The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  She nodded, and turned away, her eyes dull and unresponsive.

  “I’ll come back next month to check on both you and Mom,” I said.

  She looked emaciated under her casual blouse. Her hair was uncombed, as if she had just climbed out of bed, the morning wind tugging at the tufts of her unkempt strands. “I’m scared.”

  “One day at a time, sis. Make the call. Do it for yourself. Do it for Mom. She’ll need you.” I embraced her. “Call me. I’ll get on the next plane if need you me.”

  The months of drug abuse and alcohol she had suffered through scared me, and gave me nightmares for the next few weeks. She wiped a thin hand over her gaunt face. She looked older than her forty-two years.

  The taxi driver blared the horn again and I held up a hand. I told Paula I loved her and went around to where Mom sat in the passenger seat. I opened the door, crouched, and looked up at her. “I’ll call you when we get home.”

  Paula got behind the steering wheel and strapped her seatbelt across her chest.

  Mom nodded, her hands opening and folding on her lap. Her quivering jaw and teary eyes prompted me to start crying, which led to us hugging and telling each other that we’d see each other soon.

  “My home is your home,” my mother said.

  “Philip and I have two guest bedrooms back in Milestone with your name on it.”

  Paula laid a hand on Mom’s shoulder

  “Think about it,” I told her, pulling myself up, my knees sore from bending.

  “I don’t want to leave your father,” she said, her voice breaking up at the mention of Dad.

  “You’ll always have memories of him, wherever you are,” I said.

  Another car horn blared.

  I shut the passenger door and leaned into the window. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  I was about to turn and head into the terminal when my mother’s hand reached out of the car door, her fingers brushing my arm. “Promise me something, Chris.”

  “Anything.”

  “Keep strong for me.”

  Chapter 38

  I never told my mother that I had scattered Dad’s ashes in the depths of the Grand Canyon. It had only been a week since we arrived back home from Arizona. I was sitting at the kitchen table, paying bills and taking care of other correspondence, working my way through a third cup of coffee.

  Darth snored in a ball at my feet.

  I looked out the kitchen window into the backyard to the small garden I had planted earlier that year. It was a jumble of overgrown weeds and sickly-looking foliage; the vivid colors of the azaleas and chrysanthemums were marked black with mold and a reminder that a long cold winter was soon approaching. It reminded me of my mother’s abandoned garden in Arizona.

  Philip was back to work as sheriff, trying to keep the small town safe from corruption, an ongoing process as the days went on. He’d come home for lunch to tell me how sad the state of the world was, and I’d prepare him a full course meal to help ease his anxiety. He’d appreciate the effort I’d put into the meatloaf and pesto linguini dishes, but he’d tell me to take it easy. “Rest,” he said to me during midweek, looking overworked and exhausted from the demanding workday. “Take time for yourself. You’ve been through a lot this year.”

  I didn’t tell him that I was thinking a lot about my father lately. I broke out in tears during the day, spontaneously and without warning.

  I spent most days alone, holed up inside the house, sleeping late, not showering until noon. Darth must have noticed my sadness.

  Is this what depression feels like?

  When Philip came home at night, he saw the differences in my behavior and politely suggested that I talk to someone. We were sitting together on the living room sofa, staring at the TV, the current presidential debate on mute, the two candidates bickering and pointing fingers at one other, both trying to win the country’s support.

  I lay my head on Philip’s shoulder, as he pulled me into him, my hand falling on his leg. Darth was curled up on Philip’s lap.

  I let out a breath, confusion and anger and sadness spinning around in my head like a pinball game. “I want to do everything I can to help you through this tough time,” he said.

  I nodded and ran my hand through Darth’s thick coat of greying hair. Philip and I noticed Darth’s low energy, sleeping more during the day, his nine years catching up to him. His appetite had waned. “He’s healthy,” the vet told us when Philip and I brought him in for a checkup two days ago. “But with age comes less appetite and exercise. Most large dogs his age would rather stay indoors and sleep all day.”

