The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  “Chris, it’s me, Philip.”

  I was relieved that is was Philip, but infuriated because I wanted it to be my father. I wanted to talk to him and tell him everything I didn’t have the chance to say when we were alone together in the hospital.

  “Where are you?” I asked, pushing off the fridge, and taking a deep breath.

  “Over here. Outside on the porch.”

  I looked to where his face appeared in shadows from behind the screen door. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry, hon. I couldn’t sleep.”

  I walked towards him, nearly running into a chair pulled halfway out from beneath the butcher-block. “What are you doing outside?”

  When he didn’t answer, I walked over to the door. The moment I approached him I could detect a heavy hint of cigarette smell wafting in the air.

  Blinking back the stench of secondhand smoke, I stared through the rectangular screen up at Philip. He looked away, down at the half-smoked cigarette in his hand.

  When our eyes met the second time, he knew I was angry. I glared at him, shaking my head.

  He looked away and butted the cigarette out in an ashtray left on the card table my mother received as a gift from Paula and Marshall.

  I opened the door and stepped out into the balmy night, my skin moist from the heavy air.

  “When did you start smoking?” I asked him, his back to me.

  “Last week.”

  “Philip.” I held firm.

  He gripped the wooden railing and gazed down into my mother’s azaleas, which were shrouded in the porch light.

  A chorus of cicadas assailed the air.

  I came up behind my husband, stood close to him, and ran a hand over the hard cords of muscle on his back.

  He trembled under me.

  “It’s been stressful,” he said, and I could detect a tone of exhaustion and panic. “Work. Your father’s death.” When he turned to me I saw the pain on his face. “Us.”

  “Us?” I shrugged. “What’s wrong with us?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just…different right now. Everything is.”

  “How?” Puzzled, my voice thick with doubt. “What are you talking about?”

  He reached for my hand in the dark. “I don’t blame you for anything, Chris. Things have been difficult these last few months. But our relationship has taken a beating from it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We’ve barely touched each other in the last four months. Our sex life has amounted to barely a kiss in the morning, or when I come home late from work, there’s no intimacy. We go to sleep because we’re so tired.”

  “Maybe I haven’t been in the right mood.” I sounded bitter, angry, and I hated myself for saying it.

  “I’m not mad at you. I’m not judging. I’m just saying that these last few months have taken a toll on me, as well. I’m smoking because I’ve been emotionally distressed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not looking for an apology, babe. Come here.”

  I fell into his arms, resisting the stench of cigarettes on his clothes and breath, and held him in the dark.

  “I’m sorry for the way I reacted just now,” I said. “I should have considered your feelings. I’ve been lost these last few months and we haven’t been on the same emotional level.”

  He hugged me. “It’s easy to forget about other circumstances and people when you’ve been consumed by this great loss in your life, every day for the past few months.”

  Heavy sigh. I squeezed him. “I wish you hadn’t started smoking,” I said.

  “It’s temporary to help me get through the next few weeks. I promise.”

  Chapter 16

  I didn’t remember the transition between the time we finished talking on the porch last night to the next morning, when I opened my eyes to golden light of pre-dawn brightening the bedroom around us. I remained in Philip’s arms for another twenty minutes, until he woke with a start, as if battling his own nightmares.

  He stretched and groaned against the stiffness of being immobile for five hours. He stirred, yawned, and gripped me in his arms. “Morning, handsome.”

  I turned to him to meet his eyes. I could smell the bitterness of his morning breath when he bent down for a kiss. He reached a hand up my shirt and ran his fingers along my stomach, and up to my nipples. I helped him by peeling off my damp T-shirt, my heart racing, skin tickling beneath his curious hands.

  Smiling, he dove in for another kiss, knowing from the eager look on my face that I wanted him. He fumbled under the sheets, sliding my boxers down my legs, over my feet, and off me, and snaking a hand into the warm, damp area of my groin.

  He kissed me one more time, firm and lasting on the mouth, before ducking his head under the comforter with a mischievous smirk on his sleepy face, and traveling down the length of my stomach and nether regions with his tongue, to his mark. I curled my toes and let out an encouraging moan as his mouth clamped shut around my morning erection, his head bobbing up and down in constant movements under the sheets.

  When we finished, Philip lay across me, telling me that everything would be all right.

  Chapter 17

  The mouthwatering smell of blueberry pancakes lingered in the air as Philip and I emerged from the bedroom half an hour later.

  My mother was baking, dishes clattering under her hurried, multitasking hand, the radio dial tuned to easy listening. Her back was to us as we walked into the room. We took seats at the island.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  She turned, startled, spilling gooey pancake batter off the spatula to the floor. “Good heavens to Betsy. You scared me.”

  “Morning, Ms. Rivers.” Philip yawned, reaching behind him and scratching the back of his neck.

  “Philip, you’re family. Call me Lori.”

  He nodded, and looked over to me, smiling.

  I raked his tousled hair.

  “How’d you guys sleep?” my mother asked.

  “Fine.” Philip yawned.

  “And you?” She glanced at me.

  “Given our late-night talk, I could use another few hours of shut eye.”

