In the Distance There Is Light (14 page)

“I know the reason we’re so close is only because I’m Ian’s mother. It’s what brought us together. But there’s more between us now. I think we both know that.”

“Do you, er, have feelings for me?” My heart slams against my ribcage.

“Of course I have feelings for you. But that’s not even the point.” She turns to me fully, grabs my hand. My heart starts hammering more feverishly. “I don’t want you to feel bad about this. Because if that’s all it does then it’s indeed not right.”

“I have so many things running through my mind.”

“I understand that.” Dolores curls her fingers around my wrist. “But please bear in mind that nobody got harmed by our actions and, by God, we are still alive, Sophie. My son is dead, but we are alive. It was so good to be reminded of that. I guess that’s what it meant to me. It reassured me that I had other emotions inside of me than infinite sadness and sickening grief. What we did made me feel alive. And I know that no one else could have given me that feeling, because of who we are to one another.”

“What are you really saying?” I feel my cheeks flush and I can’t help myself. I put a hand on Dolores’ and move closer. “That you want to feel like that again?”

“Do
you
?” Dolores’ lips are less than an inch from mine. I can smell coffee on her breath. Her perfume drifts up into my nose. I can almost feel the heat of her skin.

I nod but don’t inch closer. I need her to come to me, to take that final step, however small.

“I need to be one hundred percent sure this is what
you
want. That you’re not about to kiss me just to please me or anything silly like that.”

“I want you,” I say, surprising myself. But I do. If this is what being kind to myself translates into, then so be it. If we’re discussing this in broad daylight and have resorted to kissing at the kitchen table, then so be it. It’s me and Dolores against all the other things. United, we can beat this pain. We can find a way to get over this loss, to climb out of this well of sorrow. I know I can’t do it alone. That’s why, again, in the end, it’s me leaning into her, bridging the gap between our mouths. It’s me who kisses her.

There’s nothing tentative about it when our lips lock. The intention behind it is clear from the get-go. I want Dolores to fuck me again, to fuck my pain away, to give me something of herself, of her strong, courageous spirit.

I clasp my hands behind her neck. Blood travels through my arteries at high speed, pumping, making my skin pulse. To hell with everything else. If this is at all wrong, it wouldn’t feel so damn good.

Then Dolores’ phone starts ringing. She flinches for a split second—all phone calls will do that to us for the foreseeable future—but then ignores it. The caller is insistent and it rings again and our kiss loses steam, until Dolores pulls away, making an apologetic face. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s probably James. I need to take this.”

This gives me time to consider how I went from feeling so guilty to so turned on in a matter of minutes. I only have to look at Dolores for a split second to know. It’s her. At first glance, this may be all about grief processing in uncommon ways, but this would never have happened—wouldn’t be about to happen again—if Dolores wasn’t the magnificent woman that she is. I’m so enthralled with her; I can’t find fault with her. But this is not a real life romance. This is her and me hidden away in her house, kissing, giving pleasure, pretending the outside world doesn’t exist because, in it, we don’t exist. That’s probably why, subconsciously, I wanted Jeremy to come here. I needed to tell him in this house and nowhere else.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Dolores hangs up. “I’m really sorry, but I need to head back.” She pauses, fixing her gaze on me. “Why don’t you come with me? You haven’t been to the gallery in ages. You know how much James adores you.”

I chuckle. “I don’t know what it is with me and gay men. I adore them right back.”

“Will you come?” From her imploring glance, I conclude it would mean a lot to Dolores if I accompanied her.

“I will.”

“Good.” She gets up and reapplies her lipstick in the reflection of the oven window. “Let’s go.”

* * *

I haven’t seen James, or any of Dolores’ employees, since the funeral. Ian made a point of going to every single one of his mother’s galleries’ opening
and
closing nights, which made him very chummy with the people who work there.

“Sophie, come here.” James takes me in his arms. “How have you been holding up?” I have no choice but to push my cheek against his hard chest. It feels so foreign after having rested my head on Dolores’ soft bosom for the past weeks. “We should really do something together soon. If you’re up to it, of course.” James babbles a mile a minute, not to hide his discomfort, but because that’s just how he always talks. He has the energy of five people compressed into one.

I make the rounds of the rest of the people I know. I’m hugged so many times, it feels as though the impression of Dolores on my skin is being erased, and I want to pull her into her office at the back of the gallery and have her throw her arms around me, have it just be us again—no other human contact required.

“How about I put you to work?” James asks. “Or I can fix you a Bloody Mary, if you’d rather just drink.” He gives me a big fat wink.

“I don’t think the boss would approve of drinking this early, but I may take you up on that later.” I glance at Dolores, who is trying to explain to the artist she’s exhibiting why what he thinks of as his pride-and-joy piece should not be the last in sequence. While I look at her, I feel a pang of hunger flit through me. Not for food. For her.

I remember when Ian and I used to come to shows, how proud he always was of his mom, and how she, too, beamed with pride and accomplishment and pure joy, because this is what she loves to do most in the world. No matter how crowded it got, I’d always notice Dolores, because her sheer exuberance made her stand out. Her flair and her ability to turn small talk into a semi-meaningful conversation about art. The way she put nervous artists at ease. I realize I’ve admired Dolores for a long time. I should be honored to find myself in her bed every night. Not just because of the person she has always been, the mother to Ian and the patroness to the arts in Chicago, but how, after Ian’s death, she inhaled deeply, and dared to face the world. I’m astonished by her bravery, by her ability to work through the pain, to occupy her mind with other matters instead of letting the loss consume her—the way I’ve been doing.

