The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  I bite into my chewy cookie, place it down on the plate, and take a sip of my cocoa. “I loved Russ.”

  “Russ loved his job.”

  “He was a good man, Mom.” But even my own words are lost on me. Maybe I am fooling myself about what happiness really is. Then I see Philip’s kind face flicker across my thoughts. I smile.

  At that, my mother pats my hand. “You better go back to bed,” she says, picking up my empty cup and plate.

  I look up at her. “What about you?”

  She heads to the sink. “The sun’ll be up in a few hours. I’ve gotta finish this trifle for tomorrow’s Christmas dinner.”

  “It can wait until morning.”

  She waves at me, scooting me out of the room. “It is morning. Now scram. Go to bed. Get some shut-eye.”

  I kiss her cheek. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She is on the edge of tears, her voice cracking. “We wouldn’t have missed it.”

  I kiss her floury cheek. “Goodnight, Mom.”

  “Night, sweetie. See you in a few hours.”

  I walk out into the living room. Midway, I stop and gaze out through the Venetian blinds. A spark of fire from a cigarette lighter pierces the dark.

  At a closer glance, I see my sister sitting alone on the porch swing.

  I look back as my Julia Child mother occupies herself in the kitchen. For a few more minutes I watch her scrambling around the kitchen, busy and content, like when I was growing up. The house always smelled inviting with homemade cakes and pies.

  I wander around the corner in the direction of the porch.

  Chapter 19

  I step outside into a frozen air and wrap my arms about myself. “Would you like some company?” I ask my sister Paula.

  “The more the merrier.” She is inebriated, but smiling. I hear it in her voice. My sister is a pleasant drunk. But she is prone to unnecessary chatter when she’s had a few too many drinks under her belt.

  I walk along the wraparound porch to the other side of the swing and plop down beside my sister, who is chain-smoking a Newport.

  “I love it here,” she says, sucking a long, thoughtful drag and staring out into a lacy screen of whiteness. Limbs of oaks are heavy with the weight of snow. Paula exhales and adds spiritedly, “It’s so peaceful here. Even with neighbors living thirty feet away from you behind those trees, you wouldn’t know anyone was there.” She reaches an arm over my shoulder. “You did well for yourself. I’m proud of you.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “It’s karma,” she says.

  “I was in the right place at the right time,” I correct her.

  “Philip wouldn’t see it that way,” she says diffidently.

  “In so many ways, Philip is a dream come true.”

  “Fate intervened and brought two happy people together. I don’t see luck playing a role in any of that.”

  I smile into the night.

  For the next ten minutes, we are quiet, and Paula offers me a drag of her cigarette.

  I shake my head, waving it off. Seconds pass. Then I ask, “Speaking of happy people, how are you and Marshall doing?”

  She raises her face to the moonlight, and chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She shakes her head and draws on her cigarette. “Marshall and I are on the outs.”

  “No way. What happened?”

  “It’s nothing permanent,” she says casually. “He’ll be back.”

  “I thought the two of you were talking about marriage? Should I ask what happened?”

  She crouches down and stubs out her cigarette onto the tip of her boot and stuffs the butt back into the cigarette pack. I do not have any ashtrays in the house because neither Philip nor I smoke.

  Paula digs into the pack for another cigarette. She wedges the Newport between her pursed lips, lights it, and mumbles, “Everything I said to Marshall made him suspicious of me. He was overly sensitive about everything. Money. Vacuuming. Sex.”

  “Vacuuming?”

  “Marshall thought I was turning him into a pussy boy for doing household chores. He thought a woman’s job was staying home, making dinner, doing the laundry. He didn’t like answering to anyone, especially a woman.”

  “It’s surprising, given how long the two of you have been together. When I met Marshall he didn’t come across as whiny and manipulative at all.”

  “People wear different masks for different occasions. He was never the same Marshall when he was around other people. He was nicer, more polite.” She shook her head. “In other words, he’s not the same guy when we’re alone.”

