Close Your Eyes

3

Sitting, stunned, on the front steps of Hyde Park Café, I marveled at the fact that everything looked the same, though my whole life had changed. My father was innocent. He had loved my mother. Also, he loved me.

The afternoon sun warmed the top of my head and my shoulders. Jesus H. Christ, I was happy. I felt like my childhood night-light, glowing. Joy, I supposed—this was what joy felt like—your body filling with light. I wanted to run into the street, screaming the news. I tilted my head upward, focusing on a lone, wispy cloud. I whispered, “Thank you.”

I was never taught to believe in God, in anything. Our family did not go to any religious services. We did not celebrate Ramadan or Hanukkah, and we celebrated Christmas only in a secular way. But on Sunday mornings, when I was small, my mother would fix Alex and me bowls of cereal and settle us on the couch for cartoons. My parents would retreat to their upstairs bedroom and lock the door.

I loved Froot Loops and Cap’n Crunch. On Sundays, we were allowed as much cereal as we could cram in our mouths, and we lay on the couch for hours. When our parents came downstairs, our mother was freshly showered, flushed, and ravenous. The joy our parents found in each other was undeniable, and their passion never waned.

The pleasure they found upstairs, while Alex and I munched sugary O’s, was what bound them. But after my mother’s death, I believed that my father’s passion for my mother had made him capable of something awful. I had seen his face when my mother admired Mr. Schwickrath’s present, his eyes narrow with anger. I had imagined they fought, and their love had exploded into something that could lead my father to pick up a heavy glass object and swing.

But I had been wrong. Now the knowledge washed over me: my parents’ love had not changed into something dark. It had been complicated, like all love, but our family’s happiness had not been a mirage.

My father, with his imported cigarettes and his fancy stereo, trying to fit in. He had written me for years, and I had not had the courage to read one letter. I felt guilty. I felt happy. I felt like going inside and finishing my lunch—so that is what I did.

Later, I called my father. Gerry sat next to me on the couch with an open bag of SunChips. The person who answered the phone (a guard? an operator?) told me that Izaan would have to call me back.

“Please tell him it’s his daughter,” I said. “Please tell him …”

“What?”

“Tell him I called,” I said.

“Okay, lady,” said the man on the other end of the line.

I hung up the phone. “What’s going to happen?” said Gerry.

“There’s going to be a trial,” I said. “A new trial.”

“Would you like a SunChip?” asked Gerry.

“Thank you,” I said, “but no.”

Gerry put his hand on the side of my face. “He didn’t do it,” he said.

“I know,” I said. Gerry smiled. “It feels so good,” I said. “It feels impossibly great to have a father.” I put my arms around my boyfriend and I held him tight.

The sky was luminous outside the windows of our house. On the coffee table were two glasses of sweet tea. Handsome wedged his nose into the space between us. The phone rang, and I took a breath before lifting my head from Gerry’s shoulder. “I’m scared,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter what you say,” said Gerry. “That’s the point of love.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yes,” said Gerry.

I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I said.

“Is this Lauren Mahdian?” said a strange voice. It was a man’s voice, but there was nothing about it that was familiar. I felt a sinking sensation in my gut. The voice did not sound right.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is this?”

“Ms. Mahdian,” said the man. “I’m calling about your brother, Alex Mahdian.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “This is the wrong call.” I dropped the phone and stood quickly. “It’s not him,” I said to Gerry. It took seven steps to reach the front door, which I flung open. “It’s not my father!” I yelled as I ran outside. I looked wildly up and down Maplewood Avenue. There had to be a direction I could turn, I thought. There must be a place I could go where I would not have to hear what the man on the phone was going to tell me. Going west on Thirty-eighth led downtown, past a coffee shop, a piñata store, and the Fiesta grocery. If I turned east, I would hit Patterson park and pool and the neighborhood surrounding it. I chose east, and began to sprint.

Gerry came outside. I head him yell, “Lauren!” I didn’t turn around. “Lauren!” called Gerry. “Come back, Lauren!”

I was barefoot, but I kept going. I felt the blood pumping through my body. I turned onto Ashwood Road, passing broken-down houses, very nice houses, yards that were cared for and yards that were a mess. I ran without a destination in mind, just away, just away.

But Gerry was faster. He overtook me at the corner of Ashwood and Green, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me down. I fought him, I screamed, I bit his arm and said, “No, no, no!”

“Stop,” whispered Gerry. “Stay still,” he said, “shhhh.”

“Please,” I said, looking into his clear blue eyes.

“They found him,” said Gerry. “They found Alex. He’s alive.”