Close Your Eyes

10

“What do you remember about your mother?” said Jane Stafford at our next Wednesday meeting. I was settled in, my raincoat balled up next to me, rubber boots sticking out from the couch awkwardly. Jane sat in a high-backed leather chair, her slim legs crossed.

“She’s dead,” I said. “I believe I mentioned that.”

Jane folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Are you feeling angry?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

The sound machine purred as if someone invisible were whispering, “Shhhh.”

“A little angry, I guess,” I amended. “I miss Alex.”

“He’s still in Iraq?”

“What is he doing there? You know? He’s a fucking doctor. I’m sorry. He’s a medical student. He’s almost done with his residency. I didn’t mean to swear.”

Jane nodded but did not speak.

“You know one thing,” I said, “is that you need some new magazines in your waiting room. I’ve pretty much finished with that Glamour.”

“Do you think you use humor,” said Jane kindly, “as a way of avoiding troubling emotions?”

I took a breath, then let it out. “It’s as if …” I said. Jane waited, silent. “It’s as if Alex feels like he should atone for something,” I went on. “Volunteering to go to Iraq.”

“You said atone for something. What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know. Like he couldn’t save our mother, so he needs to save some Iraqis. It doesn’t make sense. As if I don’t need him!”

“What could Alex have done?” said Jane. “How could he have saved your mother?”

I sighed. “Alex doesn’t think my father did it.”

Jane nodded. Her brow creased. “Alex thinks your father is innocent.”

“Right.”

“What do you think?” said Jane.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, I do know. My father killed her. He was the only one there. If he didn’t do it, who did?”

Jane had no answer for that one.

“And there were times …” I put my hands over my eyes.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” asked Jane.

“No,” I said.

“What are you feeling?”

“I remember this framed picture … of my parents. My mom kept it on the kitchen counter.”

“Go on.”

“It was a snapshot of the two of them in Egypt,” I said. Though I hadn’t held the photograph since I was a child, I could see the image clearly in my mind: my parents holding hands. While my father looked hot and annoyed, my mother was beaming. In the photo, my father wore an ankle-length gallibaya shirt; my mother was young, in cotton shorts and a University of Texas T-shirt, her blond hair in a ponytail. “It was my mom’s first visit to Cairo,” I said.

“Go on,” said Jane.

I shook my head and began to tell Jane my mother’s story, which had always troubled me.

The whole city of Cairo was beyond her comprehension. There was always something happening: a donkey defecating, a child screaming, men’s laughter, shisha smoke, car exhaust, blinding sunlight, the call to prayer blasting from the minarets. Izaan’s parents’ apartment was filled with mirrors and fringe, and every possible object was ornamented: the Kleenex box had a gold tasseled cover, the toilet seat glittered, and Izaan’s brother had suspended CDs on strings from the ceiling of his car, lending the interior of his Honda Accord a dizzying disco feel.

Izaan’s family had been polite to my mother, though it was clear they weren’t thrilled about the upcoming wedding. Izaan had called off an arranged marriage to the daughter of a prominent Egyptian family at the last minute, after meeting my mother, who they thought was entirely unsuitable.

My mother preferred the company of the men, who sprawled on cushions, smoked, and spoke raucously, laughing often. The women served fragrant dishes of ground beef and rice. In the kitchen, they gossiped in low tones. My mother didn’t know any of the people they talked about, even when they tried to translate, and she knew even less about the European designers Izaan’s sisters revered. The women were very physical with each other, and my mother tried not to shrink away when they hugged her impulsively or kissed her cheeks.

She hadn’t known how wealthy Izaan’s family was, by Egyptian standards, until they’d arrived. It helped explain his arrogance. Izaan took my mother boating on the Nile with his friends. They motored past weary women washing clothes and naked children bathing near the muddy banks. My mother asked one of Izaan’s friends if he felt uncomfortable in the fancy boat, blaring music from the stereo, but the man shrugged, smiling under his sunglasses. “In shalla,” he said. He told my mother this meant it was God’s wish. She found out later that it actually meant if God wills it so.

