Close Your Eyes (13 page)

“Love you!” cried Victoria, hanging up.

Sylvia held the pay phone for a while, knowing that when she set down the heavy receiver, she would have to reevaluate her flimsy plans.

She turned around, and the man in the cowboy hat was staring. “What?” she asked.

“Not a thing,” said the man. “I’m just eating my Southwest Salad.”

“Hmm,” said Sylvia. “I’m going for the Quarter Pounder with cheese myself.”

“I don’t blame you, miss,” said the man. “Can’t say I blame you a-tall.”

When Sylvia reboarded, the bus was completely full. She squeezed next to a heavyset woman. The woman began playing ballads so loudly on her iPod that the whole bus could hear. Sylvia found herself soaking in the profundity of Bonnie Raitt’s wisdom:
I can’t make you love me if you don’t
.

What could Sylvia have done differently along the way to have ended up somewhere else—somewhere like Paris, maybe, or Omaha, Nebraska? On HGTV the week before, she had watched a young couple shop for their first home in Charleston, South Carolina. That seemed like a good place, with a simple yet mellifluous name: Charleston.

Sylvia wanted to be loved.

She and Ray had started out strong. He was much older, and she’d admired his tweedy jackets, which had circular suede patches on the elbows. He wore his graying hair combed back, a lion’s mane. He had authority, and he smelled like tangerines. He was an elegant skier, and everyone in town knew him and spoke admiringly of his animal portraits. For months Sylvia thought he had actually read some of the leather-bound books in his house. (In his defense, when she asked, he freely admitted that he had bought the whole collection from an antique store to “make things look distinguished.”)

Your whole life could change in an instant, Sylvia mused. Certainly, she had never guessed that the time she’d rolled over and said, “Okay, but make it quick, hon” (half asleep while Ray yanked at her nightgown) would be the moment she’d become a mother. Who knew? She hadn’t even had an orgasm.

The first time Ray had asked her to get rid of a baby, Sylvia had been thirty. When she saw the lines on the pregnancy test from the 7-Eleven, she wasn’t sure how she felt. She told Ray over dinner at Campo de Fiori, and he poured her a glass of Chianti and said, “I think I’ve told you how I feel about babies, Sylvia.”

“I know,” she’d said. “Right. So I guess that means—”

“Yes,” said Ray. “I’ll make an appointment. It doesn’t hurt, but you should take a few days off. You’ll get pretty worked up and cry a lot.”

“You talk like you’ve been through this before,” said Sylvia.

Ray leaned over the table to kiss her on the forehead. “I’m twelve years older than you,” he said without further explanation.

The second time she was thirty-seven and tried to argue Ray out of the abortion. “This might be my last chance to be a mother,” she’d said.

“I think you’d better decide whether you want me or a baby,” said Ray. “I’m trying to be impartial, dear, though I hope you’ll choose me.” Sylvia had chosen Ray and another horrible visit to the Aspen Valley Hospital, followed by a home-cooked meal. (He’d made the same meal as the time before! Meat loaf and garlic mashed potatoes.)

Four years later, Sylvia had stopped taking the pill. When she began to feel her breasts swell and her sense of smell sharpen—she’d yelled at one of the personal trainers for making microwave popcorn that made the membership office stink for days—she bought a test and took it at work in the ladies’ locker room. Listening to a group of women chatter in the hot tub, Sylvia saw that she was pregnant. This time, without hesitation, she chose the baby.

Sylvia watched the oncoming cars as the bus barreled along. She leaned back in her seat and listened to her seatmate’s next selection, Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide.” Despite the brush-off, Sylvia knew they had been friends for too long for Victoria to refuse her. They were bound, like sisters.

5

When they were nine, Sylvia and Victoria spent the night in Central Park. Earlier that day, Victoria had handed Sylvia a note as they parted ways after school. On the subway, Sylvia had unfolded it.

Belvedere Castle, midnight tonight, under the dragon. I dare you
.

