In the Distance There Is Light (10 page)

“Some of those things can be arranged, some I would advise against.” She smiles broadly and it feels as though the brightness of her smile clears some more of my headache. “Why don’t we go see a movie instead? It’ll get us out of the house. We can go out to dinner after.”

“Didn’t you have that thing this afternoon?” Dolores always has so many plans, I can’t keep up, but I distinctly remember her telling me that she would be out this afternoon.

“I cancelled last night. I wasn’t very interested in seeing that play, anyway. And matinees aren’t really my thing. I don’t like the sort of crowd it draws.”

“Snobbish, much?” I joke in a way I usually wouldn’t with Dolores.

She still has a soft smile on her face. “I have standards, that’s all.”

Silence falls and we both just keep lying there. I’m aware of the extreme intimacy of these minutes we’ve just spent chatting in bed. It’s precious and healing and makes me feel like a human being again.

“Which art house movie would Lady Flemming like to see?” I turn on my side and look her straight in the face.

“Something with subtitles, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

We mirror smiles at each other and, as the sun beams brightly into the bedroom, illuminating Dolores from behind, a short silence descends again, and I feel something has changed between us. This joking. This lingering in bed. It’s deeper than the grief we shared initially. There’s a charge in the air. It’s in her smile, but also in mine. Our smiles are real, coming from an unexpected place of joy, no matter how fleeting or flimsy, within us. Perhaps we’re both acknowledging, at the same time, that, together, we can find a way out of this dread.

Dolores raises her hand and pushes a stray strand of hair away from my face. “I missed you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “More than I thought I would.” Her fingers linger close to my cheek, then she brushes them against my skin.

I push my cheek against her fingers, wanting to feel more of her touch. “I missed you too.” The words barely make it out of my throat. I have no idea what’s going on here, what to make of this. My right hand glides to her belly, my fingers grab for her top. And in a moment where I lose complete control of my faculties, I pull her close, bring my hand underneath her tank top, feel the hot skin of her belly against my fingers, her hand against my cheek, and I kiss her full on the lips.

I don’t know why. It’s not something I’ve ever considered for a split second of my life. It just happens, as a result of this moment, and the ones we’ve been having before. One minute we’re just talking, the next I’m kissing her.

When my mind takes over again from whatever had seized control of my senses, I pull back. “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry. I—I really didn’t—” I stammer, but I can’t move. Dolores is still so close, her skin radiating its heat onto mine.

“It’s okay. There’s no one here to judge you, Sophie.” She brings her thumb to my jaw and just leaves it there, not breaking contact.

Then I burst out laughing. “Jesus, Dolores. I must still be drunk.” I pull away from her completely, ending this moment of insanity. “I don’t know what came over me.” I throw the covers off me, but she grabs my hand.

“We can talk about this. It doesn’t have to be something more than it is.”

“I’d better get up.” Flustered, because I have no idea what’s happening to me—all I know is that I need to get out of this room—I jump out of bed and hurry to the guest bedroom. I crash down onto the bed, dazed, trying to figure out what just happened.

I kissed Dolores.

Chapter Sixteen

After I’ve taken a shower and calmed myself down, I sit at my desk. I pull the folder in which I keep my letters to Ian from a drawer and stare at them. But all I can really think of is my lips on Dolores’. The soft familiarity of them, the ease with which I pulled her close, as though it had been in the stars since that first night I ended up in her bed. What must she think of me now? That I’ve wanted to kiss her all along, while that couldn’t be further removed from the truth. And what did she imply when she said it didn’t have to be anything more than it was? Oh fuck. I’m going to have to talk to her. But what can I possibly say in my defense?

I look up and see my reflection in the computer screen. “She’s right, Sophie,” I tell myself. “It doesn’t mean anything. It was just grief expressing itself in another way. Pull yourself together.”

By the time I make it downstairs, Dolores is fully dressed and made-up. On Sundays she doesn’t primp herself up as much as on other days. She’s wearing jeans and a pink linen blouse. She sits at the kitchen table, reading
The Post
with her glasses on.

“Your mother is one of the most stunning women I’ve ever met,” I said to Ian once, after which he gave me a funny look, though I could tell there was a sense of pride in his glance as well.

Looking at Dolores now, I can hear myself say those words to him again. It’s not a beauty that has its root in the brands of make-up she uses and how, or in the expensive clothes she wears, it comes from inside of her. I know this for certain now because she looked just as beautiful in bed this morning. Why else would I have kissed her?

Dolores looks up over the thick rim of her glasses. “Breakfast?” she asks, as though I didn’t just kiss her.

I ignore her question. “I want to apologize for my behavior, Dolores. I have no idea what came over me, but I don’t want anything to change between us.” Though I can hardly expect her to let me back into her bed after the stunt I just pulled. “Can we please pretend it never happened? I had a very emotional night. I’m sure there’s some psychological explanation for it, but I’d rather not dwell on it.”

“Calm down, Sophie.” She takes off her glasses. “Sit down. Have some coffee.” She points to the place she set for me at the breakfast table, and it’s these little things, the small pieces of evidence of what she does for me, how she takes care of me, how she’s there for me in minor day-to-day things, that has helped me the most. What a fool I am to jeopardize that.

I sit and concentrate on pouring myself a cup of coffee. When I drink, I look her straight in the eyes.

“Don’t feel bad about what happened,” Dolores says. “If I recall correctly, I woke up with my body draped all over yours. We’re two human beings sharing a bed. These things happen.”

I put down my cup. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I have any ulterior motives for sleeping in your bed. The only reason is that I can’t face sleeping alone. Not just yet.”

“Oh, honey, of course I don’t think that.” She half-smiles.

