Close Your Eyes

12

There is a deep blue place between wakefulness and sleep. I have always been afraid of that place—it’s where bad memories reside, I believe, or thoughts that have no purpose. Lusty desires for old boyfriends. Things I’m mad at myself about. Fears, worries about bombs and gunshots and what happened to Jack Nicholson in The Shining happening to me, leaving me in a creepy mansion with a maze garden jabbing away at an old-fashioned typewriter. Images of all my teeth falling out, or all my hair, or my fingernails.

What I love about sleeping pills is that they let you avoid that place. You go from wide awake to zonked in one fell swoop. I had almost forgotten about the deep blue. And then, around the middle of October, the pills stopped working.

I began walking Handsome to the Capitol Building and back, which took up much of the night. I picked up breakfast tacos on the way home and warmed them up for Gerry, who said he’d rather have me in bed than a bacon, egg, and cheese with salsa. Nonetheless, he took the tacos, and I climbed under the sheets for an hour or so.

I was unmoored without my brother. It was as if a bandage of some kind had been removed, and I was raw and exposed. When I met with my therapist, I told her I was afraid of the deep blue. “Instead of sleeping,” I said, “I lie there remembering things.”

“What sort of things?” Jane asked.

“Things from when I was little,” I said. “But I don’t want to think about that stuff.”

“What do you remember?” said Jane.

“Oh, jeez, like my walk to kindergarten.”

“Tell me,” she said.

I couldn’t see what the point was, but I told her about strolling through Holt’s small downtown. There was a crossing guard in front of the library, a heavy man with a ruddy face. He wore a bright blue uniform complete with a hat. I could see him as I spoke to Jane Stafford: the brass buttons, the shiny black shoes. He held an octagonal sign, flashed it straight when he wanted us to halt at the corner of Oak Street.

“I haven’t thought about Holt in years,” I said. “Why would all this come back to me now?”

“Sometimes your mind waits until you’re ready,” said Jane.

“I can’t seem to turn it off,” I said. “I remember the whole freaking town.”

“Go on,” said Jane.

I told her about the apartment building where divorced families ended up, puzzles with missing pieces. I was taught that living there was somehow disgraceful. Real families—families like ours—lived in houses with yards. “My father must have been the one who gave me that idea,” I said. “I think he wanted us to know that we were better than other people, even though he was unemployed. Well, he said he was an artist, but … there he was, an Egyptian man in the white-bread suburbs. It must have been … hard for him.”

“Why do you think it was hard for him?”

The room started filling with smoke again, and Jane was looking at me. “I feel like the room is filling with smoke,” I said.

“Smoke?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s like … I can’t see.”

“Take a deep breath, Lauren.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” I said weakly.

“Lauren,” said Jane. “You’re fine. You’re safe.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’m really not feeling very well.”

“Tell me,” said Jane.

“It’s still all smoky. I can’t breathe in here,” I said. “I’m so hot.”

“You feel warm?”

“This isn’t working for me,” I said.

Jane was silent.

I sat up straight. “This couch, it’s so big. You know what I mean?”

She furrowed her brow.

“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” I said. “But I think this couch is just too big. And all this talking, it’s just making me feel kind of nauseated.”

“I see,” said Jane Stafford.

“I think I’m going to take a break,” I said. “From all this …” I waved my hands around, trying to clear the smoke. “The more I dredge up all this old … I appreciate all you’ve done for me. Honestly, this isn’t your fault.”

“Lauren—” said Jane, but I was already halfway to the exit.

“I’ll mail you the co-pay,” I said, and then I walked quickly to the kitchen, which was also smoky, wheeled around, and found the correct door, which let me out.