

  You think you’ve hidden it so well, but you know you’re guilty! It’s your fault she died! I’ve told you to stop writing your stories before someone else hurts themselves! Why don’t you just take your life like my daughter did? That would solve all our problems!

  The words on the paper blurred as she sank into the leather sofa and listened to deafening silence.

  You know you’re guilty.

  Yes. Yes, she did. Guilty of a thousand lies that swarmed around her like bees. It was too complicated, twisting and turning in her mind.

  The tunnel got dark again. She wasn’t reasoning well. She wasn’t reasoning at all.

  What was it she was guilty of? It felt so nebulous and yet so real. Yes, she was guilty. She was guilty of not being good enough for her parents, for Kit, for readers, for Patrick and the girls; she was guilty of not being perfect. The darkness grew, and she couldn’t see God’s forgiveness or grace. The hole increased.

  She looked at the letter. Why don’t you just take your life!

  But that was her mother’s legacy. How could she put her family through such grief?

  She couldn’t do it.

  Or could she? Of course she could!

  In the darkness, she knew it would be better, so much better for those she loved if she were not alive.

  The idea landed so gently in her mind that she thought it was a gift. And once she had the plan in place, the darkness lifted, not toward t
he light, exactly, but to a neutral gray. A calm in the eye of the storm. She had a plan. She would not torture her family or herself anymore.

  Josephine gathered pills, she wrote letters to Patrick and the girls. She slowly removed the beautiful Huguenot cross and put it into an envelope for Paige. And she felt relief, such great relief.

  And Jesus, forgive me, but I will soon be with you.

  ———

  It was a miracle that Patrick found her alive. She had planned it carefully, done her research as a good novelist should. But he found her, he saved her, and he spent his sanity on resurrecting hers. From the hospital ICU to the inpatient treatment center and the therapist and beyond, he was there.

  Patrick succumbed to exhaustion and stress. The girls felt the terrible strain in those months alone with him, but they had no idea of the truth. He created a lie, refused to let anyone know what Josephine had done. He feared the publicity from this suicide attempt would send her right back to death’s door and beyond. When she was lucid enough to talk to the girls on the phone, she listened to them sob about their daddy being angry and absent and forgetful.

  They never told the girls what really happened.

  But they lived with a lie that weighed them down.

  PAIGE

  After Daddy’s confession, Hannah left for the hospital, but I just sat numb on the couch in the den, staring at the TV screen. The media’s coverage of my family was nonstop, showing video clips of downtown Asheville where the shooting occurred and then of reporters and fans outside the hospital as Momma lay in her coma. And of course, over and over and over, the video of Henry and Momma and me and the police.

  Predictably, the American people reacted as they always did with big news stories. Everyone had a right to voice an opinion, and many did so with vitriol. It seemed that the craziness of the past hours had only escalated as people screamed their accusations at Henry Hughes over every possible social media platform. Some even paraded in front of the police station where Henry was being kept, holding up signs demanding the death penalty.

  Who were these people? Surely not Momma’s beloved readers who wrote heartfelt letters about how her books had changed their lives. Thank goodness Momma couldn’t see the rage on their faces or read their cruel words! Were people so fickle? Or was this a mass of humanity who simply needed a fight, any fight, and who used the public arena to air their private anguish? I didn’t know, but something was brewing in my mind.