  My mother looked over at Philip. “My son kept me company last night.”

  As he leaned on the counter, the knot of muscles in his back tightened beneath his tight T-shirt, his eyes heavy with sleep. “I was out like a light and didn’t hear a thing.”

  Glancing in his direction, I flashed him a smile. I could have sworn I heard him in the hallway last night, overhearing my stupid remarks about our wedding and my trip home to see my dying father.

  “You guys hungry?” my mother asked, waving the battered-covered spatula at us. “I made your favorite breakfast, Chris.”

  “Do you want some help?” I asked.

  She looked at me sternly, hands on hips. My mother’s infamous pose when she scolded me, even at thirty-eight. “I’m serving,” she said.

  “Good. Because I’m starving,” I said.

  “Plate me up,” Phillip nodded, grabbing my hand in his. “Lots of syrup and extra butter, please.”

  Chapter 18

  After breakfast, Philip and I helped my mother clean up the kitchen. I rinsed dishes; Philip dried and loaded the dishwasher. My mother kissed both of us on the cheeks and scooted us out of the kitchen, calling us her loving sons. “You two must have other fun things to do with your time.”

  By ten minutes after nine Philip and I had showered and dressed and were heading to Peoria to pick up my father’s ashes.

  On the way out the door, my mother informed us that we’d be picking up three different cremation urns; one each for Mom, Paula, and me.

  “On your way home, do you mind picking up some salmon and spinach?” she asked.

  “What are you up to?” I asked standing at the front door.

  She wiped her hands on a dishcloth. “I’m making a big fancy dinner for everyone.”

  “Everyone?” I looked a
t her, confused.

  “Paula and Marshall are coming over,” she said. “We’re finally going to eat as a family.”

  I cut a look over at Philip. He turned to me and grinned. I could see the cogs turning in his head. “Do you want anything else other than what’s on your grocery list?”

  “Dessert,” she added. “Something to satisfy my sweet tooth. There’s a nice family-owned bakery on the way to the crematory.”

  I nodded. “Anything in particular?”

  “Something with chocolate.”

  “We’ll be back shortly,” Philip said, opening the door for me and waving at her.

  “Take your time,” my mother shot back. “Go for a drive. Enjoy the beautiful day.” On her way out of the room, I heard her mumble, mainly to herself, “Not many more days like that left.”

  Chapter 19

  It took us twenty minutes to arrive in Peoria from Glendale and my mother’s directions proved helpful when Philip pulled into Redding Funeral and Cremation Chapel on Clear Water Road.

  It was a modest, three-story, 19th century building, with brown painted shutters and a well-tended lawn. Philip pulled into a spot in the glaring sun and cut the ignition.

  “Ready?” he asked, unbuckling his seat belt and opening his door, letting in a wave of heat.

  I shook my head, sat in the front seat, my hands rolled up on my lap, uneasy. I closed my eyes, listening to the blaring horns on the highway behind the building and the chattering of birdsong in the adjoining trees nearby.

  Philip shut the driver’s side door and reached for my hand. At his touch, I leaned forward and started crying, my head full of images of my father, then and now, all of them of him staring back at me, unyielding, supportive, expressive, telling me he would always love me.

  The sadness had been coming in waves of tears and resentment, periodically throughout the last few months, but it was boiling to a head now that he was physically gone from the world, taken away from us forever.

  Philip’s solace in a quiet hug, or his voice in my ear, telling me everything was going to be fine, was comforting. It got me through these last few wretched months, when I woke up crying, or waiting for the phone to ring and someone to tell me this was all a dream, a little mix up. Henry Rivers was not gone. No, he was very much alive.

  I’d do anything to have my father back in my life, laughing, talking about the good old days, watching TV, wrestling, even football, although I didn’t like it or understand why men passed a football around a field and made millions of dollars for it. All I wanted was to call my father and tell him I’d be there, shortly, don’t leave me!

  Don’t fucking leave us! What was Mom going to do without him? I asked myself, fighting back more tears, anger snaking through my veins, poisoning me; I scrunched my hands into fists, the skin turning bone-white around the knuckles.

  I heard Philip’s voice in my head, distant but clear as light, calming me, whispering, Life is for the living.

  When I turned to him, my eyes stinging and blurry from crying, all I could see was his handsome face beaming back at me, his eyes glassy and worried.

  I wondered what he was thinking.

  I wanted to tell him that I was scared. I wanted to tell him I was scared of dying, not knowing when it would happen, when we’d be separated from each other, the end coming for us all.

  As he wiped my eyes with the back of his hand, I took his other hand in mine and squeezed it.

  The heat of the morning sun, conspicuous behind a thin coiling of cumulus clouds, streamed down on us through the windshield.

  “You’re the toughest person I know,” Philip said. “You’re a survivor. You’ll get through this.”

  “I’m ready,” I said, sitting up and wiping my face dry. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 20

  A conventional brown box; gold nameplate: Henry Rivers; a heaven-blue egg-shaped dome, glass; silver nameplate: Henry Rivers; and a bronze double heart necklace pendant; birthstone, emerald.