James has me putting explanatory notes of the artworks in frames that will later be hung on the walls, and pretty soon I’m caught up in the buzz of the place, in the hum of activity. There’s drilling going on and lots of loud talk and people milling about and in between it all there’s Dolores, striding through the gallery as a beacon of calm, as a point of reference for everyone, not least of all me.

James basically makes me his bitch for the rest of the afternoon, making me color code the guest list in an excel sheet, double check caterer orders, all sorts of mindless tasks that nevertheless succeed in occupying my mind in a way that it doesn’t drift to the inevitable every other minute, but instead, offers me a glimpse of a life beyond. A life after. Because, as trite as the cliché is, life does go on. The easiest way to tell is by looking at Dolores. How she has willed it to go on for her, despite losing Ian now, and eight years ago when she lost Angela, of whom a gorgeous picture adorns a wall in her office.

After the work for the day has been done—the opening is on Thursday, but the bulk of the artworks are already fastened in place—James orders take-out and we all sit haphazardly in the gallery’s tiny kitchen, eating from containers and recounting trivial stories of the day.

I am grabbed by the easy laughter between the people I’m with, by their banter, their camaraderie. I’ve worked alone in my home office since I graduated. Always making sure I’m not a slave to corporate interests. Perhaps I tried too hard not to be like my mother, instead of getting close to colleagues and going to after-work drinks. By the time everyone is ready to call it a night and head home, I’m convinced that my future doesn’t lie with novel writing in a solitary room. I need people around me. Things are different now that I’m alone.

Chapter Twenty-One

When we get home, Dolores, uncharacteristically, slips out of her shoes and crashes down on the couch, much as Ian did after a long day at work.

“My feet are killing me,” she says. “Haven’t had a hectic day like this in a while.” She looks at me. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate your help.”

I settle next to Dolores’ feet and put them in my lap. “You do know I didn’t actually do anything. James just gave me some occupational therapy.” I rub my thumb over the sole of her foot.

“That feels good.” Dolores lets her head fall back in, what I imagine, might be the same kind of pose as if I did to her what she did to me last night.

I intensify my efforts, putting all I have into this impromptu foot massage because, from somewhere deep inside of me a little voice rises, saying that, despite what Dolores might claim, I do owe her. Not just for the orgasm—it’s not that plainly tit for tat. But for everything she has done for me. Taken me in. Urged me to go to work with her today. Spoke so kindly to me this afternoon. Big things and small things alike. Again, as I go to work on her big toe, I’m struck by the thought that I’m falling for her, in my own twisted little way. And I want her, oh, I do. I decidedly do not want to end up in the guest bedroom tonight, not that I think there’s a lot of chance of that happening.

“I can’t thank you enough for that,” Dolores groans when I let go of her feet.

“Please, Dolores. A little foot massage is nothing compared to everything you’ve done for me.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself. Don’t underestimate the simple power of just you being here with me. Of your willingness to come here in the first place.” She sits up a little, bending her legs and pulling them into her chest. “After Angela died, Ian came to stay with me and having him here meant so much. To both of us. Now that he’s dead, now that they’ve both gone.” Her voice fractures a little. “I thank whatever lucky stars I have left that you’re here. I frankly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d soldier on,” I say. “The way you did today. I watched you and I was amazed by your strength.”

“Don’t be fooled by my capacity to put on a show. It’s not strength, it’s pure need. I’d wither away if I stayed home and did nothing all day.”

“It’s inspiring.” Already missing her touch, I shuffle a little closer, hooking an arm behind her legs. “To me. And I need all the inspiration I can get.”

“You’re welcome to join me at the gallery any time. It’s going to be a busy week. And…” Her voice breaks a little more. “It’ll be the first opening night Ian doesn’t attend.”

“I’ll be there. I know I can’t be there for the both of us, or make up for his absence, but I’ll be there.”

“Have you thought about next Saturday?” She looks at me from under her lashes and I see a tear glisten in her eye.

“He would have been thirty-six.” Dolores’ tears are contagious.

“I’ve been thinking that maybe we should do something. Throw a party of some sort to celebrate the life he did have. Invite all his friends. I think he would have liked that.”

“Are you up for that?” I ask, tears raining down my cheeks.

“Ian and I had a party on Angela’s first birthday after her death. She would have been fifty-eight. Her life was surely way too short, but she lived, you know? She sucked the marrow right out of life. We wanted to celebrate that instead of sitting around all day, moping, not knowing what to do with our grief. It was a memorable day and isn’t that what we want? To remember our loved ones appropriately?”

I met Ian not long before his mother would have turned sixty. Instead of going to the cemetery, we went to the zoo, because Angela loved going to the zoo so much.

“He did always love a good party,” I say.

“Are you comfortable with having one?” Dolores grabs my hand. “We don’t have to decide tonight.”

I nod while intertwining my fingers with hers—as our lives have become. “It wouldn’t just be in Ian’s honor. It would be good for me. Perhaps
enjoy
is the wrong word, but that party at Jeremy’s last Saturday really helped me. It’s good to share and to tell stories, even though I’ve heard them all a thousand times before. It’s good for our friends as well.”

“I think I would enjoy having them over.”

“I’ll take care of it. It’ll keep me occupied for a bit. Just let me know who you want to invite that I don’t know.”

“That’s very gracious of you.”

“Some of your grace must be rubbing off on me.” I smile at Dolores. Her cheeks still glisten with tears.

“You know one twisted thing I’m grateful for? I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have wanted her by my side for this, but I’m glad Angela never had to deal with the death of her only child. She was a strong woman, but it would have crushed her. Ian was so very important to her. His happiness was always on her mind. She was devastated when Mandy dumped him. She was already very weak when it happened and Ian and I talked about not telling Angela, but that was not the kind of relationship they had. They were so close and they always wanted nothing but the truth, no matter how difficult, when it concerned each other.”