Close Your Eyes. Amanda Eyre Ward

a TV reporter. Christiane Amanpour. Is she married?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘I think she is. But to tell you the truth, Alex, I could see it. She’s similarly dour.’

      ‘I am not dour!’ He shook his head, smiling. He smelled so familiar – that dirty-sock funk had been the same since we’d shared the guest room at our grandparents’ Houston house.

      ‘Alex,’ I said, ‘what happened to all our stuff?’

      ‘What stuff?’

      ‘From the house on Ocean Avenue.’

      ‘It’s in a storage locker. I guess if Dad ever gets out, he’ll want some of it.’

      I ignored the bait about my father, who was never getting out, as we both knew. ‘Where?’ I said. ‘Where’s it in storage?’

      ‘White Plains.’

      ‘How do you know this?’ I said.

      ‘I’m paying for it,’ said Alex.

      ‘Are you kidding me?’

      ‘Gramma and Pops told me to clear it out years ago,’ said Alex. ‘I didn’t. I don’t know why. I haven’t been there. I just called and had them send the bill to me.’

      ‘I only have that one picture of her,’ I said.

      He knew what I was talking about because he had the same photograph: our mother sitting on the living room couch, a toddler me on her lap, a boy-size Alex to her right. She was reading to us, a Richard Scarry book, Busy, Busy Town. Maybe that book was in a cardboard box, too, somewhere in White Plains.

      ‘Where’s the key?’ I said.

      ‘Don’t go there without me,’ said Alex.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Why not? You’d freak out! And you were too young when everything was put in there. You won’t know what’s important and what can be tossed.’

      ‘When you come home,’ I said.

      ‘Right,’ said Alex. ‘When I come home.’

      Austin-Bergstrom Airport was bustling with early-morning commuters. I turned in to the parking garage, and Alex said, ‘It’s expensive to park. You can just drop me off,’ and I said, ‘Shhh.’

      I carried one strap of Alex’s girlie duffel bag, and he carried the other. ‘Did you pack any books?’ I asked.

      ‘Blue Highways,’ said Alex.

      ‘I loved that in college,’ I said. ‘This is the ultimate blue highway, I guess.’

      ‘I guess,’ said Alex.

      ‘Or blue airway,’ I said.

      ‘Hm,’ said Alex, unimpressed, or maybe not listening.

      I stood with my hands on my hips as Alex checked in, showing his new passport to the woman behind the counter. I had gone with him to Kinko’s for photographs, and had applied for my first passport as well, in case Alex wanted – or needed – me to visit. I didn’t want to go to Iraq. I didn’t want my brother to go to Iraq. My general feeling about Iraq was: leave them the hell alone.

      We walked across shiny floors, past a Swatch shop, a Which Wich? sandwich shop, a Waldenbooks. I noticed a woman with a baby staring at us. Though it had been ten fucking years since the attacks, our coloring still earned us nervous glances at the airport. I wanted to meet the mother’s gaze with defiance but turned away, peering into the window of the bookstore.

      ‘What are you going to read on the plane?’ I said. ‘Let me buy you another book.’

      Alex looked at his watch. ‘Okay,’ he said.

      I scanned the best-sellers, trying to figure out what might bring Alex comfort, or even better, a story that would make him think twice about leaving. What book, I wondered, would make him get off the plane, meet a nice woman who could be my friend and his wife, and encourage him to buy the 3/2 for sale down the street from us? I could even broker the deal and give him the commission for some new clothes.

      ‘Lauren, I should go,’ said Alex.

      ‘Wait – just one—’ I grabbed For Whom the Bell Tolls off the shelf. ‘Hemingway,’ I said, moving to the register. ‘You can’t go wrong with Hemingway!’ I paid and brandished the plastic bag.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said.

      ‘Let me . . .’ I said. I sat on an airport bench and rummaged in my purse for a pen. I found a ballpoint and wrote, Dear Alex, on the title page. Then I wrote Love, Lauren. I added the date. I stared at the blank inch I had left for something careful, something meaningful, some poetry.

      ‘I’ll come home for your wedding,’ said Alex.

      ‘Shut up,’ I said.

      ‘Seriously. He’s going to stop trying eventually.’

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ said Alex.

      I glared at him. Then I admitted, ‘You’re right. I do.’

      ‘Say it to Gerry,’ said Alex, ‘not to me.’

      We were still for a moment. I looked back at the book but couldn’t think of anything to write. ‘It’s okay,’ Alex said finally. ‘I’ve really got to go.’

      I stared at my message: Dear Alex, Love, Lauren, 9/08/10. Starting to cry, I wrote, Goodbye.

      Alex took the book and pulled me into his arms. We hugged for a minute, and then Alex broke free. ‘Here,’ he said. He took a small object from his pocket. ‘It’s the earring. I don’t want it anymore.’

      ‘What do I want with one damn earring?’ I said.

      ‘What do I want with one damn earring?’ said Alex.

      With that, he kissed me on the forehead and walked toward security. The earring was cold in my hand.

       Chapter 5

      The listing was a 2/1 on Texas Avenue. White picket fence, yard that needed landscaping, minimal termite damage. My clients, a day-care worker and her musician boyfriend, were waiting for me, their Vespas parked side-by-side in the gravel drive. I waved gaily as I pulled to the curb.

      ‘Hey, Lauren,’ said Mitch, touching the top of his hipster fedora.

      ‘Hello, hello!’ I said, smiling hard. Liz was slim with red hair. On her jeans, she had small handprints in green and yellow paint.

      ‘I like it,’ said Liz. ‘I like the window boxes.’

      ‘This is a great street,’ I said. ‘Close to campus, but more young families than students.’

      ‘Let’s go in,’ said Mitch. ‘Lead the way, lady.’

      I smoothed my Ann Taylor pantsuit. I was too old to be called lady by some skinny drummer, but I knew when to keep my mouth shut. ‘Follow me,’ I said, heading up the cement walkway. I found the lockbox, entered my Realtor code, and removed the key.

      ‘There’s a big crack in the foundation,’ said Liz, pointing.

      ‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘These old houses . . .’ I couldn’t really think of what to say, so I trailed off.

      ‘These old houses what?’ said Liz.

      I cleared my throat. ‘Some have foundation problems. Some have charm. Some, Liz, have both. Foundations can be fixed.’

      ‘Oh, okay,’ said Liz, taking Mitch’s hand and stepping across the threshold.

      ‘The