  I listen; let her talk.

  “I work forty hour weeks to his measly twenty,” she says, “and am taking in more than fifty percent of the income.”

  I look over at her with a pained expression. “I’m sorry, sis.”

  She exhales, a thick cloud of smoke hovering over us. She scoffs, “No big deal. He’s gone, for now. He’ll be back in my bed when he needs his clothes washed or wants a little one on one.”

  I cover my ears and hum loudly. “Um, sis, too much information. Too much information!”

  She slaps me on the back lightly and laughs.

  We sit there quietly, staring out into the tranquil yard, the naked trees backlit by a majestic stream of moonlight. The chilly air is aromatic with the smell of pines and firs.

  We hear Mom banging dishes around in the kitchen. “She’s going to wake up the entire neighborhood,” Paula says. “The Martha Stewart of Arizona.”

  “I always thought of Mom as Julia Child.”

  “She’s got a bit of both women in her—bitchiness and brass.”

  We roar with laughter.

  “She’s making her famous chocolate and peanut butter trifle,” I say, a trace of trepidation in my voice.

  “The last time I ate Mom’s trifle, I had heartburn for days.”

  “More like a visit to the ER.”

  “Or the morgue.”

  More laughter.

  Then tightness in my chest forces me to shift our carefree conversation to a different level. “Why didn’t anyone call me about Dad?”

  I watch her inhale her cigarette, staring up at the moon, thinking, and the levers in her brain turning slowly. She looks skyward and blows out a stream of smoke. “Mom didn’t want me to tell anyone, not even you. She didn’t want to upset you.”

  Worry creeps into my voice. “What happened to us, sis? You and me?”

  As she turns and gazes at me through a pall of drunkenness, I notice her heavily mascaraed eyes. They look like the insides of a hollowed pumpkin. She is silent as a graveyard. “We used to be really close,” I say almost in a church voice. “We would talk on the phone every night. These days, I’m lucky if we talk once a month.”

  She touches her newly pierced earlobe. Six faux diamonds line the flesh behind her right ear.

  I say, “Of all people, I would have expected more from you. And given the situation with Marshall, it sounds like an excuse for abandoning me and keeping me in the dark about Dad.”

  Eyebrows cocked, she stares at me. She brushes the back of my neck with her cold fingers. “I didn’t abandon you. If you felt that way, I’m sorry. I really am. But you know as well as I do that when Mom gets an idea trapped in her head, there’s no changing her mind. Not even me. No matter the situation.”

  “But Dad is dying. And nobody thought it was wise to let me know?”

  “I wanted to call you.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” I hold up a hand to stop her from interrupting me. “And your excuse about Mom is utterly ridiculous. Since when do you listen to everything she says? You’re not a River for nothing.”

  She lights another Newport and sucks in a deep breath. “It wasn’t an excuse, Chris. It was the cold hard truth that nobody wanted to accept—or deal with at the time. And you were going through a breakup.”

  “Again, not an excuse.”

  “Tell that to Dad.”
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  “I could’ve helped him.”

  “There was nothing you could’ve done. According to the doctor, the tumor is inoperable. It’s out of our hands.” She takes a puff of her cig. “Don’t blame me for this.”

  “And just like that, you’re going to ignore it?”

  She sits up straighter in the swing, and the sudden movement pulls me out of my complacency. “Stop blaming me, Chris. It’s not my fault.”

  “I’m not blaming you, sis.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  “There’s a difference between being angry and frustrated and pointing fingers. I’m not accusing anybody.”

  We coil into a semi-uncomfortable stillness.

  Then I say, “I just think there’s another alternative to Dad’s diagnosis.”

  “If there is, I’m supportive. But the horizon looks bleak right now.”

  “Why is Dad taking so many pills?”

  “To cut the pain, I guess. He complains about having severe headaches.”