Ever since they had studied the history of Central Park, the public expanse of land that ran from Fifty-ninth Street to 110th Street and between Fifth Avenue and Central Park West, spanning over eight hundred acres, Sylvia had been obsessed with Belvedere Castle. Built in 1865, the castle now served as a weather station. When you climbed to the turret, the highest point in the park, you gained a panoramic view in every direction. The first time Pauline took Sylvia up, Sylvia stood in the afternoon sunlight—shading her eyes to see the Delacorte Theater, the Great Lawn, Turtle Pond—and felt an unfamiliar but thrilling sentiment: power.

Power was something Sylvia had very little of. Pauline controlled Sylvia’s every move outside of school, and Victoria basically told Sylvia what to wear and whom to speak to during the day. Maybe it was to get some measure of strength that Sylvia had begun leaving bugs and even a dead bird in Victoria’s locker. When Victoria ran to Sylvia, almost in tears over the latest disgusting discovery, Sylvia held her friend, savoring the feeling of comforting someone, taking care. In idle moments, Sylvia tried to figure out what sort of shock might lead Victoria to need her even more.

When their class had taken a trip to Central Park, Sylvia had led Victoria away from the group. “Please,” she’d begged. “I want to go to Belvedere Castle.” The chaperoning teacher was distracted, and the girls easily broke away. They held hands as they followed a paper map, eventually reaching the stone building. Above the castle entry was a giant dragon made of metal: an eagle’s face, a serpent’s tail, the wings of a giant bat. “That’s freaky,” said Victoria.

“I love it,” said Sylvia.

It was clammy inside the castle. Sylvia reached out to touch the stone wall, and it was rough and cold. The air smelled of grass and something darker, like rust. The bright afternoon disappeared, replaced by a murky light. Sylvia could still taste her peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich in her mouth.

The girls ignored the tourists peering at skeletons and telescopes (the castle also served as a nature observatory and museum) and climbed to the turret. Their footsteps were heavy and loud in the enclosed space, but the observation tower was flooded with light. As Sylvia stood next to her friend, taking in the view, she wondered—just for an instant—how it would feel to push Victoria off the edge and watch her fall.

The night of Victoria’s dare, Pauline went to bed late, leaving the television on in her bedroom. Sylvia had packed a backpack with a blanket, bread, and one of Pauline’s Coca-Colas. She shouldered the pack and quietly let herself out of the apartment. Her hallway was empty, but she could hear someone shouting on the second floor. Sylvia waited for the shouting to stop, and then she ran downstairs, pushing open the door to East Eleventh Street, which was alive with music and neon lights. No one—not the druggies sitting on the sidewalk, not the man at the newspaper kiosk, not the guitar strummer at the entrance to the subway station—no one noticed Sylvia or asked her what on earth a nine-year-old was doing out of her apartment in the middle of the night. She walked to Greenwich Village, slipped a token into the turnstile.

Sylvia was nervous as she waited for a train in the deserted subway station. Her eyes darted to every shadow, worried that someone would hurt her, push her down. She was ready to fight back: they had learned from a self-defense video in gym class to grab for an assailant’s ear or try to break his or her nose. A group of loud kids in nylon jackets walked by Sylvia, yelling and punching one another, but they did not pay her any mind.

Finally, her train appeared on the track, its lights blazing. Sylvia stepped back as the train halted, the smell of the brakes burning in her nose. There was a man slumped into the corner of the car—asleep? drugged?—but Sylvia sat down far away from him, watching the empty stations as they passed. She got off at Seventy-ninth Street.

It was quieter uptown, and smelled as if a heavy rain had cleansed the pavement while Sylvia was underground. As Sylvia entered the park, her backpack heavy on her shoulders, she heard a woman crying on a bench but ignored her.

It was a spring evening, and the air tasted of asphalt. Jutting out from Vista Rock, the castle loomed large and dark. Sylvia moved toward it quickly, trying not to think about who could grab her, about the stories of murder and rape that Pauline read aloud every day from the newspaper, saying, “Sylvia, listen to this!
This
is why you come straight home after school …”

She reached the doorway of the castle and squinted, but Victoria was nowhere to be seen. Sylvia was exhausted, the small thrill of a midnight liaison completely faded. She figured she’d wait for a few minutes—and then what? She’d get back on the subway. But the thought of the Union Square station in the dead of night made her stomach heavy.

