In the Distance There Is Light (18 page)

Then I take a deep breath, clear my throat and call the room to attention. At the funeral I was unable to speak, let alone deliver a speech. It has been almost three months since Ian died. I have found some of my voice again and I want to say a couple of things about him to these people he loved.

After having thanked them all for coming and directing my glance firmly above the small crowd’s heads, I fix it on Dolores for moral support.

“I’m sure Ian would have liked me to crack a few jokes, but I can’t remember any, even though he told me many. He made them up on his way to and from work. That’s why he loved riding his bike so much. It cleared his head. Gave him time to think about non-important things like silly jokes. It was his me-time.” I pause. I always liked that he rode a bike. I teased him about it, saying he was such a hippie. It never for one second occurred to me that it would kill him some day. I wisely leave the too grim thoughts out of my speech.

“In lieu of telling a joke, let’s all raise our glass to Ian. We all know he liked a drink even more than a bad joke.” Dolores smiles at me from the other side of the room. I hold up my glass. “To Ian, that handsome architect who rode his bicycle everywhere. We’ll never forget him.” Of course, then, I well up. Maybe I should have said more, but the more I say about him, the more his absence stings.
 

Everyone raises their glass and a cacophony of “To Ian” fills the room. And it’s only then that I realize that this
was
a good idea. It’s cathartic to simply say his name in this group of people, to feel the love for him reverberate through the room.

Dolores is talking to Alex while she dabs a tear from her eye. Most people are sniffling, including Ian’s boss. I still think it’s all grotesquely unfair and unbearable and too damn hard most days, but I also know that there’s only one thing that will get me through this and it’s all the love that is trapped in this room.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Two weeks after Ian’s birthday, I meet Jeremy at his apartment. He has cooked for me and the seared tuna he serves is delicious. When we’ve reached the digestif stage of the meal, he pours me a large brandy, and says, “I think it’s time for me to play devil’s advocate.”

Instantly, I know what he’s getting at. We’ve avoided the subject of Dolores all night. It was bound to come up.

“Have you thought about the future?” he asks. “How long has this been going on?”

“About a month, so not long enough for you to worry about.”

“But you must talk, Soph. Do you ever talk about what you want in the long run? Are you moving in permanently?”

“Sometimes,” and I know this is two bottles of wine and the few sips of brandy talking more than anything else, but I want to say it anyway, “I do sincerely wonder whether Dolores and I have a future.”

Jeremy starts fidgeting with a napkin. “You do?”

“In an ideal world… I don’t know.” I truly don’t know. I might have wondered, or perhaps fantasized is a better word for it, but I’ve yet to reach any conclusions.

“What would happen in an ideal world?” Jeremy insists.

He has me averting my glance. I know how ridiculous this sounds. I could never say this to anyone else. I inspect the color of my beverage intently while I say, “In an ideal world, I could see us together.”

“Really?” Jeremy seems genuinely flabbergasted. “How?”

“How? I don’t know how. All I know is that I care about Dolores so, so much. I love her. I can honestly say that with my hand on my heart. I love her, I do. What I have with her far exceeds any expectation I might have had about someday being with someone again. I know it’s complicated, but that’s why I prefaced it with
in an ideal world
.”

“I get all that, but you must realize this is—and, oh my, how it pains me to have to utter these words—a
phase
you’re going through. Surely, what you feel for Dolores is not romance.”

“Then what is it?” A peculiar calm descends on me now. I had expected to feel more put on the spot.

“Do you really want me to spell it out?” Jeremy twirls his brandy glass between his fingers.

“No need. I know what
you
think it is. You think it’s just my grief talking and my mind playing this trick on me because of it, and I don’t expect you to understand or believe me, but to me, it’s much more than that.”

Jeremy sighs. “So you’re going to live happily ever after?”

I shake my head. “Of course not, but…” I hold up my hand and start counting down on my fingers. “One: the sex we have is nothing short of spectacular, which baffles me completely, but it’s how it is. Two: have you ever met anyone nicer, with more pure goodness in their heart than Dolores? I haven’t. Three: she makes me feel like there’s hope, and that’s probably what’s most important. She makes me feel like there’s more than that pit of despair I fell into after Ian’s death.”

“Could it be that you’re idealizing her just a little?” Jeremy counters.

“Maybe, but I’ve been spending
all
of my time with her and I’ve gotten to know her pretty well, or at least this post-death-of-her-son version of her, and I just—plain and simple—really like her.”

“Am I allowed to give you my own countdown of counter arguments?”

“Sure.” I look at Jeremy and I know that whatever rational arguments he’s going to present me with will not hold up to the fire raging in my belly. The fire I have for Dolores.

“One: for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been straight. Two: you’re thirty years old, she’s what? Mid fifties? Three: she’s Ian’s mother.”

“Well, Captain Obvious, thank you so much for that. I really hadn’t figured all that out for myself just yet. I tried, you know, but I just couldn’t get there without your esteemed help.”

“I’m just being realistic, because you might know all these things, but I don’t think they really get through to you. Or you’ve obviously been ignoring them.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “But why wouldn’t I?”

