The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  Smacking his lips, he turns to me, slapping me on my left leg trying to lighten the mood. “I’m an old man. Ancient. Mummified.” He pauses, exhales a long, drawn out breath. “Shit happens, son. Life isn’t always convenient, especially when you reach my age.” He gazes over at me. He turns away and stares out the window onto a light, steady snow falling. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my health, but there’s nothing nobody could’ve done.” He clears his throat and says, “You wanna know why I didn’t tell ya?”

  I nod. “It’d be nice.”

  “Because I love you. I wanted to protect you. And I didn’t want to have to burden you with something that was out of my control.” He lets out a groan as he attempts to stretch his legs. “Besides, telling my favorite child would’ve devastated me.”

  Favorite child? “What about Paula? She’s your daughter. You told her.”

  “She’s special, Chris.” Leaning in, “Not in the thoughtful sort of way, if you get my drift.” He smirks, circling his finger around his ear. “Flighty, you know? The-light’s-on-but-nobody’s-home kind of special.”

  I smile.

  “I didn’t want your mother telling ya because I knew it would’ve upset you terribly. And that’s the last thing I wanted to do to you.” He closes his eyes, then opens them a few minutes later, adding, “What you don’t know won’t kill ya. Isn’t that the saying?”

  “Dad, please.”

  “Anyway, you and that Raul guy—”

  “Russ, Dad. His name is Russ.”

  “Yeah, right. I like the other one better. Paddy, is it? Or Patrick?”

  Over a beatific smile, I roll my eyes. “Philip.”

  “Philip. Philip. Good man. And he’s a sheriff!” Turning to me, he adds, wheezing, “You’re well protected, son. Besides, you and whatshisname were in a bad place in your lives back when—I didn’t want to add more stress to your life. There was nothin’ nobody could do anyway. Hell. If the little effing inoperable tumor was going to attack me like a little pissed off soldier, I wasn’t about to fight back. Not at my age. When I told your mother that I’ve lived a good long life, she started crying. She hated me for saying it, but—” His shoulders lift and fall. “I’m sorry.” It is more of an afterthought.

  “You’re my father,” I say. “You mean the world to me. But I had a right to know. Maybe I could’ve helped—emotionally. It definitely would’ve taken my mind off everything else in my life at the time.”

  He sucks in a lungful of air; releases it languidly. In the light, his face is gaunt and sad like the expression of Jesus on the cross.

  “Why’d you wait so long to see a doctor?” I ask, my eyes glistening.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t like going to doctors. They don’t know everything. They prescribe medicine that I refuse to take.” A pause. “But now I’m popping pills like candy to help ward off the headaches. It’s only temporary. Some days, I crave morphine.”

  I lean over and hug him.

  My dad is not the type of person to express his emotions, but he lingers in my arms long enough to make his point that he loves me, tapping my back with his bony hand. “You’re a good son, Chris. And your mother and I are very proud of you. I’m glad we could be here for you and—”

  “Philip,” I remind him.

  “We better go grab some of your mother’s potato gratin before it’s all gone.” He winks at me as if everything will be all right.

  I reach for his hand. “Before we go, Dad. May I ask a favor?”

  “What is it?” He is half-smiling.

  “Will you promise me you’ll come back to Milestone County soon?”

  Deep pause. “Empty promises are for the naïve, son.”

  “You promise?” I ask again.

  He grunts and shrugs. “What have I got to lose if I say no?” He bangs my leg and I am transported back to my childhood when we sat together on the back porch at the house in Arizona, drinking fresh lemonade and telling jokes and ghost stories. I recalled the summer heat on our faces and the cicadas singing soprano in the crabgrass beyond our fence in the neighboring yards.

  Our bare feet sliding in and out of the cool blades of fresh cut grass. Ice clinking in our glasses when we raised them and drank down my mother’s homemade goodness. Laughter kept us a tight-knit family. I see the laugh lines on my father’s upturned face. Happiness was my father, Henry Rivers. The man I admired as I was growing up—my inspiration.

  I turn to my dad sitting elbow-to-elbow next to me on the bed now. Under his tough exterior lies melancholy and worry.

  “Come on,” he says, patting my leg. “Let’s go eat.”

  He stands and grips the bedside table for support, ambling to the door, groaning out in protest against the arthritis in his knees and legs. Around the corner, I hear his shallow, rattling breaths as he wanders down the hall to the kitchen.

  I stay back a few minutes to bury my tears in my hands.

  A few seconds later, Philip appears in the doorway, watching me, waiting for the right time to enter, giving me enough time to grieve.

  As I try to yank myself out of my own sadness, Philip sits down next to me and places an arm over my shoulder, pulling me into the warm safety of his body. He rocks me into an embrace, whispering into my ear, “Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

  I blow into a tissue, sounding like a damaged instrument, and a brief snicker erupts from both of us.

  Philips squeezes me tightly, and the sound of the chiming doorbell interrupts our private musings.

  Who could that be?

  I stand, wiping my nose, and thanking Philip for his support. My throat aching, I say, “I better go see who it is.”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  We bypass the family sitting around the dining room table. My father is already eating.

