Free Close Your Eyes by Amanda Eyre Ward

read: Nobody could tell. Still, he felt he knew her, could see her heart through her silk blouse. Her heart, her ribs, her nipples .
    My face grew flushed. From upstairs, I heard a laugh, then Betty saying warmly, “You old fuddy-duddy, you!”
    When the Hendrixes came down, I went over a few more listings with them and relayed Jonesey’s cocktail invitation. The Hendrixes accepted. By the time we walked past the blond doorman again, something had warmed between them: they seemed to be enjoying themselves.
    That night, after dropping the tipsy Hendrixes at their hotel, Gerry and I took Lamar Boulevard home. I drove, and Gerry rested his hand on my knee. I wondered if we would ever be as ill at ease around each other as the Hendrixes. I did feel often far away from Gerry, but I assumed this was normal. It was what I wanted. I had found a good man who wanted a simple sort of joy. Wasn’t this love?

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