When I Close My Eyes

by Elizabeth Musser

  “So all along you thought Momma hired Henry!” My daughter sounded so belligerent, so angry.

  At that moment, Drake took her hand, much like Patrick was holding mine. He must have given her hand a squeeze, because she turned to him, saw the expression on his face, and her face relaxed the slightest bit.

  “I did. Yes. How in the world could I say that to the police?”

  “Oh, Daddy! You were protecting Momma, just as I thought. And now I know why—protecting her from the past and from the present.”

  I thought I saw Paige wipe a tear out of the corner of her eye.

  “You’re right again, Paige. Right about everything. Except that when I found the letters and the cross where they should have been, well, I felt a sliver of doubt. And now, I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Patrick came and knelt beside my wheelchair. “Sweetie, I think that you’re confusing what happened a month ago with what happened years ago, during The Awful Year.” I detected a strain of hope in his voice.

  I was too tired to argue so I whispered in my garbled way, “Maybe. I don’t know.” Did I write those letters? Did Angel cry out Take my life? Or did I? Did we both? Perhaps we would never know. And what about Patrick and Kit? That I could know, but I was much too afraid to ask.

  “I don’t understand at all!” Paige said. “This is weird. And very confusing.”

  Patrick nodded. “I agree. I’m so sorry, Paige. We’ll discuss it more soon, I promise. But right now, I think your mother needs to rest.”

  The expression on my daughter’s face showed anger and confusion and resignation. Drake had his arms around her as they left the room. Again, I read kindness and understanding in his eyes. Patrick stayed with me for another hour, holding me close and patting my hands, a low sob escaping every now and then.

  Right before he left the room I said, “Truth.”

  “Yes, Feeny. This time we’re going to tell the truth. We will figure out what is the truth and then we’ll tell it. No matter what.”

  ———

  I slept from eight that evening till noon the next day, and when I awoke, Kit was sitting by my bed with the same questions in her eyes. Now I understood.

  I gathered my strength and forced my voice to pronounce the words. “You and Patrick.”

  She wilted. “I was furious and jealous. You were turning me away. I was desperate. You have always been right. I was jealous of all you had. I wanted to make you suffer, JoJo. I wanted to drive you crazy with worry.”

  “It worked.” I had so much else I wanted to tell her, to explain. But those two words were all I could pronounce, and when I did, her face fell with a grief that no plastic surgeon could lift.

  “Oh, JoJo! I pushed you over the edge! I wanted you to feel as much pain as I was feeling. I was so selfish. I am so selfish.” She began to cry in her theatrical way.

  I did nothing but stare at her.

  She wiped her perfectly manicured finger under her eye and sat up straight. When she spoke again, her voice was calm. “But it wasn’t true. Patrick has only and always had eyes for you.”

  I repeated those words in my mind, like a favorite hymn. Patrick has only and always had eyes for you.

  Kit whispered, “I’m so sorry, JoJo! I’m so sorry.” She reached for my hand and when she looked at me, I saw the Kit of my childhood, her eyes bright and pure and loving. “This whole thing has been a wake-up call for me. Finally. I’ve realized a little more about the depth of what you had been struggling with for so many years. Can you ever forgive me, JoJo?”

  I sat for a long time without even trying to pronounce a word, just soaking in the depths of those bewitching eyes, so hurt, so confused, and now so filled with remorse and love.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  One word was all that I managed, but perhaps it lifted a lifetime of guilt from Kit’s shoulders. I don’t know.

  ———

  Two days later, I had finished my physical therapy session for the morning, and Patrick had bundled me up in my wheelchair under a mound of blankets and pushed me out into the rehab center’s beautiful greenhouse. The air was chilly but so refreshing. My favorite place to sit was in the section of the greenhouse overflowing with every imaginable type of orchid. We’d invited Detective Blaylock to join us there, intent on sharing what was sure to be a shocking revelation to him. Patrick had scooted the chair right up beside a flower I was admiring and placed my hand on a delicate petal. I felt the velvety, almost silky texture and mumbled, “Perfect.”

