Eyes Wide Open Read online

  Eyes Wide Open

  Andrew Gross

  Dedication

  To Alex Jeffrey Gross, his memory and brief life

  Epigraph

  Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true,

  or is it something worse . . .

  —Bruce Springsteen, “The River”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part II

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Part III

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Part IV

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Andrew Gross

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Sherry Ann Frazier knew she’d seen him somewhere before.

  The gaunt, sharply cut edge of his jaw. The narrow, dimly lit eyes, staring back at her. The probing intensity of his crooked smile.

  Maybe on a trip somewhere, or at an airport. You know how you pass by someone you might never see again and yet their face is permanently implanted in your mind. Or maybe she’d seen him at her shop. People were always coming in . . . She’d seen him before—that much she knew. Definitely.

  She just couldn’t remember where.

  She was packing her groceries into her hatchback in the lot outside Reg’s Market in the town of Redmond, Michigan. On Lake Superior on the Upper Peninsula. Sherry had a bakery there, a couple of blocks off the lake. Muffins, zucchini bread, brownies. And the best damn apple crisps on the UP, according to the Redmond Crier.

  She called them Eve’s Undoing—a temptation no one could resist.

  He was simply staring. Leaning in the entrance to Singer’s Pharmacy, next door. Looking very out of place. He never took his eyes off her. Initially, it gave her the chills, but nothing bad or creepy ever seemed to happen in Redmond. Maybe he was a workman at one of the marinas. Or a war veteran down on his luck. The town always had a few of those; they made their way up here in the summer, when the place was filled with vacationers. She always gave them a treat. Everyone has dignity, Sherry always maintained. Everyone was always loved by someone in their life.

  In Redmond, the biggest worry was losing value on the Canadian “loonies” the tourists came here to spend.

  Aware of him, she felt herself hurrying to fill up the car. Then she wheeled back the cart, telling herself not to make eye contact.

  As she climbed in her Saab she allowed herself a final glance in the rearview mirror.

  He was still watching her.

  That’s when she had the sense that she had seen him somewhere before.

  Sherry was fifty-two, youthful, still pretty, she knew, in a bohemian sort of way. She didn’t wear much makeup; she still kept her hair braided back from her days as a flower child. Still wore peasant blouses and kept herself thin. She was single again. Tom and she had divorced, though like a lot of people in her life, they remained good friends. She took art classes and yoga, studied Reiki. She fancied herself a bit of an energy healer. She even did work in Healing/Touch in the pediatric ward at the hospital in town.

  Maybe that was it. Sherry brushed away her goose bumps. Maybe he just found her attractive. A lot of people did.

  As soon as she pulled out of the lot and onto Kent Street, she remembered why she was there. Her daughter, Krista, was driving up from Ohio with her little four-year-old “muffin,” Kayla. Sherry had closed the shop early and had brought home some carrot muffins and cinnamon buns. She picked up Shrek Forever After and Finding Nemo. She headed out of town and put the man at the market behind her.

  An hour later Sherry was at the house, a converted red barn out on Route 141. Her kitchen was filled with copper pans and her famous coffee mug collection, old Beatles and Cat Stevens albums, and an RCA record player her granddaughter referred to as a “wheelie.”

  Along with Boomer, her old chocolate Lab.

  She was up to her elbows in pie crust. Krista had called a while back and said they’d be arriving in another hour. The kitchen door was open; they were in the midst of a late summer heat wave and in this old house, she needed any breeze she could find. She was listening to NPR on the radio, a discussion about end-of-life medical treatment and how much it was costing. Sherry wasn’t sure where she came down on the issue, as long as you could ease people’s suffering.

  Suddenly Boomer started barking.

  Usually it was a car pulling up in the driveway, or maybe the UPS truck, which often came around this time. Sherry wiped her hands on her apron. Maybe Krista had surprised her and gotten there early. She was just the kind to do that.

  “Boomer!” she called excitedly, hurrying to the front door.

  She looked, but no one was there.

  She didn’t even see the dog anywhere. Not that that mattered—the old boy didn’t go anywhere anymore. He could barely crawl onto his mat and take a nap.

  Then she heard a yelp from out back.

  “Boomer?”

  At his age, Sherry knew a jackrabbit could scare the dog half to death. She left
the front door ajar and went back into the kitchen. She wanted to have the pie done by the time the girls arrived. Get that mama into the oven . . .