  My mother smiles at me. It is good to see her happy. “You’ve gotta save some room for dessert, Henry,” she says.

  A chocolate and peanut butter trifle—I immediately think of the bottle of antacids in the medicine cabinet.

  With Philip at my side, I open the front door and am surprised to see Bret Hicks standing on the front porch. I cannot read the blank expression on his face. He waves limply.

  Philip places a hand on my back. “Go talk to him. I’ll be at the table.”

  I step out into a brisk December air, crossing my arms over my chest. “This is a surprise,” I say, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have something for you.” He hands me a small gift-wrapped box.

  I reach out for the package. “You didn’t have to do this, Bret.”

  He kicks the snow with his boots, hands tucked into his khakis, and eyes darting back and forth. Finally, he settles his gaze on me. “I know. I wanted to.” A pause. “Merry Christmas.”

  I smile. “Should I open it now?”

  He nods. “Now would be good.”

  I start to unwrap the red and white Christmas paper. I lift the sides of the box and dig around the holiday tissue paper until my fingers brush the tip of a wood barrel fountain pen.

  My voice beaming, I say, “Bret. This is lovely.”

  He grins. “I saw you eyeing it at Antiques & Lore last week. Every good writer needs one.” He pauses. “I also wanted to drop by and thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.”

  I reach out and hug him. “Nobody can change the course of your life except you. You are more resilient than you realize.”

  He looks down at the ground and back up at me, his eyes glazed with tears. “I’m really sorry for treating you like shit last year. I feel like an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot. You’re growing into a bright young man who cares about others. The world could use more thoughtful people like you.”

  His expression is one of curiosity. He nods, grinning.

  “I appreciate you coming here today,” I say.

  He shifts awkwardly in his size twelve boots
. I see he has something to say. But he remains silent. “Bret, what is it?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Something on your mind?”

  He nods firmly. Looks away. Then back up at me. “My mother wants to see you. She wants to apologize.”

  I am curious. “Why didn’t she come along?”

  “I came on my own. She doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Well, my family is here for the holidays and we’re in the middle of dinner. Would it be all right if I dropped by later today?”

  “It won’t take long, I promise.”

  I smile at Bret, and look down at my gift from the young man who has come a long way in just a short time. “It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. My parents are here.” My father’s face flashes across my mind. I grin mostly to myself. To Bret, I say, “I must get back inside.”

  His shifty movements tell me he is uncomfortable, leaning backwards on his heels. “Okay.”

  I thank him for the gift and start to turn and join my family inside. “Did you walk all the way here?”

  A headshake. “I rode my bike.”

  “Would you like a lift? I can have Philip drive you home.”

  “No thanks.”

  I nod, fingering the gift box. “Bret?”

  He turns around and I see the blank expression on his troubled face.

  “Would you like to come inside?” I ask. “I’m sure Darth would like to see you.”

  A fine dusting of snow drifts from the sky, sprinkling through the naked tree branches above us.

  I watch Bret step off the porch into the mounting snow.

  He shakes his head, reaching for his bike leaning up against one of the oak trees in the yard. “Just give him a big hug for me, will ya?”

  “I will. I’ll stop by your house later today. Will that be all right?”

  “Yeah. We’ve got nowhere to go.” He pauses, and turns, adding, “Just don’t let my mother know that I asked you to come over, okay?”

  I nod, wave, and watch him stumble with his bike through the heavy snow.

  Chapter 21

  After lunch, I help my mother and Barbara clear the table and load the dishwasher as my father and Jim settle in the Lazy-Boy recliners in the living room for a football game.

  Except for my sister, who tells me she is going for a long walk around the neighborhood.

  Our two mothers set up a table in the dining room for a game of Pinochle.

  I pull Philip aside in the hall and let him know that I am heading over to Bret Hick’s place. “I’ll make it quick,” I say, handing him the gift box Bret gave me.

  “All right,” Philip says hesitantly, staring down at the writing pen inside.

  “He’s a different boy,” I tell him. “He’s coming around.”

  Philip squeezes me tight enough to let me know he is here for me. “I’ll keep an eye out for your father,” he says.

  “Thanks. I’ll be back shortly.” Before I leave, he tells me he’s going to check in with the guys at the police station about his current case.

  “As long as you don’t have to go in,” I tell him.

  “I promise.”

  * * * *

  Pickard Street seems deserted as I turn the corner to Bret Hicks’s house fifteen minutes later.

  I walk up to the front door and knock. Memories from the past few years flash in my mind.

  I look across the yard to my former house. I am suddenly reminded of my past life with Russ, and the new beginning with Philip. Movement from behind the Hick’s front door jars me out of my trance, and a friendly face pokes out from behind the lace curtains.

  Janice Hicks.

  When she opens the door, she says, happiness in her voice, “Christian. This is a surprise. Come in. Get out of the cold.”

  “Is it a good time?”

  She smiles weakly. “It’s a pleasant surprise.”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I say, remembering my promise to Bret.

  “We’re just about to eat. Would you like stay for dinner?”

  “No thanks,” I answer, closing the door behind me. “We’ve already eaten.”

