Close Your Eyes. Amanda Eyre Ward

the three-hour drive, Alex parked at Cypress Grove Retirement Village. When I climbed out of the car, the heat flattened me immediately. In Houston, the humidity made summer an absolute hell. If you could help it, you didn’t go outside at all. The beach would to be sweltering and miserable. Worse, oil residue in the water turned into tar balls that stuck to your skin after swimming. Most hotels had tar-removal wipes next to the little shampoos and lotions, and I’d known girls in high school who took two bathing suits to the beach: one for swimming and a clean one for sunbathing.

      That aside, I did love the Shrimp Shack. We had been to Galveston a handful of times during our childhood, and Alex and I had always begged for dinner at the Shrimp Shack, followed by ice cream cones on the beach.

      Alex was searching around in the trunk of the car. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. I was agitated – though I loved Gramma, it was so hard when she didn’t recognize me or – worse – thought I was my mother. I looked nothing like Mom, nothing at all.

      ‘Here it is,’ said Alex. He stood, holding a dented Whitman’s sampler. ‘She loves chocolate.’

      I felt guilty that I hadn’t thought to bring something for Gramma, too. ‘You’re so nice,’ I said.

      Alex shoved my shoulder. ‘Move along,’ he said.

      Gramma was in her room, a generous single with windows overlooking the man-made water feature that partially blocked the view of a Best Buy next door. Alex knocked and called, ‘Where’s my beautiful grandmother?’

      She looked up from her Cosmopolitan magazine, her face growing animated. ‘Hello!’ she said brightly.

      ‘We brought you some chocolates,’ said Alex, handing her the box. I stood in the doorway, trying not to look as ill at ease as I felt. My grandmother’s white hair had been recently set, and she wore a pink dress I had always admired. I remembered her arriving at my choir concert in the dress, a dozen years ago.

      ‘Well, how lovely!’ said Gramma. She opened the box and selected a truffle.

      ‘Are you having a nice day?’ I said, too loudly.

      ‘We have got to water the azaleas,’ she said, taking a dainty bite of her truffle. ‘I told your father.’

      My mouth was dry, and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

      ‘Do you mind if we sit and visit for a bit?’ said Alex. He acted so normal, relaxing into a chair, smiling at Gramma.

      ‘Not for too long,’ said Gramma. ‘But that’s fine, young man.’ She touched a gold circle pin on her dress.

      ‘I like your pin,’ I boomed.

      ‘You’ll get it someday, Jordan,’ she said. ‘Never you mind.’

      ‘I’m not Jordan,’ I said. ‘I’m your granddaughter. I’m Lauren.’

      ‘You’re growing up so fast,’ said Gramma. ‘You’ll be going to prom before you know it.’

      Alex wheeled his chair close to our grandmother, putting his hand on her hand. He sat quietly, patiently, though my stomach twisted with anxiety. Gramma’s room was filled with pictures of my mother. On the bedside table was a photo of Mom holding me as a newborn, gazing into my crimson face.

      Alex talked with Gramma for a while about his trip to Iraq. He promised to write. She listened with an expression of polite bewilderment. He told Gramma that he thought I should marry Gerry, as if I weren’t even in the room. ‘She’s afraid to be happy,’ said Alex.

      ‘I wholeheartedly agree,’ said Gramma, nodding. She offered the box of chocolates to Alex. He took a fat one with nuts.

      ‘I’m sitting right here,’ I said, reaching for the chocolate-covered cherry.

      ‘Of course you are,’ said Gramma, swatting my hand away.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

      ‘You can have the white chocolate,’ said Gramma. ‘I know those are your favorite.’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘Those were my mom’s favorite. I like the cherry.’

      ‘Quite a mouth on her,’ said Gramma to Alex. She raised the area where her eyebrows had been. What could I do but laugh?

      ‘I love you, Gramma,’ I said.

      ‘And I love you,’ she answered. ‘What a lovely coincidence!’

      When the sun had dipped below the Best Buy, Alex gestured to his watch. We were still an hour from Galveston and wanted to have our feet in the sand by nightfall. I nodded and stood. When I kissed Gramma goodbye, she reached up to cup the back of my head. ‘My baby,’ she said into my hair. ‘My baby girl.’

      Galveston Island had once been a major shipping port city, as grand as New Orleans. It had the first opera house in Texas, and the first telephone. In 1900 the island was decimated by a hurricane, and although many of the elegant historical buildings were rebuilt, the city never really recovered. Still, the faded grandeur of the historic district and the seedier beer joints both held allure for me. As a child, I believed there were ghosts in Galveston, and I enjoyed walking down the tree-lined streets, pretending that the sounds of the waves were ghostly murmurs.

      The Beachview Motel was nowhere near the historic district. It was cheap, but there was no beach view. Alex pulled in to a parking space at the mauve-colored building and said, ‘Well, this sucks.’

      ‘I was hoping for a bit more ambiance,’ I said. ‘Or even a bit of ambiance.’

      ‘Oh, look,’ said Alex. ‘Here comes a truck.’

      We watched as a Toyota Tundra with oversize wheels pulled in to the lot. A man in overalls – just overalls, no shirt underneath – climbed out, followed by two friends holding cases of beer.

      ‘Ah, Galveston.’ Alex started the car again. ‘We can find something else,’ he said. ‘I have faith.’

      We drove to the Shrimp Shack on the seawall, claiming a wooden table under a skeleton wearing a pirate hat. When the waitress brought our beers, Alex said, ‘Excuse me? Can you recommend somewhere to stay in town? Or out of town?’

      The girl evaluated us, biting her lip. ‘What sort of place are you looking for?’ she asked.

      ‘A cottage, maybe?’ I said.

      ‘My uncle has a bunkhouse,’ said the girl. ‘He calls it the Starry Night. It’s on the bay side, but it’s real romantic.’

      ‘We’re not looking for romance,’ I said, grimacing at Alex.

      ‘Whatevs,’ said the girl. ‘Do you want me to call him?’

      ‘That sounds great,’ said Alex. The girl nodded and walked off. ‘Whatevs,’ said Alex.

      ‘I’m so old,’ I said.

      ‘We’re not old. Just middle-aged.’

      The bunkhouse was available for seventy dollars cash, and after we ate platters of shrimp, finishing up with key lime pie, the waitress took off her apron and told us to follow her car. She smoked as she drove along the seawall, her arm dangling out the window. We headed out of town for about fifteen minutes, passing brand-new mansions on the water next to ruined homes that had never been rebuilt after Hurricanes Katrina and Ike. We turned off the pavement and bumped along an uneven stretch of sandy road, reaching a cottage. The waitress parked and let us inside, showing us the bunk beds and the small kitchen. When she left, she said, ‘Hope you like cats.’

      ‘I don’t really like cats,’ I said to Alex.

      ‘I do.’ He was in high spirits. ‘I like cats. Bring them on.’

      There were two wrought-iron chairs outside the cabin, and Alex sat in one and pulled a flask out of his backpack. I settled into the other chair and watched the sky. It was cooler now that the sun had