  The detective found us in the greenhouse, and by the look on his face I knew he had something to share with us too.

  We followed him back into my room. Patrick got me settled and comfortable and fixed the detective and himself a cup of coffee. We had grown to respect and even care for Detective Blaylock. He never shared much about his private life, but over the course of the weeks we’d known him, it became clear that he lived for his work. On this day, his dark eyes were red with fatigue, but his excitement was tangible.

  “I wanted to talk to you both about all those threatening letters. We’ve got a match on some of the fingerprints. Finally.” He took a sip of coffee and brushed his hand through his beard. “It took quite some digging, but we’ve got a name. Minnie Shorer.”

  Patrick shrugged. “That doesn’t ring a bell for me.” He was sitting right next to my wheelchair, and he took my hand and asked, “Feeny, do you know someone named Minnie Shorer? A reader?”

  I blinked No, but Detective Blaylock was not finished. “I don’t imagine that name means much. But we found another name that she goes by. Charity Mordant. Do you know anyone by that name?”

  I could not make quick movements, but I felt my heartbeat quicken. I nodded slowly.

  “She’s one of Jo’s biggest fans,” Patrick confirmed. “Comes to many, many of her signings. Or at least she used to.” He glanced at me. “And she was at one in Atlanta recently, too, I believe.”

  Detective Blaylock flipped through his little notebook. “She was arrested in 2008 for child abuse—evidently she physically attacked her ten-year-old grandson. She’s been in and out of psychiatric hospitals the last five years. She was most recently released last July. And Charity, or actually Minnie, lost a daughter to suicide about fifteen years ago.”

  Oh no.

  “Her fingerprints were found on the threatening letters you’ve received over the years, and on these last three. And it was her phone number that we found on both Henry’s and your cells. We’re going to bring her in for questioning.”

  The detective and Patrick kept talking, but I was seeing Charity again and again and again. Coming to my signings in three different states, bringing me gifts, calling me now and then on the phone and even showing up at our house—which had been a little unsettling at the time.

  “Do you hear that, Feeny?” Patrick’s voice was jubilant. “Feeny, do you understand what this means?”

  Detective Blaylock furrowed his brow, glanced from Patrick to me with a question in his eyes, but Patrick was laughing, laughing, and shaking the detective’s hand, pumping it up and down, up and down, and saying, “Thank you! How can we thank you enough for all your work? This is amazing news! Wonderful news.”

  “Of course it’s wonderful news,” Detective Blaylock said, seemingly bewildered that Patrick would need to state the obvious.

  Patrick let go of the detective’s hand and said, “I’ll explain it to you, sir. This changes everything. Everything!”

  When he left the room with Detective Blaylock, I had completely floated away from the conversation and regressed into someone who could not make a sound come out of my mouth while a concoction of confusion and hope settled into my soul.

  PAIGE

  I hadn’t slept much since Momma’s talk with Henry and the whole crazy incident about the rainbow folder. All kinds of emotions paraded through my mind: that deep anger, even hate, that had surfaced, the guilt at my part in the whole affair, the acceptance of what Momma had done, a
nd then the possibility that she hadn’t done anything at all. I lay awake at night and wondered how in the world my mother’s life had suddenly become a riveting whodunit, complete with totally unexpected plot twists.

  But Daddy was giddy—that word perfectly described his mood.

  Still Charity Mordant had not admitted to anything, so while Daddy celebrated, I figuratively held my breath and spent several nights tossing and turning.

  When Detective Blaylock brought Charity in for questioning at the police station, he videotaped the whole interrogation and asked Daddy and me to watch it the next day.

  I recognized her immediately, not only as the woman I saw on several occasions when I was a girl, but also from her appearance at one of Momma’s speaking events during the past summer. She was a hefty woman, dressed in a brightly colored floral pantsuit with plenty of gaudy accessories. She plopped down in the chair, her face flushed, and began to fan herself with her hand.

