Close Your Eyes

4

Everyone loves their siblings. Gerry has a brother and a sister, and when the three of them get together, it’s like a reunited tribe—Gerry gets giddy, goofy, he’s completely understood. But I can scarcely describe how I felt when I first heard Alex’s voice on the phone from Baghdad. It was as if I’d completed the most arduous journey, and was taking my last steps toward a golden door.

I began crying as Gerry handed me the phone.

“Is this Lauren?” Alex’s voice was shaky, confused in a way that reminded me of Gramma.

“Alex,” I said, and my voice broke.

“Lauren,” said my brother. “Alex,” I repeated, and then we were quiet. There was nothing else to say.

I called Gramma after Alex’s nurse made him hang up the phone. When I told her Alex was okay and coming back to Texas, she said, “That’s the best news I’ve had all week.”

Alex came home on Thanksgiving Day. You would think he’d have a parade to welcome him, trumpet players and high-stepping girls in bright skirts. But it was only Gerry and me, clutching helium balloons and a six-pack of Shiner in the arrivals area. We watched the escalator silently.

I almost didn’t recognize my brother. He was very thin—emaciated. He wore loose clothing, so the change was most pronounced in his face. His skin was discolored and raw. I guess I had imagined he’d be the same.

Alex stood on the escalator, not running to greet us, not even scanning the crowd. He didn’t have the floral duffel or his books; all that was gone. As we approached Alex, he looked up. When he saw me, his face brightened, and I began to cry. “Why the hell are you crying?” said Alex.

“I thought you were dead,” I said.

Alex shook his head tiredly. When I hugged him, he hugged me back. “I’m not dead,” he said.

We drove home on Airport Boulevard. Alex was silent in the passenger seat. He opened a can of beer but took only a few sips. He stared at the pawnshops, strip clubs, gas stations. “I called your landlord,” I said. “I told her to kick out the new guy. Or girl. I told her you’re home.”

“I can find another place,” said Alex.

“Oh,” I said.

“What do you want for dinner?” said Gerry.

Alex shrugged.

“I know!” I said. “Crown and Anchor. Your favorite. Cheeseburgers for Thanksgiving!”

“Okay,” said Alex.

“Don’t order wine there,” said Gerry. “Remember, Lauren?”

“Right,” I said. “I once ordered wine there and it was terrible! A mini-bottle. They just unscrewed the little cap and handed it to me.”

Gerry chuckled desperately. “Right,” he said. “That was really funny.”

“It was so funny!” I said.

Alex didn’t respond. Gerry took a left on Thirty-eighth Street, then another left on Duval. The Crown and Anchor was packed—students spilled into the parking lot, drinking beers and throwing Frisbees for dogs. We parked on Harris Park Avenue and walked over. Alex’s hands were in his pockets. He seemed folded into himself.

There were no tables available, so we ordered glasses of beer and stood between a pool table and the dartboard, sipping and ducking to avoid being hit. “This is really not relaxing,” said Alex after a while. The music in the pub was loud. It sounded like Pearl Jam, but I wasn’t sure if it was Pearl Jam. It might have been John Mayer trying to sound like Pearl Jam.

“Do you want to leave?” I said.

“I don’t know,” said Alex.

“Let’s go,” said Gerry. “Come with me.” He put his beer down on the bar, and Alex and I followed him out the door. In the parking lot, Gerry said, “Eat or drink?” to Alex.

Alex lifted his bony shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Al,” said Gerry.

“Both,” said Alex.

“Done,” said Gerry. We got back in the car, and Gerry drove south on Lamar, all the way to Artz Rib House. “Wait here,” he said. He went inside.

“Are you okay?” I said, once Alex and I were alone. “You seem kind of down.”

“I’m just getting used to it all again,” said Alex.

“Can you believe it,” I said, “about Dad?”

“I knew all along,” said Alex.

“I know you did,” I said.

“Have you talked to him?” asked Alex.

“Yeah,” I said. “Every day, actually.”

“Me, too,” said Alex. I looked out the window at a man in only a thong bicycling up Lamar, at a dog gnawing a rib in the parking lot. “Now I guess I need a new mission in life,” he said.

“Or you could relax awhile,” I said. “I’m actually pretty happy hanging around. I made pasta from scratch last night. But Handsome ate half the noodles while I was taking a shower.”

Alex nodded seriously. “Ah,” he said. “There is rapture to be found in the ordinary.”

If he wanted to be pretentious, he had certainly earned the right, so I bit my lip. “You need to eat,” I said after a minute. “You’re really skinny.”

“I know,” said Alex. He had been knocked out by the bomb blasts, burned badly on the face, and transported with many of the sick and injured to a small hospital over an hour from the city. It had been complete mayhem, and patients from Ibn Sina had been relocated wherever beds could be found. Things moved slowly, and a month later, some Iraqis were still unidentified. Unbelievably, it wasn’t noted that Alex’s comatose body was American. Maybe because of his Arabic tattoo, no one connected Alex to the missing American doctor the State Department was trying desperately to find.

“It just seems impossible,” I said to Alex on the phone, the day before he flew back to Texas.

“A clerical error,” said Alex. His laugh was bitter.

“I guess they happen everywhere,” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just want to come home.”

When Alex had finally come to, he was disoriented, bandages covering much of his healing face. A nurse spoke to him in Arabic, and he was confused and frightened. But then Alex remembered who he was, and spoke his name.

Gerry came out of Artz, carrying two big bags. He got in the car. “Now more beer,” he said. Neither Alex nor I answered him. Gerry drove to Barton Springs Road, stopped at a gas mart, and ran inside. When he returned, he handed me a six-pack of lemonade. Then he drove to Zilker, paid three dollars, and parked. “Come on,” he said. “Carry something.”

Trailing Gerry, we went to the water. Gerry paid for a canoe and tossed paddles and life preservers inside. The river was shot with golden light; we slid the canoe down the bank. The metal seat burned my thighs, but I said nothing. Gerry and Alex paddled toward the Congress Avenue Bridge. Once we were underneath and could smell the guano, Gerry passed around cold cans and hot meat.

The brisket was perfectly cooked, tender and slightly sweet with sauce. I ate sausage links, pickles, smoked turkey. Gerry had remembered that Alex liked the giant pork ribs. We finished the beans and the potato salad. Alex ate listlessly, then with vigor.

The sun went down slowly, and still we waited by the edge of the bridge. The sky turned scarlet, deep blue, the orange of a marigold. Gerry touched my hair. Alex almost looked happy, one hand in the water and one around a beer. The paddle rested on his lap. “Here they come,” he said, looking up.

It was like another river twisting toward the heavens: the bats—hundreds of them, thousands. A flood of beating wings, streaming above us, breathtaking. They flew from the bridge into the fire-colored night, looking for food. Above us, people clapped and shouted. The bats came out every night, but you would never know it from the cries of celebration. I looked at my brother, and he had tears in his eyes.

“And now,” said Gerry, reaching into the last bag and handing us plastic spoons, “bread pudding for dessert.”

“With brandy sauce?” asked Alex. I looked at Gerry, hope like a balloon in my chest.

“Of course with brandy sauce,” said my love.