On their last day in Cairo, Izaan finally acquiesced to my mother’s pleas and took her to Khan el-Khalili, the giant market, which sold glassware, spices, mother-of-pearl backgammon boards, sandals, clothes, leather goods, and water pipes. Izaan’s brother dropped them off, snapping the photo that would end up in our house on Ocean Avenue, and then they walked into the teeming marketplace.

My mother loved the dim stalls, the smell of incense. When she walked by other tourists, she felt superior, with gorgeous Izaan at her side. She bought a chess set for her father, Mort, and a leather bag for her mother, Merilee. Izaan wanted to barter, telling my mother the vendors didn’t respect someone who didn’t haggle, but she shook her head and paid the first price. Izaan told her she was a softie.

At one stall, knives were laid out in a row, glinting. “These are beautiful,” said my mother, putting her hand near them but not daring to touch. The vendor came from shadows, speaking in Arabic to Izaan. Switching to English, he said, “These are the best knives in the world. Very special. A special price for you.”

“How much?” said my mother. She looked at Izaan, who shook his head. The man named a price, and she reached for her wallet.

“No,” said Izaan. “These knives do not belong in our kitchen.”

“Our kitchen?” my mother said playfully. Though they were engaged, they did not yet share an apartment in New York. Grabbing her hand, Izaan tugged my mother out of the stall and down a passageway. It seemed they were going toward the center of the market; the stalls were less tidy, darker. Inexplicably, my mother felt scared. “Izaan,” she said, “I want to go back.”

My mother’s face would change as she told the rest of the story. It would take on a faraway look, as if she had forgotten she was speaking to me. She seemed to be trying to make sense of the story herself.

“Your father told me to follow him,” she’d say. “And so I did.”

Izaan led her to a ruined building. Inside a crumbling doorway, my mother heard the chanting of prayer. “I have made mistakes, some very big mistakes, but that time is over,” he said. He kissed her—

She would shake her head. “Anyway, that’s the story of the knives. He told me he would buy me the best knives in the world when it was time,” she said. As my mother took out her chef’s knife, she always said, “See? Your father was right after all.”

My father had been true to his word—after he had sold his first poem to the literary journal The Cottonwood Review, he had gone to the Stamford mall and bought my mother the most expensive Wüsthofs. The Cottonwood Review paid Izaan thirty dollars and five free copies of the magazine; the set of knives had cost four hundred fifty dollars. But it was the thought that counted—Izaan had arrived and could buy his wife the best.

I always felt that she was leaving something out. What “big mistakes” had my father made? When I asked, my mother said that it had taken my father a while to figure out who he wanted to be.

“What do you suppose she meant by that?” asked Jane.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess that’s why I remembered the story. It never really made sense.”

“Did anyone else ever talk about your father making big mistakes?”

“I don’t … No,” I said. As I spoke, the room grew hazy. I knew there wasn’t really any smoke, so I tried to stay calm. But what if the building were on fire? I felt my lungs, too large, in my rib cage. I wheezed, trying to get enough oxygen.

“Lauren? Our session is almost over. Are you feeling all right?”

I sat up straight, the smoke dissipating. “I’m fine,” I said. “I just … I can’t think of what to say next.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You can use this space to be with your thoughts, if you like.”

I shuddered. With my thoughts was the last place I wanted to be.

“What do you mean by that?” said Jane.

“What?” I said.

“Being with your thoughts, you said. You said it was the last place you wanted to be. What did you mean by that?”

“Oh, jeez,” I said. “My thoughts! They’re so …”

Jane cocked her head, giving me the interested-sparrow look.

“They’re so … They hurt,” I said.

“Your thoughts hurt you?” said Jane.

“I think if I let myself feel it all,” I said, “I’d be in so much … It would hurt so much. Too much. So I just … I go on. I make plans and watch TV.”

Jane looked down. She seemed sad. She looked back up and said, “Are you feeling all right to leave?”

“Yes, sure,” I said. “I’m fine.”