  After a few minutes of basic questions, Detective Blaylock pulled out a stack of pink stationery. “We know that you wrote these letters. Your fingerprints are all over them.”

  She looked defiant. “And since when is it against the law to write letters to an author?”

  “Not against the law, ma’am, but you have to admit, when the letters coincide with the timing of an assassination attempt, well, that brings questions.”

  “Assassination attempt! I had nothing to do with that!” Her eyes were wide and afraid.

  Detective Blaylock ignored that, and said, “Until recently, Josephine Bourdillon hadn’t heard from you since 2007. Why exactly did you write these three letters?”

  Charity was sweating profusely, pushing her permed hair off her forehead. “Josephine just kept writing, and she didn’t pay any attention to me, and I knew someone would get hurt. I knew it! I was just trying to warn her, that’s all! And you see? I was right!”

  “I believe the first letter you wrote to Mrs. Bourdillon claimed that one of her novels put suicidal thoughts in your daughter’s head. We got a search warrant for your house, Mrs. Mordant, and we found several of Mrs. Bourdillon’s novels there. All of them signed by the author. We found the novel you were referring to and passages had been underlined with notations—threatening notations—on the side. In your handwriting. This is pretty convincing evidence of some type of involvement.”

  Charity stood up, shaking her head from side to side. “No, no, no!”

  “What did you tell Nick Lupton, Charity?”

  She sat back down, clutched her hands together and leaned over the table. “I don’t know a Nick Lupton! I swear it!”

  “What about Henry Hughes? You tried to call him on the day he was taken to jail.”

  She looked surprised, then recovered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  Charity’s confused and slightly jovial appearance changed drastically with the detective’s last statement. Her face grew hard, and she stood up and said, “I want to speak to my lawyer.”

  In that moment she looked and sounded different, like someone who could be dangerous.

  When Daddy and I finished watching that video, I was sweating as profusely as Charity, but Daddy began pacing around the room. It took him several minutes to compose himself. “Don’t you see, Paige? It really was this woman. She hired Nick Lupton, who hired Henry. It wasn’t your mother. Feeny didn’t do it. She didn’t do it.”

  And even though she had yet to admit to the crime, I agreed that the evidence pointed strongly to Charity Mordant.

  It was the twist in our story that I hadn’t expected. When I’d found supposed proof of Momma’s guilt, I’d been devastated, and I could not have imagined the wonder I now felt at her innocence. Momma had often commented when writing one of her stories, “Truth is stranger than fiction, you know, Paige.”

  Indeed.

  MID-DECEMBER

  HENRY

  Two months after I went to prison, Libby and Jase moved out of the trailer. Libby found herself a good job about twenty minutes away from the prison and a nice apartment not too far from her work. She even found a new church that she and Jase like real well. That church’s got something called a prison ministry, and some of those folks come and see me pretty often. I like their visits.

  I enjoy lots of things about life now. Isn’t that something to say in prison? But I take my meds, and I have a routine, and I’m even studying to get my high school degree. They’ve got courses you can take right from prison. Study the Bible, too, with the chaplain and a lot of other men like me, the ones who are sorry and repentant.

  My lawyer is hopeful about the judge lessening my sentence when my case goes to trial since I gave information about Nick. I guess we can always hope.

  Jase goes back to Mission Hospital about every month to get a checkup and so far his heart just keeps on doing what it’s supposed to. He’s still a little bit scrawny, but that doesn’t matter, because Libs says he eats enough to feed a horse. So I know he’ll be putting on weight eventually. Sometimes he comes with Libs for a visit. I’ve started talking real soft-like to my boy, and when he looks at me I don’t see fear in his eyes. He doesn’t look ashamed either. Just corn-puddin’ happy to see me.

  I was dang-blasted surprised with what they found out about Miz Bourdillon and that woman who hired Nick. Sure glad I never said nothing about what I suspected. But one time when Paige came for a visit, she told me that she’d thought it was her mom, too, and so did her dad, and Miz Bourdillon even thought it herself. Paige told me about the letters her mother wrote and the first attempt. I was real sorry about that.

