Close Your Eyes. Amanda Eyre Ward

her way through the house. It was empty and smelled a bit like mold. If the homeowners were my clients, I would have put a simmering pan of apple cider on the stove.

      ‘Whoa!’ said Liz. We followed her voice and found her in a top-of-the-line kitchen. Stainless-steel fixtures, Corian counter-tops, stained concrete floor. ‘This is amazing,’ she said. ‘Look, hon, if I’m washing dishes, I can see the trees!’ She mimed scrubbing a pot, gazing at the large backyard. Mitch stood behind her and put his arms around her waist. She leaned in to him. ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said.

      Mitch kissed the top of her head.

      Out of nowhere, I felt a panic attack coming on. ‘I’ll be right back,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds.’ I walked quickly, finding a bathroom off the master and slipping in, shutting and locking the door. In the mirror, my face was very pale. I sat down and put my head between my knees. I concentrated on my breathing.

      ‘Lauren?’ said Mitch. He was knocking, hard.

      ‘Okay,’ I said, standing and brushing dust off my pants. ‘I’m fine. There’s an oversize tub. Chrome-plated faucets!’

      ‘You’ve been in the bathroom for, like, a half hour,’ called Liz. ‘Um, I’ve got to get back to work.’

      ‘Right, right,’ I said. I unlocked the bathroom door and opened it. I smiled as brightly as I could. ‘So, looks like we’ve got some Kohler bathroom fixtures.’

      ‘Have you been crying?’ said Mitch.

      ‘No,’ I said. But when I touched my face, it was wet.

      ‘Thanks for showing us the house,’ said Liz. She was holding Mitch’s hand. ‘We’ll, um, we’ll be in touch.’

      ‘Great!’ I said. ‘Awesome.’ I followed them out of the house and returned the key to the lockbox. I waved as they made their way down the street. Then I called Gerry.

      ‘I am going crazy,’ I said when he answered.

      ‘What?’ said Gerry. ‘Where are you?’

      ‘Texas Avenue and Liberty Street,’ I said. ‘I’m having a heart – or a panic – attack. Maybe both.’ But just being on the phone with Gerry made me feel calmer.

      ‘It’s okay, honey,’ said Gerry. ‘I love you. Do you want me to come get you?’

      I lay down on the lawn underneath a coffee tree. ‘I’m sober, I swear,’ I said. ‘The sky is very bright.’

      ‘Good God,’ said Gerry, laughing.

      ‘I’m scared, honey,’ I said.

      After a while, I heard a car pull up. When I opened my eyes, Gerry was standing above me, his sweet face blocking the sun. ‘Get up from underneath that tree,’ he said.

      ‘Or maybe you should join me,’ I said.

      Gerry lay down. I rolled on my side and rested my head on his shoulder. ‘What happened?’ he said.

      ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I kind of blacked out.’

      ‘Are you all right now?’

      ‘I guess,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to stay here a while, if that’s okay with you.’

      ‘It’s a Wednesday afternoon,’ said Gerry. ‘I think this is the perfect place to be.’

      I lay back and he touched his head to mine. We watched the blue, blue sky.

      ‘I’m going to therapy,’ I said. ‘I’ll fix this. My brain, I mean.’

      ‘This is a very comfortable lawn,’ commented Gerry. His lips were close to my ear, and his words made me turn and kiss him.

      ‘Do you think you’ll still love me when I’m not crazy?’ I said.

      ‘Yes,’ said Gerry.

       Chapter 6

      I went on the Blue Cross Blue Shield website and found a list of therapists in Austin. Because she was located down the street from Texas French Bread, which had great coffee, I called to make an appointment with Jane Stafford, MA, LPC. On her answering machine, Jane’s voice was warm. She sounded like my college friend Amy’s mother, who used to send packages of homemade chocolate-chip cookies. As I left a message, I remembered how Amy was always worried about her weight so gave the treats to me. I used to nibble while I studied, cookies and Diet Coke.

      While I waited for Jane to call back, I google-searched my symptoms. According to WebMD.com, it seemed I might have OCD, ADD, or generalized anxiety disorder. Perhaps it could be disassociation.

      Jane called back, and I told her about my self-diagnosis. ‘Are you free next Wednesday morning, September twenty-fourth, four P.M.?’ she asked.

      ‘Um,’ I said, ‘yes, yes, sure.’

      ‘I look forward to meeting you, Lauren,’ she said.

      ‘Me, too,’ I said. Then I hung up and wondered why I had said Me, too, and what Jane Stafford would make of that.

      Gerry finished his latest podcast an hour later, and when he came inside, I told him about my appointment. He gave me a hug and then said, ‘Put on your flip-flops. Two-for-one kebab night at Fatoosh.’

       Chapter 7

      With Alex in Iraq, time passed slowly Though he had been gone only two weeks by the time I first met Jane Stafford, it seemed much longer. I thought of him all the time and read his daily e-mails over and over. He was happy and tired, was the gist of them.

      ‘Iraq, wrote Alex, is both boring and brutal. People are on edge, waiting for more bad news. But they’re living their lives anyway – what else can they do? A boy came in today with a broken elbow, but his injury had nothing to do with war. He’d been playing soccer on pavement and had taken a dive to keep the ball out of the goal. His mother brought me a syrupy dessert thing to thank me for taking care of him. I told him about how we sign casts in the U.S., but I couldn’t find a marker to show him. Maybe can you send one, and some stickers or something? And Double Stuf Oreos?’

      Jane’s office was in a house. Her own house? There was no way to know. There was a taxi parked on the street in front. Was a taxi driver in therapy? Did someone take a taxi to therapy? (A DUI?) Again, there was no way to know. I parked behind the cab. I began to get a light-headed, hysterical feeling. Keep it together, I told myself.

      On the front door was a printed sign reading no solicitations. I was glad of this, because a Jehovah’s Witness knocking at the door while I confided my innermost feelings was something I did not need. What did I need?

      I was wearing my work clothes. I wanted Jane Stafford to know that I was a professional. Coolly, I estimated her home office/home to be worth about 300K. It was a one-story ranch with ugly siding but a nice yard, room for a pool. I stopped before entering, noting that you could hear MoPac Highway. That would knock 10K off the price, give or take. Some people didn’t care about highway noise, but some people did.

      I opened the door. A sparse living room with a pale blue couch led to a hallway. I sat on the couch and picked up an old Glamour. I didn’t open the magazine, just tried to look relaxed and waited. In fact, I did feel a bit relaxed. What could possibly happen to me here? I felt secure, if a bit loopy, in this 3/2 (I guessed) ranch with original hardwood flooring.

      After a few moments, I heard a door open and the click of footsteps coming toward me. Hurriedly, I opened the Glamour and shifted my gaze, trying to seem engrossed. I appeared to be in the middle of an article about faux-fur shoes.

      ‘Lauren?’

      I looked up into the brown eyes of Jane Stafford, who, despite her WASPY name, was Asian. I stood.

      ‘I’m Jane Stafford,’ she said, holding out her hand. She was wearing a cream-colored