“Look,” Jeremy shuffles uneasily in his seat, which is not his style, “Ian dying is a very hard fact to accept. If I remember correctly, I was the one who told you to just go for it with Dolores if it made you feel even the tiniest bit better about yourself, but I never thought it would last this long and that you’d be fingering each other in the pantry while you have a crowd of guests visiting for Ian’s birthday, or that you’d go to work for her in the gallery. I know this is hard for you to see because you’re too enmeshed in it, because it’s happening to
you
, but as an outsider, as someone looking at you from the sidelines, and greatly caring about you
and
Dolores, it’s my duty to tell you what it really looks like. I think it has gone too far, Soph. I wouldn’t be sitting here saying this to you if I didn’t honestly believe that.”

I shake my head and give him the steeliest look I can muster. “I know exactly what it looks like from the outside, but Dolores and I have taken this further than just companionship while mourning. Much further.”

“Okay, okay.” Jeremy shows his palms in defeat—I think. “But just so you know, I’m not
only
playing devil’s advocate here. I’m genuinely concerned about you. I don’t want you to get hurt even more, because, and I know you’re very much aware of this, the world we live in is far from the ideal one you’re dreaming of.”

“I know.” I give in just a little, not just to make sure Jeremy knows I am truly hearing him, but also because I do know. “But what am I supposed to do? Leave the house? Go back home? Live on my own?”

“Yes, at some point, you will have to do these things. There are no two ways about it.”

“I can’t leave her. The mere thought of it makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t go back to Dolores and I being just mother and daughter-in-law.”

“Maybe not yet.” Jeremy swirls the brandy in his glass.

Maybe not ever
, I want to say, but don’t, because I know how preposterous it would sound.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I’ve been helping out at Dolores’ galleries for weeks now, basically spending all of my time with her. Today, Dolores takes me to meet an artist for lunch. A flighty woman called Jennifer Bloom who makes textile prints. After lunch, we decide to go home—to Dolores’ house.

In the car, a U2 song comes on, and it takes me right back to a road trip Ian and I took along the Pacific Coast Highway two years ago. He used to make long playlists of which half the songs were by U2. We had a rule that whoever was driving could choose the music and he always insisted on taking the wheel.

Dolores looks at me as if she knows exactly what the song is doing to me.

“He and Angela shared a great but not entirely understandable love for all things U2. She went to their concert with him and Ethan not long before her final diagnosis. She talked about it for weeks.”

“They have some good songs, I guess.” I remember Ian tapping his fingers on the steering wheel while he sang along exuberantly. “This is not one of them.” I don’t even know the name of the song that’s playing. Bono seems to repeat the words
sweetest
and
thing
often, so I guess that might be the title.

Then my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize. If I was alone, I probably wouldn’t pick up, but as though I have something to prove to Dolores by doing so, I answer.

“Hello, Miss Winters,” a woman says. “This is Officer Bale with the Chicago PD. Is this a good time to talk?”

I remember Officer Bale. She’s the family liaison officer they sent to see me after delivering the news of Ian’s death. “Yes.” My heart starts hammering. The last call I got from the CPD ruined my life.

“We’ve had a request from a Mister Albert Davis to contact you, asking if you’d be willing to meet him. He’s the driver of the truck involved in the accident of Ian Holloway.”

For an instant, it seems as though my heart might stop beating. “What does he want?” I snap.

“He would like to meet you, Ma’am. Express his condolences and convey an apology.”

“An apology?” My voice rises. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“There’s no need to give me an answer straight away,” the police officer says. “Think about it and let me know. But, in my experience, this can be a good thing. It has been known to bring closure. Of course, you’re in no way obligated to honor Mr. Davis’ request. It’s only a question. What happens next is totally up to you.”

“Yeah. Okay,” I mumble into the receiver. “I’ll think about it.” When I hang up, I stare at the phone, already knowing very well what my final answer will be.

“Sophie?” Dolores asks. She doesn’t have time to say anything else, because then her phone starts ringing. It’s connected to the car’s Bluetooth system so the ringing reverberates through the entire car.

Dolores pushes a button and says hello.

The voice coming through the speakers is the same one I just talked to. Officer Bale gives the same spiel to Dolores, who answers curtly but politely, and ends the conversation by saying she’ll be in touch soon.

We’ve reached the house and by the time we’re inside, I’m fuming.

“Who the hell does that man think he is?” I shout at no one in particular, but of course Dolores is standing next to me, so she’s going to have to bear the brunt of this.

“We should talk about this,” she says, in that calm voice of hers, as though she’s actually considering meeting him.

“We should?” My voice is full of blame already, full of anger and pain.

“Like the officer said. It might be good for us to talk to the driver.”

“Good for us? Good for him, more like. He’s only doing this to ease his guilty conscience, Dolores. Can’t you see that?”

“He was cleared of all fault. It was a stupid freak accident. Ian was in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. It was a morbid twist of fate. We can’t blame him any more than we do Ian for what happened.”

“Are you kidding me? Are you telling me you don’t blame the driver? Because I sure as hell do. If he hadn’t been there, Ian would still be alive. There’s no way I’m shaking that man’s hand and giving him the reassurance that it’s not his fault.”

“You’re overreacting, Sophie.” Dolores stands there with her hands on her hips. She’s not going to be on my side for this one.