Free Close Your Eyes by Amanda Eyre Ward Page B

in the world when it was time,” she said. As my mother took out her chef’s knife, she always said, “See? Your father was right after all.”
    My father had been true to his word—after he had sold his first poem to the literary journal The Cottonwood Review , he had gone to the Stamford mall and bought my mother the most expensive Wüsthofs. The Cottonwood Review paid Izaan thirty dollars and five free copies of the magazine; the set of knives had cost four hundred fifty dollars. But it was the thought that counted—Izaan had arrived and could buy his wife the best.
    I always felt that she was leaving something out. What “big mistakes” had my father made? When I asked, my mother said that it had taken my father a while to figure out who he wanted to be.

    “What do you suppose she meant by that?” asked Jane.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess that’s why I remembered the story. It never really made sense.”
    “Did anyone else ever talk about your father making big mistakes?”
    “I don’t … No,” I said. As I spoke, the room grew hazy. I knew there wasn’t really any smoke, so I tried to stay calm. But what if the building were on fire? I felt my lungs, too large, in my rib cage. I wheezed, trying to get enough oxygen.
    “Lauren? Our session is almost over. Are you feeling all right?”
    I sat up straight, the smoke dissipating. “I’m fine,” I said. “I just … I can’t think of what to say next.”
    “You don’t have to say anything. You can use this space to be with your thoughts, if you like.”
    I shuddered. With my thoughts was the last place I wanted to be.
    “What do you mean by that?” said Jane.
    “What?” I said.
    “Being with your thoughts, you said. You said it was the last place you wanted to be. What did you mean by that?”
    “Oh, jeez,” I said. “My thoughts! They’re so …”
    Jane cocked her head, giving me the interested-sparrow look.
    “They’re so … They hurt,” I said.
    “Your thoughts hurt you?” said Jane.
    “I think if I let myself feel it all,” I said, “I’d be in so much … It would hurt so much. Too much. So I just … I go on. I make plans and watch TV.”
    Jane looked down. She seemed sad. She looked back up and said, “Are you feeling all right to leave?”
    “Yes, sure,” I said. “I’m fine.”

11
    That night, after work, I headed to the Elephant Room to meet Gerry and listen to some jazz. I found a spot outside Manuel’s, and as I locked the car, I peered into the dim restaurant, watching a man lift a nacho to his mouth. Up Congress Avenue, the capitol building was illuminated, glowing against the evening sky.
    I crossed the street and opened the door to a staircase. I could hear horns as I descended, and I breathed in the smells of whiskey and floor wax. Sitting in front of the stage, sipping a drink, was Gerry. He wore jeans and the blue sweater I’d bought him for his birthday. He leaned across a candle toward a very pretty woman. The woman told a joke, wrapping wheat-colored curls around her finger, and Gerry laughed. He looked happier than he’d looked in some time.
    “Hey,” I said, approaching the table.
    “Lauren,” said Gerry, standing, “this is Rose.”
    “Nice to meet you,” said Rose.
    “Likewise,” I said. “What are you guys drinking?”
    “Scotch,” they said in unison. I ordered a beer. Rose, it turned out, was a jazz singer. When the set began, she sat on the edge of a wooden stool, leaning toward the microphone. Her voice was low and sultry.
    “Maybe you’d be happier with someone like Rose,” I said to Gerry after I’d had a few beers.
    Gerry put his arm around me, but said, “Maybe.”
    That night, when I thought he was asleep, I whispered, “Gerry, why do you stay with me?”
    He tightened his hold on me and whispered back, “You make life more interesting. And you love me.”
    I was silent, letting his kindness settle over me like a blanket.

12
    There is a deep blue