“Do you, er, think this has been going on for too long? Us sleeping together?”

“Do
you
?” Dolores sounds a little offended, or maybe it’s just my imagination playing tricks on me. I really shouldn’t trust my brain, or my body, today.

“I don’t know. I can’t sleep in your bed forever.” I repeat Jeremy’s words from the other day, after which I recall the dread I felt when I merely stood at the threshold of his guest bedroom, at the thought of sleeping alone—as though sleeping has become this symbol for my grieving process. As though it has become the most telling part of the aftermath of Ian’s death.

“That would be a little strange, admittedly.” Dolores shoves her newspaper aside and reaches for my hand. I let her grab it. “Why don’t we say what this is really about? I’ll start, okay?”

Taken aback, I nod. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of trying to explain myself, even though I don’t have that much to say because of temporary insanity and such things.

“I won’t claim that what happened is perfectly normal, because for us, perfectly normal doesn’t exist anymore. Our entire world has been torn down in a flash and all we’re trying to do is make our way out from underneath the rubble. That’s it. By any means possible. What we’re doing now is merely surviving, until we can manage to find some pleasure and meaning in this life again. Which may take a while, months, years, decades. Who knows? But if a kiss can make you feel a little bit like your old self again, a little more human, a little more than the survivor you are now, then I’ll kiss you every day.” She pauses, starts to say something, then swallows her words.

While I find comfort in her words, and feel a little less ill at ease, I’m ashamed for the thought that makes its way to the forefront of my brain.
But you’re a lesbian, Dolores. I’m not.
I imagine that’s not the kind of straight-talking she had in mind.

“Whatever it takes,” I say, while I feel my cheeks flush.

“Now will you go to the movies with me this afternoon?” she asks.

“On a date, you mean?” My lips curve into a smile.

Dolores huffs out a chuckle. “Whatever it takes,” she says.

* * *

Ian,

You’re not going to believe this. I kissed your mother. I know. Please don’t judge. Oh, okay. You can judge. You should. I deserve it. We have this precious, fragile thing going on between us. This balance that we managed to find amidst all this loss and grief. I keep calling it comfort, but I guess it’s more than that. When you sleep in someone’s bed for more than two months, it has to be more than that.

I just haven’t been willing to let my mind go there, Ian. She’s your mother. The fact that she’s a lesbian hasn’t suddenly escaped me either. Not that it would be so different if she were straight. I don’t know. This morning I felt so mortified, but less so now. It’s in the way she says things. Dolores is the most nonjudgmental person I’ve ever met. She was always like that with you as well. I clearly remember that. She never said “I told you so,” but allowed you to make your own mistakes and learn at your own pace, and never gloated.

We’re going to the movies later. Just Dolores and I. Do you find that strange? I think Jeremy is beginning to find it strange, or at least very uncommon. But you know what? I wouldn’t be staying at your mother’s house, sleeping in her bed, if you were still alive, Ian. Goddamn it.

Last night, I went to a party at Jeremy’s and, just for a brief moment, I was so angry because you weren’t there. Not long after, I rushed back to Dolores. You know she advised me to see someone, a shrink. Maybe I should see someone. Dolores and I are so intertwined in this. Grief defines us. It’s all we are, together. That’s how it feels sometimes.

Can you tell I’m terribly hungover?

This letter is going nowhere… but there’s one last thought I want to express. I know Dolores is not your biological mother, but to my great surprise, now that you’re no longer here, I recognize so much of you in her. It’s in the details. All the small things she does for me, the way you did. All the little actions you deemed normal for two people who loved each other to do for one another. A thoughtfulness I never really knew before I met you, and that I hoped has rubbed off on me a little.

She spoils me. You spoiled me too, Ian. Most people wouldn’t even see it that way, but I do. She buys things for me in the grocery store that she would never eat herself, like Nutella and peanut butter and cheese she finds bland. In the morning, before she goes to work—because unlike me, your mother has gone back to work—she lays out all the breakfast things for me, the way you used to do.

I guess if I’m really being honest with myself, I can kind of see what I’m doing here. I’m replacing you with her. We have dinner together. We watch TV together. Go to bed and wake up together. You know I was never very good at being alone for long stretches of time. In that, I have found the perfect companion in Dolores.

Fuck, this is weird.

I would apologize for telling you all of this, but you’re dead, and that’s the only reason why I’m even staying here.

So, you’ll have to excuse me, Ian, but I have to get ready for my date with your mother now.

I miss you—although really, those three words can never truly convey what it feels like to have someone brutally ripped out of your life the way you have been. I feel like half a person, like only a part of me remains, and not the very good part.

Love, always,

Sophie

* * *

After the movie, which I was unable to focus on for more than three consecutive minutes, Dolores takes me to a tiny restaurant that I’ve never been to before, let alone knew existed, not far from her house. It’s run by a tubby Italian woman, whose husband is the chef.

“I’m glad you’re eating again. I was worried about you for a while,” Dolores says.

I devour the thin slices of the pizza we’ve decided to share. “A hangover will do that to you.”

“Dessert?” she asks.

“Why the hell not?” I’m feeling a little reckless tonight. Or perhaps it’s the effect of the half bottle of red we’ve shared. After only one gulp, it seemed to re-instate that early buzz I’d felt last night after two glasses of champagne. The tipping point between tipsy and well-on-the-way-to-drunk. That hazy feeling that settles in your brain and makes everything so much more bearable. When I glance at Dolores’ glass I see she’s barely touched her wine.

Dolores calls over the owner, whom she calls by her first name, Maria, and asks what’s for dessert today. We have the choice between panna cotta and tiramisu.