  As she got back to the table, her eyes were drawn to the floor.

  “Boomer!”

  The old dog was on his side, panting, unable to move. Sherry ran over and kneeled beside him. “Poor boy . . . Not now, baby, I’m not ready for this.” She stroked his face. “Krista and Kayla are on their way . . .”

  She ran her hand along his neck and drew it back, startled.

  Warm, sticky blood was all over her palm.

  “Boomer, what in God’s name happened?”

  Suddenly she heard the shuffle of footsteps from behind her. She looked up.

  Someone was there.

  A man was in her doorway. He just stood there, leaning on the door frame.

  Her heart almost came up her throat when she realized just who it was. It was the man she had seen at Reg’s Market.

  A shiver of fear ricocheted through her. What could he possibly be doing here?

  She looked at Boomer, the dog’s blood on her hands, and glared back at him. “What the hell have you done?”

  The man just stood there grinning, leaning against the door. “Hello, Sherry.”

  She stood up, focusing on his face, years tumbling back, like a fog lifting over the pines and the lake coming into view.

  Her hand shot to her mouth. “Mal?”

  It had been such a long time ago. More than thirty years, a part of her life she had long buried. Or thought she had. Forever. She never thought she’d see any of them again. Or have to account for what she’d done. She was just a crazy kid back then . . .

  “It’s been a while, huh, doll?” His dark eyes gleamed.

  “What are you doing here, Mal?”

  “Making amends.” He winked. “Long overdue, wouldn’t you say? The master of the house—you remember that, don’t you, Sherry? Well, he’s come home.”

  He was grinning, teeth twisted, that same unsettling grin she had seen at the market, tapping something in his palm.

  It was a knife. A knife with blood all over it.

  Boomer’s blood.

  Sherry’s heart started to pound. Her eyes shot to her dog, whose chest had now stopped moving. A chill sliced through her, and with it, a terror she hadn’t known in years.

  The man stepped inside, kicking the screen door closed.

  “So tell me”—he smiled, tap-tap-tapping his blade—“what’ve you been up to all these years, hon?”

  PART I

  Chapter One

  A myriad of lights flickered brightly in the distance. The whoosh of the surf cascading against the rocks was only a far-off whisper hundreds of feet below.

  From up here, the lights all seemed just like candles to him. Millions of candles! Like the whole world had all come out and assembled before him, an endless procession at his feet.

  It made him smile. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He had always wondered what it would be like from up here—the gigantic mound of rock, miles and miles of coastline stretching below.

  Now he knew.

  You could probably see all the way to L.A., the boy imagined. He was no longer a boy really, he was twenty-one—though sometimes he still felt like one.

  What are the voices saying to you now?

  He stepped out closer to the ledge. “They’re saying this is where I was meant to be.”

  He had made the climb up hours ago, before it got dark, to be alone with his thoughts. To calm the noise that was always in his head. To see . . . And now it was just so beautiful. And all the voices had quieted except one.

  His angel, he called her. The one voice he could trust.

  Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? the angel asked him.

  “No, I haven’t.” He looked down at the lights of the small coastal town. “Never.”

  Waves crashed against the jagged rocks below. His heart picked up excitedly. “I can see the whole world.”

  Yes, it’s all there for you.

  He hadn’t taken his meds today. Usually that made him a little foggy, his thoughts jumbled. But today, maybe for the first time ever, his mind was clear. Completely clear. “I feel just like Jesus.”

  Maybe you are, his angel answered.

  “Then maybe I should just return from where I came. Maybe God wants me back. Maybe that’s what I’m feeling.”

  You’re not meant for this world, the voice replied. You’re smarter. You were destined for greater things. You’ve always known that, right?

  Yes. The voice was soothing and close to his ear. His heart began to pound like the surf. There’s only one way to find out . . .

  He took another step, closer to the edge, the darkness surrounding him. The breeze brushed against his face. “That feels good. I feel good. I feel good about this.”

  Just spread your arms, his angel instructed him.

  “Like wings?” He opened his arms wide. “You mean like this?”

  Yes, just like that. Now think of heading home. The pain you will no longer be feeling. You see those lights? They’re all so beautiful, aren’t they?

  “They are!”

  Beneath him, a piece of the ledge broke loose. It took several seconds until he heard the sound of it breaking apart on the craggy rocks below. He stepped back, fear springing up in him. “I’m scared.”