  Fresh baked rye bread and simmering garlic smells fill Janice’s toasty-warm kitchen.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” she says. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I’ve just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”

  I take a seat at the kitchen table, which is adorned with a red and white Christmas tablecloth and festive candles. I glance up at Janice. “Coffee would be nice. Thanks.”

  When she turns and saunters over to the counter, I take in the cluttered kitchen and lean forward to stare down the dimly lit hallway. Bret is nowhere in sight.

  Janice turns and hovers over me with a piping hot coffee cup in hand. “If you’ve come to see Bret, I’m afraid he’s not here. He left an hour ago, but he should be back soon.”

  “I actually came to see you.”

  She stares at me inquisitively and sits down across me. Her voice is thick with regret. “Quite honestly, I didn’t think we’d ever talk to each other again after last year’s fiasco.”

  I lean my elbows on the edge of the tabletop. “That’s why I’m here, Janice. I’ve been thinking a lot about you and Bret lately.”

  “He’s doing well.”

  I sip my coffee. “That’s good to hear.”

  “He went back to high school to get his GED. I’m proud of him.” Her eyes fill up.

  “You should be. He’s a good kid.”

  She looks preoccupied with something as she glances down at the table, lost in thought. She moves a fork into an upright position beside the spoon and napkin. “He wasn’t always,” she says, referring to her son. “We all go through phases. Bret is young. He’s still growing.” She sounds like she’s making excuses for him. Maybe, too, she’s genuinely overcome with grief.

  I am not sure.

  Janice stares out the kitchen window onto the front yard buried in several inches of snow. “I don’t know where I went wrong,” she says, running her fingers around the warm edge of the mug. Her words are barely discernible. I have to lean forward to hear her better.

  “You are not your mistakes,” I say. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  As she turns to me, tears fall down her cheeks. “I was a horrible person to you.” She is shaking. “I’m sorry, Christian.”

  I reach across the table, over several condiments, and brush my fingers against hers. “I forgive you.”

  “You were just trying to help Bret.” She wipes her face with one of the white cloth napkins. “I was too blind—and stupid—to see it.”

  “You were angry. It’s understandable. You were only protecting your son.” I try to console her with a sly smile. “Your apology means more to me than what happened last year. I’ve moved on. You should as well. Not only for you, but Bret too.”

  She coughs into her napkin. “Thanks for stopping by today. I feel so much better after talking to you.”

  I nod. “Me too.”

  “Are you sure I can’t plate a dish for you to take back with you?”

  I stand. “Goodness no. We’ve got enough food to feed the homeless.”

  Coming around the table, Janice wraps me in a hug, smelling of rosemary oil and saffron. “This was a nice surprise,” she says. “Thanks for the talk.”

  “Thanks for giving me this opportunity to do it.”

  She pulls away and looks up at me, her face tired but sunny. “How’s Philip, by the way?”

  “Busy as always.”

  “You and Philip are perfect together.”

  I smile at that nice thought. “Philip makes my life worthwhile.”

  “We all need that special someone to keep us grounded, safe, and happy. And to tell us when we’re out of line.” She stares out the window again, searching for something or somebody.

  “Please let Bret know I stopped by,” I say.

  She turns to me. “I will.” She pauses. Then asks, “How’s Darth?�
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  “We couldn’t have asked for a better companion. He’s enriched our lives tremendously.” More to myself, I add, “Humans can learn a lot from our four-legged friends.”

  She nods. Sadness fills her eyes. “He deserves a second chance.”

  I nod.

  She hugs me again. “Merry Christmas, Chris.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  * * * *

  Before I venture back home, I make a long detour and end up at St. Thomas’s Episcopal Church. Father O’ Brian is in the sanctuary preparing for his service later in the day when I clamor inside the heavy front doors.

  He looks up from what he is doing and welcomes me with his usual cordial smile. “Good morning, Christian. You’re a bit early for my afternoon service.”

  “Good morning, Father. I was wondering if you’d mind if I use the chapel for a few minutes.”

  “Of course not. But is there anything that I can help you with?”

  “I am just looking for a few minutes of quiet time.”

  He gestures toward the front of the church. “By all means.”

  “Thanks, Father.”

  Before I step through the solid oak doors to the small chapel, Father O’ Brian says, “It was a pleasure meeting your family at midnight Mass. Lovely folks.”

  I turn around and am overcome with both joy and sadness. My eyes mist over. “It was a beautiful service as always,” I say and turn and disappear behind the door.

  Inside, I light two votive candles—one for both my parents—in front of the single pew and kneel in prayer. I drop my head in front of me and close my eyes.

  Chapter 22

  When I get back to the house, I see the disgruntled look on Philip’s face. He is sitting at the kitchen table with his parents, Jim and Barbara. Everybody is deep in thought.

  They sit in unpleasant silence.

  It is as if I am invisible on the other side of the glass door; I go unnoticed, standing in the threshold, watching the three of them in painful reprieve.

  Philip’s mother Barbara reaches for her son’s hand. Philip pulls slowly back in his chair, fretting like a small child being scolded. His eyes narrow as he stares down at the floor. He folds his arms across his chest, the fabric of his T-shirt stretching tightly along his shoulders.