  We had come to the realization that Darth would be around for another year or two. I couldn’t bear the thought of not having him in our lives, the sound of his toenails clipping across the hardwood floors, his friendly, charming face staring back at us, and his unyielding companionship. The house would feel empty without him.

  Chapter 39

  The following week, I took Philip’s advice and scheduled an appointment to talk to a therapist.

  Dr. Shelia Wheaton’s office was downtown in a five-story building near an organic whole foods store and a strip mall of local eateries.

  I walked along the icy streets to the back entrance of the building, black ice and a brisk wind reminding me of an impending winter. I rode the elevator to the fourth floor, and stepped out into a small empty reception area, furnished in warm, dark wood walls, floor to ceiling carpeting, and limited seating.

  I checked in with a middle-aged woman who was reading a romance novel, and gave her my name. She handed me papers to fill out. “Dr. Wheaton will see you shortly.” She smiled. “Bring me back the paperwork when you’re done.”

  I took a seat by the window and stared down onto the street filling up with noon traffic. After I finished filling out information for my healthcare insurance, I signed it, and heard someone calling my name. I looked up at a tall red-haired woman standing in a doorway across the room, smiling at me.

  “Mr. Rivers?”

  I nodded and stood, my heart pounding. I handed the receptionist the clipboard of papers and followed Dr. Wheaton through the white door into a much smaller room than the reception area.

  I sat across from her and talked about my father for the entire hour.

  “How has the loss of your father changed you?” she asked, writing in a notepad.

  I shifted in my seat, and leaned forward, staring down at the plush velvet carpet beneath my dirty boots. “I feel like a different person.”

  “How so?”

  I shook my head. “I feel disconnected from life. I don’t know. It’s hard to describe.”

  “How are you dealing with your father’s death?”

  “I’m here, talking to you.”

  Her thin lips parted into a soft smile on her angelic face. She looked like an angel in her long white skirt and brunette hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She had simple features.

  She was easy to talk to, I thought, as if we’d known each other for years.

  “How are you dealing with everything now?” she asked.

  “One day at a time.” I shrugged and stared over at her, taking a breath.

  “What is it?” She stopped writing and caught my eye.

  “I miss my mother.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Arizona. She’s eighty-three-years-old and living alone.”

  “Far away from here.”

  “Too far.”

  She crossed her legs. “How often do you visit her?”

  “Not enough. We just got back a few weeks ago.”

  “We?”

  “My husband and I. Thank God for him. He’s been my support through all of this.”

  “Does she live alone, you mother?”

  I nodded.

  “That can be stressful to think about.”

  I sighed. “I worry about her a lot.”

  “Understandably.”

  “My sister’s got her problems, too.
Drugs. Relationships. Men. She’s trying to get through the rough days, as well.”

  Dr. Wheaton moved positions, folding her legs at the ankles. She didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t know what I would’ve done without my husband,” I said.

  “It sounds like you have a good support system.”

  “The best.”

  * * * *

  That night, I told Philip I wanted my mother to move in with us. We were in bed. Darth was snuggled up in a warm blanket at our feet, snoring.

  Philip closed the book he was reading, set it on the bedside table, took off his glasses, and turned to me. “I support any decision you make,” he said.

  “Do you think it’ll be inconvenient with my mother living under our roof?”

  “We’ll adapt.”

  I turned to Philip. “Thanks for everything.”

  He kissed me. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  Chapter 40

  The fleeting days of fall turned colder, and winter arrived sooner than the town of Milestone wanted. Philip and I settled indoors for six months of below-freezing temperatures and heavy snowdrifts.

  I continued talking to Dr. Wheaton once a week, clomping through the snowy streets to her downtown office.

  Late one day in mid-November, I confessed, “These talks may not heal the sadness I feel after losing my father and worrying tirelessly about my mother, but they get me through the tough days. At least, I can keep my father alive through our visits.”

  * * * *

  Life is for the living.

