Close Your Eyes. Amanda Eyre Ward

they talked about how Alex would get to Iraq (Austin to JFK, then through Jordan, which had been our mother’s name and so seemed portentous, foreboding), what he was bringing (clothes, medicine, and lots of music), if perhaps the love of his life was also packing her stethoscope to join Médecins Sans Frontières (not likely but not impossible). I ate silently, then said I was headed to bed. No one seemed to mind.

      I took two Tylenol PMs and lay on the memory-foam mattress I’d bought when I sold my first house. I listened to my brother and my boyfriend talk: a sweet lullaby.

      ‘You’re still in your clothes,’ said Gerry, unbuttoning my blouse.

      ‘Is he going to die?’ I said. ‘Do you think he wants to?’

      ‘He didn’t pick Iraq,’ said Gerry. ‘Doctors Without Borders could have sent him to Mexico or Thailand.’ He put his warm hand on my stomach.

      ‘But they didn’t,’ I said.

      Gerry kissed me. ‘I think a road trip is a great idea.’

      ‘You do?’

      ‘He’s really jazzed about it.’

      ‘I know,’ I said.

      ‘Besides,’ said Gerry, ‘I just checked: they’re having a special at Beachview Cabins in Galveston. You can write about it for Cheapskate on the Road.’

      ‘I don’t even want to know.’

      ‘Cheapskate on Holiday?’

      I touched my boyfriend’s cheek. ‘You really love this, don’t you?’ I said.

      ‘Yes,’ said Gerry.

      ‘I’m glad.’

      ‘So you’ll attach a tripod and camera to the Dodge?’

      While trying to think of a witty protestation, I fell deeply asleep.

       Chapter 2

      As a medical student working through his residency, Alex had very little time for messing around on the computer. Nevertheless, he arrived at my house with hours of downloaded music and This American Life episodes and the adaptor cords and hookups that would enable his iPod to connect to my car’s meager sound system.

      ‘I wish I could come with you guys,’ said Gerry, pressing firmly on the six-inch suction cups that he believed would hold a large video camera to the car. ‘But you know, being a webersonality is a round-the-clock job.’

      Luckily, being a real estate agent in a terrible economy was not. The Gelthorps had decided to hold off on buying, and a prospective client from Los Angeles had canceled. ‘Maybe it’s time for a career reevaluation,’ I’d said to Gerry that morning.

      ‘What about massage-therapy school?’ he said.

      ‘Honey, somebody’s got to have an income.’

      Gerry rubbed his left shoulder. ‘I’ll go back to programming,’ he said. ‘I know I’ll have to eventually.’

      ‘No, no,’ I said when what I meant was I’m so glad you know.

      ‘A man’s got to support his . . .’ said Gerry.

      ‘His lady?’ I said brightly.

      ‘His family,’ said Gerry. ‘I was going to say his family.’

      I looked at the floor and bit my bottom lip. I couldn’t meet Gerry’s eyes, couldn’t bear to see the frustrated hope in them.

      Gerry watched as Alex and I pulled out of the driveway for the three-hour drive to Houston, and then he went back into the shed to begin the day’s programming. (He had made us a list of the least expensive gas stations en route, adding a star next to the Austin Valero Mart, where we could get jumbo coffees for the price of small.)

      Alex, in the passenger seat, looked jaunty and cheerful, fresh-shaven for the first time in a while. His hair, like our father’s, was dark and curly. It was endlessly frustrating to me that while my swarthy coloring and thick locks were the bane of my existence, on Alex they were alluring to women, sexy, irresistible.

      It hadn’t been easy to grow up as a half-Egyptian girl in Texas. Really dumb classmates thought I had something to do with the Iran hostage crisis – on the day Ronald Reagan was sworn in and the hostages were released, Austin Phillips wrote SAD DAY FOR MUSLIM GIRLS in Magic Marker on my locker – but many more just thought I was unappealing, an outsider. They called me names, asked if my parents worked at the 7-Eleven or were terrorists. All I wanted was to fit in, or at least to be ignored.

      Even teachers paused sometimes when discussing the Middle East and turned to me as if expecting I had words of wisdom to share, a Muslim point of view. My grandparents are Houston Jews! I wanted to shout, but I stayed quiet and fiddled with my pencil.

      It wasn’t until I moved into Jester dormitory on the University of Texas campus – a dorm giant enough to have its own zip code – that I could be anonymous, invisible, and free.

      ‘So what have we got?’ I said, reaching for Alex’s iPod.

      ‘I’ll put on “Road Trip,” ’ said Alex. ‘I’ve got U2, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, Ozzy . . .’ He started the playlist and leaned back in his seat.

      ‘McDonald’s!’ I said, pointing. ‘They have two-for-one McSkillets.’

      ‘My my,’ said Alex as I pulled in.

      ‘Don’t make fun of me,’ I said, smiling.

      As I drove out of the city, I began to feel my spirits lift. I had always loved the quiet stretch of road that emerged when you left Austin behind. It would be over an hour before the sprawl of Houston began. As we passed a farm, a cow lifted its head to watch us. Alex sang along with the music, his eyes closed.

      We entered Brenham, where the Blue Bell creamery was located. ‘Ice cream before noon?’ I said.

      Alex considered but shook his head. ‘On the way home, how about?’ he said.

      ‘Sure.’

      We kept driving, and then Alex spoke. ‘I think we should talk about Dad,’ he said. ‘Just in case . . . in case something happens to me while I’m abroad.’

      I gripped the steering wheel tightly. ‘Stop talking,’ I said.

      ‘What?’

      I began to feel light-headed, my heart beating too fast in my chest. ‘I don’t want to hear you saying things like that! What’s going to happen to you?’

      ‘Lauren—’

      ‘Stop talking, please.’

      Alex looked out the window. The blazing summer temperatures had drained most of the color from the landscape; the passing shrubbery was wilting in shades of yellow and brown. In midmorning, the sun was piercingly bright and oppressive, the heat shimmering above the road in waves. Despite the car’s desperate hiss of air-conditioning, my thighs stuck to the vinyl seat, hot and damp.

      We listened to U2’s ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’ Finally, Alex said, ‘I just need . . . I need to . . . there are some things you should know.’

      ‘Not listening,’ I said.

      ‘Lauren, please.’

      ‘What does a panic attack feel like, by the way?’ I said. Alex described the symptoms, and I nodded. ‘That’s what’s going on,’ I said. ‘I’m definitely having a panic attack.’

      ‘Pull over,’ said Alex.

      I took the next turnoff, stopping the car a few yards down a dirt road. ‘I’m having a heart attack,’ I said. ‘And a panic attack. At the same time.’

      ‘Jesus,’ said Alex, getting out of the car and coming around to my side. ‘Put your