  I am afraid my loud voice might wake Philip or draw attention to our Busy Bee mother in the kitchen. “I don’t understand why nobody got him help when he needed it.”

  “By the time he mentioned it to us, it was too late,” Paula says.

  “Nobody saw the warning signs?”

  She shakes her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you seen what Dad looks like? He’s thinner than the last time I saw him. He’s lost a lot of weight.” Pause. “He didn’t join us for church tonight because he’s not well. And he didn’t trip over Darth. He is off-balance and weak, which explains the cane. I noticed how pale he was when I picked him and Mom up at the airport.” I pause, take a breath, and try to compose myself. “Our parents were always so vital.” I turned to my sister. “I also noticed Mom is drinking again. Heavily. When did that start, do you know?”

  She shakes her head. “I guess it was right around the time Dad was diagnosed. When I visited them I didn’t see an ounce of booze in the house.”

  “Another family trait.”

  She looked over at me, puzzled.

  “Hiding the bottle. Grandma did it with Grandpa all the time. She didn’t want him to see her drinking. He’d physically abuse her if he knew.”

  “Dad is nothing like his father.”

  “No. But Mom has a problem just like Grandma. I guarantee you Dad doesn’t know Mom is drinking again.”

  We sit in silence. The wind slaps against us. Paula lights a third cigarette.

  “I’m scared,” I say a few minutes later.

  “I am too.” She places her hand on my knee.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Not to sound pessimistic, but there’s nothing we can do. Our parents have always been obstinate. They’re set in their own ways. We just have to sit back and watch them grow old.”

  “This isn’t just about age, sis. Dad’s been slipping for the past two years, if not sooner. We have to do something.”

  She turns to me and I see mascara-stains streaming down her face. “Dad could’ve done this or he should’ve done that. He didn’t know he had a tumor until Mom persuaded him to go to the doctor.” She takes a puff of her Newport. “I wish things were different. I wish I could turn back the clock and make our parents younger. I can’t. You can’t either.”

  I look over at the snowy hedge of sycamores. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive Mom and Dad for not telling me.”

  “I don’t think you have a choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re here now. Make the most of the time you have with them. Don’t punish yourself for something that is out of your control.”

  “I can’t accept that there is nothing we can do for Dad.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  I turn to face my sister who looks frightened in the light of the moon. “Are you saying that chemo and radiation are out of the question?”

  “I’m saying there’s nothing we can do. Dad refuses help.”

  I hear my mother’s voice in my head: A tumor. It is inoperable.

  My head sags and I feel my shoulders slump forward, trembling. My sister’s hand falls across my back, and her gentle hand alleviates some of the tension building up inside me.

  “Nobody told us life would be easy,” Paula says. “But we can make the most of it right now.”

  I lean my head on her shoulder. “Thanks, sis.”

  “Anytime.”

  Everything is quiet until my sister pulls out a joint from her coat pocket. “What do you say, for old time sakes? It’ll lighten the mood.”

  I sit up. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Marshall’s stash.” She shrugs. “Hey! I deserve it after putting up with that douchebag for as long as I did.”

  We laugh.

  My sister lights the joint and passes it to me.

  She asks, “Good stuff, eh?”

  I cough.

  She slaps my back and takes the joint between her fingers. “Here! Give me back my roach.”

  I stare out into a glimmer of moonlight illuminating off the fresh layer of snow. I turn to Paula. “Sis, do you have any regrets?”

  She inhales. Smirks. “Too many to count.”

  I lean back in the swing. I feel content. “Care to share?”

  She lifts her face into the night and blows out a billowing cloud of smoke. “Not enough adventures. That I haven’t slept with more guys. I should have taken more risks, lived life on the edge. It suits me, you think?”

  “You regret not sleeping around more?”

  She shrugs and takes a hit on the joint. “Marshall ruined that for me.”

  “How so?”

  “I fell in stupid love with the moron.”

