Close Your Eyes

14

Again I lay awake past midnight. Gerry slept with his arms around me. When I sneaked from Gerry’s embrace, Handsome rose from his dog bed, expectant. I climbed from bed and went into the living room to find Handsome’s leash. My head hurt, so I swallowed a half dozen Advil.

The moon was dazzling. Handsome trotted happily as we made our way south toward downtown. The air felt like a warm swimming pool. I walked along my street, noticing the fresh paint on the bike messengers’ house and the way a couple down the street had strung lights and placed folding chairs in their small front yard: preparations for—or remnants of—a party. Though I had once loved being home with Gerry, now I was more comfortable out of my house, on the move.

I crossed under I-35, giving the people who lived beneath the bridge a wide berth, and made my way to Congress Avenue. Turning left, I had a clear view of the Capitol Building. It was two A.M., which was ten A.M. in Baghdad; I wished my cell phone could call Iraq. Then I thought, Well, why not try?

I sat down at the bus stop at Congress and Tenth. I rummaged in my wallet until I found the phone number of Ibn Sina Hospital. Under the bright sky, I dialed. This was going to cost a fortune, I knew. But I suddenly had to talk to Alex. He was the only one in the world who would understand what I was feeling—this soupy fear and dread. Without Alex, I was carrying the heavy memories alone.

I waited, pressing the phone to my ear. But I had mixed up the digits, it seemed. I couldn’t get the string of numerals on the scrap of paper to connect to anyone, just annoying beeps and a recorded statement: “We’re sorry. The number you are trying to reach is disconnected or no longer in service.” The message was in English, so I figured I must have the access code wrong. I called the Verizon operator, but she put me on hold. I listened to a recording of Barry Manilow singing “Can’t Smile Without You” and “Mandy.” Finally, I cut the line.

Handsome was yanking at his retractable leash, ready to move on. We had made it down Congress almost to the river when I remembered the guy who lived in Le Dome, Unit 302. I was feeling reckless. I walked to Le Dome and looked up. There was a window lit on the third floor. His name came to me, unbidden: Arthur.

I stood there for a while. Why not just go inside? I thought. Why not have a drink with a handsome balding man? Why not a rollicking night of sex? I deserved some joy!

Before Gerry, I’d had lovers—short-lived physical relationships with guys who were messed up in one way or another. Heavy drinkers, manic wackos, the kind of men who told me they loved me after a night and never called again. I felt strangely safe with people who were broken. I knew what to expect from them.

Loving Gerry was different. I found myself counting on him, believing in him, dreaming about babies and wedding rings. It was unnerving and dangerous and very, very stupid.

I whispered a message to Arthur, who was likely typing in his boxer shorts. Did he have a gut? I couldn’t remember. And honestly, who cared? Come to the window, I thought. All you have to do is come to the window and you can have me.

Nobody came to the window. As I was about to murmur another message, the light on the third floor went out. I looked at Handsome, who was confused. I realized it was time to go home.

When I let myself in the door of my purple-and-yellow house, a bag of warm tacos in my hand, I saw a message light blinking on our old answering machine.

I pressed the button and heard my brother’s voice. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m thinking of you guys. I’m sorry to call so late. I just happened to be near a phone, so. Well, anyway. It’s … it’s getting hard here. It’s very disheartening. I’m doing my best, but Jesus … Lauren, I miss you. I love you. Bye.”

I played the message three times, and then I lay down on the floor and cried.