  Don’t be. This is the moment it’s all been leading to. All these years. You know this, don’t you?

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I know . . .”

  Then open your arms. Just let the wind caress your face. Let the darkness take you. It’s easy . . .

  “I feel it!” the boy said. He spread his arms. “I do.”

  Feel how loving its touch is. How free of pain. You’ve been in so much pain lately.

  “I have been. Yes, I have.”

  It would be good to be rid of the pain, just for once. To stop the voices. To stop feeling he was letting everyone down. He knew how much of a burden he was. To his parents. To everyone who had expectations of him. The absence of pain is heaven, isn’t it? Heaven. That would be nice. To finally be free of it.

  Then just reach out, the angel said. Let it take you. Like the wind. Just think of heading home. That’s all it is. You can do that, can’t you?

  “I think so,” he said, nodding. “I think so.”

  Sucking in a breath, he stepped farther out on the edge, his pulse picking up speed. Only the cushion of darkness beneath him. The welcoming sound of the surf far below. How incredibly peaceful it all was. And those candles, so beautiful . . .

  So this was it . . .

  “I’m so sorry!” he shouted to the panoply of lights. To his mother and father. He knew how much this would hurt and disappoint them.

  “Like an angel . . .” he said, shutting his eyes. A final cacophony built in his brain. He stretched out his arms wide, palms in the air.

  “Like this . . . ?”

  Yes, just like that, the angel said.

  Then fly.

  Chapter Two

  The gal in the white lace sundress was as sexy as I’d ever seen.

  She had shoulder-length, sandy-blond hair, a little tangled and windswept. Eyes as blue and inviting as a Caribbean cove, the kind you could dive right into. A strap of her dress dangled loosely off her shoulder, exposing the shape of her breast, and she smiled, bashful yet unconcerned. The second I laid my eyes on her I remembered thinking, Now there’s the woman I’ve been waiting for all these years. The one I could live with forever.

  And as I stumbled down across the dunes to the ocean, lugging the bottle of Veuve Clicquot and our meal, the lights from our beach house washing over her face, I said for about the millionth time in the past twenty years just how lucky I was that I had.

  “Get down here,” Kathy called. “There’s not much time before I start to freeze my butt off and the whole thing’s ruined.”

  “You know, a little help might do the tr
ick,” I yelled back.

  I was balancing the champagne, the bowl of fresh pasta I had just topped off with truffles and butter, and my iPod speaker. The blanket was already laid out on the sand—the “table” set, the candles lit, re-creating that night from twenty years ago.

  Our wedding night.

  No fancy party or trip. Just us, for a change. Both of our kids were away. The truth was, we rarely even celebrated our anniversary, not since our daughter, Sophie, was born a year later on the very same day. August 28. But this year she was already at Penn and our sixteen-year-old, Max, was at fall lacrosse camp before school began.

  We were at our beach house in Amagansett, basically just a cozy cape house nestled into the Hampton dunes.

  “Yow, sand crab!” I yelped, hopping onto a foot and almost pitching the tray.

  “You drop that bowl, mister, and you can forget about whatever you have in mind for later!” Kathy jumped up, taking the pasta from me and setting it on the blanket, where she had laid out a hand-printed menu, bamboo place mats, fluted champagne glasses, and candles. There were even little name cards.

  I looked closer and noticed that they were from Annette’s, up in Vermont, where we’d had our wedding.

  The very same name cards—with the same little blue ribbons—but this time they were inscribed with the words: “To my wonderful husband. For 20 beautiful years.”

  I have to admit, my heart crumbled just a bit on that one. “Nice touch.”

  “Thought you’d enjoy that one. Sophie did the lettering. Not to mention letting us have the day.”

  “Remind me later to thank her,” I said. I sat down and started to pour some champagne. “Wait—almost forgot!” I connected the speaker to my iPod and pushed the play arrow. “My contribution!”

  Bob Seger’s “We’ve Got Tonight” spread over the beach. It wasn’t really “our song”; it was played a lot back then when we started getting cozy with each other at college. I was never the big romantic or anything. Kathy always said she had a thirty-second window to hold my hand before I would let go.

  “So happy anniversary,” I said. I leaned in close to kiss her.

  “Say it first,” she said, keeping me at bay.