  I pat my sister’s leg and stand. “That’s one reason I love you, sis. You always say what you think.”

  “What about you?”

  I feel fragile against the rustling wind. I suck in a deep breath of cold air and hold it. As I exhale, I feel like I’m releasing all of life’s pent up frustrations. “I, um—I don’t think I have any regrets.”

  “Everybody has regrets.”

  I close my eyes and stand immobile against the semi-darkness. “Will you be comfortable sleeping in the basement?”

  She looks up at me and laughs. “As long as there are no mice.”

  “You’re safe.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  Silence.

  A few minutes later, as though I’d been standing there for too long, I hear my sister calling my name. “Hello, Chris. Earth to Chris.”

  I startle myself with a chuckle.

  “Are you all right?” my sister asks.

  “Yes. No. Uh, would you mind checking on Mom before you hit the hay? Make sure she doesn’t burn the house down?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” she says. “Get some sleep.”

  A long drawn out, “Goodnight.”

  Inside, I pass my mother who is rearranging our entire kitchen shelves. I stand in the shadows and stare at her as if I want to capture the moment forever. I smile and turn away. Head down the hall to the master bedroom and crawl into Philip’s warm arms. I struggle to pull the comforter up around my neck. The weight of the conversation with my sister stifles me.

  Regrets. Regrets. Regrets.

  I drift into a hazy sleep, but only fitfully.

  Chapter 20

  Christmas morning starts out quietly; nobody stirs. But soon, the sounds of laughter fill the house.

  I lie beside Philip in bed, listening to the spirited voices beyond our bedroom door. “Hey, sexy beast,” he growls into my ear as he rolls over. Which means one thing: he wants to fool around.

  When we emerge from the bedroom an hour later, showered and dressed, feeling rejuvenated, I hear him whisper behind me as he kisses my neck with his tongue, “You’re like an untamed lion in the morning hour.”

  I smirk and slap his curious hands away from my behind. “Let’s get some breakfast
. I’m famished.”

  “After that workout, that makes two of us.”

  We join our families in the dining room where both of our mothers have decorated the table with our best china.

  “It’s a special occasion,” Barbara says, and slinks across the room to give Philip a hug. Pungent trails of perfume permeate the air around her. She is dressed in tan slacks and a rose-colored blouse. A silver pin in the shape of an angel is pinned to right side of her shirt. “Merry Christmas, son.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mom,” he mumbles, kissing her cheek. “It looks like you and Lori have been busy. Where’s Dad?”

  “In the shower,” she says. “He’ll join us soon.”

  My mother is waving her sleeveless arms in the air in an America’s Funniest Home Videos moment. “I made my famous chocolate and peanut butter trifle,” she announces. “And my potato au gratin with bacon is to die for.”

  En route to the table, my father pats me on the back. “Plate me up!”

  I look from my mother to Philip and then to my sister Paula, who is grinning strangely at me from the kitchen where she waits for the coffee to brew. I smile at her and turn to my father. “Dad?”

  He turns around, weary-looking. “Yeah?”

  “Can I speak to you in private?”

  I see all of the eyes in the room staring at us.

  My father grumbles, “Yeah. Sure. What’s up?”

  I nod in the direction of the bedrooms. “Come with me.”

  On our way out of the room, my father turns to everyone and says, “Save me some of that gratin, you hear?”

  Down the hall, in one of the spare bedrooms, Dad asks, “Son, what is more important than your mother’s Christmas meal?”

  I close the door behind us.

  He says, “Uh oh. It’s not a good sign when the door is closed.”

  “Come here. Sit down.” I pat the edge of the bed.

  My father grunts, lowering himself onto the mattress. I try to help, but he says, “I’ve got it.” He turns to me. “What’s up?”

  “You,” I say sincerely.

  He must notice the desolate look on my face as he glances away, staring across the room at a picture on the wall.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

  “About?”

  “Dad?” I close my eyes, instantly hurt at his selfishness.