“Sylvia!” Victoria’s voice came from a shadowed area to the right of the castle.

Sylvia narrowed her eyes but saw nothing. “Vee?” she hissed.

“Over here,” said Victoria.

Sylvia crept toward the sound, hoping her vision would adjust and she could find her way. After a few steps, she saw a shadowy light, and behind a tree, she found Victoria. Somehow, Victoria had smuggled her expensive pink bedspread out of her apartment and spread it out on the ground. She held a lit candle. “You came,” said Victoria, her smile dazzling. “I knew you would. Look!” She lifted a cardboard bakery box. “Chocolate cake!”

All Sylvia’s fears dissipated as she sank down next to her friend. They ate the rich fudge cake with their fingers and drank Pauline’s soda. Then they snuggled under the bedspread, and Victoria blew out the candle. The sky above them was a velvet cape embroidered with diamonds, and Sylvia was filled with an unfamiliar sense of peace. It was so nice to be sleeping outside, not in her stuffy closet space. Victoria took a length of Sylvia’s blond hair and braided it together with her own. She said something softly, and Sylvia said, “Mmmm?”

“I love you,” said Victoria.

Happiness washed over Sylvia. She fell into a deep sleep, perhaps the most complete sleep of her life.

That year for her birthday, Victoria gave Sylvia a silver bracelet with a single charm: a winged dragon. “I got one, too,” said Victoria, latching it around Sylvia’s wrist. “You can never take it off, no matter what. Promise?”

“I promise,” said Sylvia.

6

Victoria and Sylvia began solving mysteries in Grade IV. Mae bought Victoria anything she wanted, so when she showed a bit of interest in Nancy Drew, all thirty-two books were individually wrapped underneath the Bright family Christmas tree. Victoria and Sylvia read them in order and voraciously, relishing Nancy’s thrilling life, titian hair, and handsome boyfriend, Ned.

The first of their own mysteries they tackled was the Case of the Break Room. At lunchtime they ate under the supervision of Lark Academy aides; Victoria and Sylvia were curious about where the teachers went during these twenty-five minutes. What exactly happened behind the heavy oak door marked
STAFF ONLY
?

They made a plan. Sylvia would pretend to be ill (stomach poisoning, they decided), and while she distracted the aides with her moaning and eventual collapse, Victoria would run to the break room, twist the heavy knob, yell about Sylvia’s sickness, and gather evidence. Victoria had packed her supply kit inside one of Mae’s larger Coach purses: a magnifying glass, flashlight, French-English dictionary, apple, and a change of clothes, including underwear. (Nancy Drew was always getting dirty inside old castles and attics.)

Victoria gave Sylvia the wink just after they opened their lunches. “Oh!” Sylvia said loudly. “Oh, my stomach!” Jeanine Barrack, sitting next to her, raised an eyebrow.

“She’s really sick!” cried Victoria, running out of the cafeteria, her supply kit banging into her hip.

“Oooooh,” moaned Sylvia. “Oh, my stomach! I feel shooting pains and impending nausea!”

One of the aides, a young blond woman, came over to help. Sylvia recited all the symptoms she had memorized after consulting
Where There Is No Doctor
in the library, and she was sent to the nurse’s office. Lying on a cot, her face pressed against a pillow that smelled like mint, she began to actually feel sick. By the time Pauline arrived, her hair frizzed out, her cheeks pink from a rushed trip between Tiffany and Lark Academy, Sylvia felt downright awful. Pauline splurged on a taxi and said, “Poor baby,” but shrank back when Sylvia tried to lean in to her. Pauline did not like to be touched, at least by Sylvia.

At home, Pauline heated up a can of chicken noodle soup and made toast. Sylvia lay in her mother’s queen-size bed, guilt and gratitude swelling in her stomach like bread. Pauline served Sylvia on a tray, and then the phone rang. Sylvia heard Pauline laugh throatily and then say, “An unexpected gift from Sylvia, yes, exactly! Yes, yes, a half hour.” Pauline went into the bathroom and Sylvia heard the water running. Pauline emerged in a towel and changed into a lacy slip and a cotton dress with heels.