  And she told me about the woman, Charity Mordant, and how she tried to drive Miz Bourdillon crazy with her threats, but in the end she decided she’d hire someone to kill her. Nick’s the one who told it to the police. Had all the proof the police needed to arrest her. I sure was glad Nick knew how to keep all that information. When Paige explained it to me, I told her how Charity was right clever, how she’d used the words in Miz Bourdillon’s own novel against her as part of the instructions she gave to Nick.

  So Charity and Nick and me, we’re all in jail, awaiting our trials.

  I don’t know how it’ll turn out for me, but I’m really glad it wasn’t Miz Bourdillon after all. Felt some kind of huge relief when I learned all that.

  Libby likes Paige a lot. So does Jase. He doesn’t get to see her real often, but he talks about her. He even remembers her reading to him in the hospital when he wasn’t out of that coma.

  Libby got a check from Miz Bourdillon to cover all of Jase’s past and present medical expenses. When she told me about it, well, I couldn’t quite take it in. Now Miz Bourdillon was being like Jesus to us, and I had the hardest time wrapping my mind around the twisted way it all came about. Didn’t really have any way to say thank you.

  When Jase found out about what she’d done, he said, “This is like what you mean, Papa, about good coming out of evil, isn’t it?”

  We’d told Jase about what I did. We decided it was the right thing to do.

  “The way you got to know her was for a bad reason, but now she’s our friend and she is helping us.”

  Libby says he’s precocious. She says it means he’s got soul smarts. He sees deep. Well, maybe so. He’s been through enough to have earned that, I guess.

  PAIGE

  Hannah came back home for Christmas break. I sat in between Drake and her on the couch, in front of a roaring fire. A huge fir stood regally decorated in one corner of the family room. Snow fell outside the picture windows, and we watched the mountains change clothes from drab brown to wedding-dress white. Our stockings hung on the hearth: Momma, Daddy, Hannah, Paige, Milton, Drake, Kit.

  Daddy wheeled Momma into the family room, right beside the fireplace. He pulled the leather armchair beside her and sat down in it, taking her hand. Milton padded in from the kitchen and plopped down right in front of Daddy. Aunt Kit was in the kitchen preparing wha
t she called “a wonderfully festive, nonalcoholic drink.”

  She served us as Daddy turned on the TV so that we could watch the evening news together. We knew what was coming.

  Lucy Brant was dressed in a dark burgundy designer suit. She was reviewing what had happened in the past two months—the shooting in October, Momma’s week in a coma, Henry taking me hostage at gunpoint, his arrest, the continuing search for the person who had hired Henry, Momma’s gradual but remarkable recovery, and then Charity Mordant’s arrest in late November when Nick Lupton provided evidence of her involvement, along with the evidence the police already had.

  “Now, Josephine Bourdillon, the beloved author, has released a statement to the public.” The camera switched from Lucy to footage of Daddy and Momma, sitting on the couch in our family room. The news channel had filmed it the day before.

  With Momma looking on, Daddy read a statement that I had written from Momma’s point of view. Creating it was slow work, as I would craft a sentence or two and read it back to Momma to make sure I’d expressed her thoughts correctly. It had taken the better part of a week. The shooting had thrust her into the public eye, and she wanted to take advantage of this opportunity to talk about depression and its effects.

  “Although Josephine has no memory of the shooting, she does remember what happened in the months and years prior to the incident,” Daddy was saying on the screen. “Josephine, with the help of our daughter, Paige, has written a statement that she would like me to read to the public on her behalf.” He cleared his throat and began.

  “‘I am overwhelmed with thankfulness for all your many expressions of kindness to me and my family in these past two months. Your prayers and notes and actions have been a great source of strength for me and my family and encouraged me on this long road toward recovery.

  “‘Now I would like to share a little bit more of my personal story, my journey, with the prayer and desire that it may be of help to some of you.