  David Howe, owner of Redding Funeral and Cremation Chapel, stood before Philip and me in an immaculate airy room adjacent to the showrooms, lined wall to wall with a variety of expensive coffins. His crowbar straight mustache and dark brown eyes seemed fitting in the brooding atmosphere.

  He opened his mouth to welcome us. Pleasant. Jovial. I didn’t know what I expected.

  I shoved my hands into my pockets to hide my nervousness.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Rivers.” Mr. Howe reached out to shake my hand.

  Quickly, I pulled my hand out of my pocket, the palm moist, and shook the short man’s hand.

  Philip put his hand on my shoulder, trying to relax me. He must have noticed my uneasiness. I looked up at him. I wanted to crawl in bed and sleep for days.

  I found it difficult to control my emotions. Standing in the funeral home, everything seemed real. Final. My father was gone. Mr. Howe gestured to a chair near his large cherry wood desk. “Please, Mr. Rivers. Have a seat.”

  He went around to the other side of the desk and held out a box of tissues. Philip took a seat next to me. He reached over and squeezed my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, blowing my nose softly, slightly ashamed.

  “Don’t be,” Mr. Howe said, waiting patiently for me, a kind smile on his round face, his hands tented in front of him, his elbows resting on the table. “It’s a difficult time.”

  I asked to use the restroom and when I returned, Philip was staring up at me with a wide grin, his stare warm and optimistic.

  I sat down next to him, took his hand, and turned to Mr. Howe. “How much do I owe you for everything?”

  He slid an invoice across the desk. I wrote a check for $2,500, signed it, and slid it back to Mr. Howe, shook his hand, and gathered the large Redding and Funeral and Cremation Chapel bag from him with my father’s remains divided into three separate, decorative urns.

  Philip and I stood, thanked Mr. Howe, shook his hand, and left the funeral home, my father’s remains firmly in my grasp.

  Chapter 21

  I sat in the passenger seat of my mother’s black suburban SUV and held the three containers filled with my father’s ashes.

  “I didn’t realize there was so much of my dad to go around,” I said, making myself laugh.

  Philip reached over into the passenger seat and rested his hand on my knee, the heat from his palm penetrating my pants. “How are you doing?”

  I nodded, my fingers winding around the length of the bag, gripping it tightly, and praying for better times. “Fine, I guess.” I shook my head. “I was a fool in there.”

  “You have a right to cry.”

  “I miss my father.” My voice cracked.

  Philip slid his arm around my neck. “Don’t fight it. Let it come.”

  I forced a smile, but I didn’t feel happy. “I love you, P.”

  “I love you, too, babe.”

  I turned to him, my eyes hazy, misty with tears.

  “I want to take you somewhere,” he said.

  “Where? With Dad?”

  Philip shrugged, slid the key in the ignition, snapped on his seatbelt, and shifted gears.

  “We still have to pick up groceries for dinner,” I reminded him.

  “I haven’t forgotten.” He stared in the rearview mirror and put the car in reverse. “I’ve got something else on my mind.” He pulled out into the street. “Somewhere special.”

  Chapter 22

  Three and a half hours and several restroom stops later, we stood along the precipice of the Grand Canyon and its breathtaking views.

  “You’re an impulsive fool,” I said.

  “Does this mean you forgive me?”

  Our eyes met. “I’m worried about your health, Philip. And your anxieties and heavy work load.”

  “I’m fine. We’re all under a lot of stress right now.”

  We fell silent.

  The hot sun glinted off the buffed layers of lime and sandstone grooves of the canyon.
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  “Different than seeing it on television,” he said.

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “Well worth the admission.”

  “I love it when you’re spontaneous.”

  “I’m glad that I have you to share it with.”

  Other tourists, those who paid admission to enter the park by foot, wandered around us, snapping pictures and sharing the spectacular views.

  “My mother will worry about where we are,” I said.

  “She did tell us to enjoy the day.” Philip squeezed my arm.

  I nodded in awe of the postcard perfect scenery in front of us.

  “I wanted to do something special for you while we’re here,” Philip said. “You deserve it.”

  I looked up at him, using my hand as a visor to shield the blinding sun from my eyes. “Every day I spend with you is special. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The tranquility of the moment put me at ease: the touch of my husband holding me, his arms wrapped around me, and the stunning sights of the Grand Canyon.

  “We need to get out more,” Philip said. “Enjoy nature’s beauty.”

  As we stared out at the impressive sights, I felt Philip’s hand on my back, running along the top of my jeans, and curling his fingers along the edge of my waist, teasing me.

  Frisky. Cajoling.

  I turned to him, smiling. “I’m sorry about my reaction last night,” I said, breaking up the intimacy. His hands stopped in mid-stride.

  I felt foolish, wanted to crawl under a rock.

  He looked at me confused, his face crinkling, eyebrows narrowed, the skin between his eyes deepening. “What do you mean?”

  I sighed. “How I reacted about your smoking. I know you’re going through a stressful time, too.”

  His breath quickened. He shifted on the rocky embankment and stared over at a family of three—mom, dad, and a five, maybe six-year-old girl enjoying the same solitude of the moment, posing for family photos. “I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”