  I still felt my father’s shadow following me, keeping me company on days riddled with great sadness. Nobody really knows how fragile and short life is until they lose someone close to them.

  My mother reminded me of that when she and Paula visited Philip and me for the holidays. Paula surprised me when we picked them up at Milestone Airport a week before Thanksgiving. Paula had been in rehab for three months since I last saw her. She was healthy looking and seemed happier without Marshall.

  I pushed my mother to the car in one of the airport wheelchairs and helped her into the front seat. Philip strapped her seatbelt around her in the front seat next to him. I returned the wheelchair to the terminal and jumped in the backseat with my sister.

  * * * *

  Philip carried the luggage bags into the house, as Paula and I held our mother’s hands and helped her inside.

  Darth lifted his head at the sound of our arrival. I unlocked the door to his crate, but he stayed inside, resting, looking up at us with a heavy gaze. I bent down and rubbed his head. “How are you feeling, buddy?” His tail thudded the floor of the crate at my voice.

  He looked up at me hopeful, licking his lips, his eyes tired with sleep.

  The sound of his dry food filling his dog bowl encouraged him to stroll out of his bed. My mother sat at the kitchen table, clapping her hands, her eyes tearing up at the sight of everyone together. “How’s good old Darth doing?”

  “He’s slowing down,” I said.

  “Aren’t we all?”

  * * * *

  Over hors d’oeuvres that evening, when my mother and I were alone and Philip and Paula were watching football in the living room, I told Mom what I had done with Dad’s ashes.

  “I understand,” she said. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

  I looked at her, surprised. “You’re not angry?”

  “Why would I be angry?”

  I shrugged.

  “Chris, dear, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  I waited.

  “I’ve decided to stay in Arizona.”

  Nonplussed, I said, “What? Why?”

  “I want to be with your father when I die.”

  “I—I don’t understand. I was hoping you’d move to Milestone so Philip and I can take care of you.”

  Hands shaking, she brought her cup to her mouth. She sipped her tea. “I’ve made up my mind. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “But what about your living conditions?”

  “I’m selling the house and moving in to a rest home for the elderly.”

  “Nonsense. No. Philip and I want you to move in with us, Mom.”

  She set the mug down. “I don’t want to burden the two of you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I want to die at home. I want to be with your father.”

  It was final. I wasn’t going to persuade her to stay in Milestone.

  I started to say something, but she beat me to it. “Paula and I have already made plans.”

  “I’m going to worry about you being so far away.”

  “We’ve been living a great distance from each other already.”

  “Mom—”

  “I’ve made up my mind. It’d be too burdensome for me to pack everything I own and move across the country.” She smiled, her eyes cloudy, uncertain. “Come to Arizona and visit me.”

  I nodded, turned, and looked to where Philip and Paula cuddled with Darth on the sofa. They both looked content.

  * * * *

  Bret Hicks and his mother stopped in to wish us all a happy holiday. I invited them to stay and eat with us, but they were celebrating Thanksgiving out of town with friends.

  Bret sat with Darth, his dog from a former life, for almost half an hour while I made a cup of coffee for his mother. “Darth looks a lot older,” Bret was saying.

  “We all age,” I said.

  Bret looked older, too, I thought, since the last time I’d seen him. He was taller and his facial hair was growing in thicker. “You’re looking more grown-up these days, as well,” I said.

  “I’m a senior in college this year,” he said, happiness filling his voice.

  “Time goes by so fast,” I said to no one in particular.

  Bret looked at me. “Thanks for giving Darth a good life.”

  I raised my coffee mug to him.

  Chapter 41

  Philip and I had dinner with Father O’ Brian a week after Christmas when my mother and sister were heading back home to Arizona.

  “Visit often,” my mother said after kissing me goodbye. I’d miss her so much because she was so far away.

  I had echoed my reservations about my mother living alone to Father O’Brian and Philip at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants in town.

  “God will take care of her,” Father O’Brian said. “She’ll be in good hands at the nursing home.”

  Philip grabbed my hand across the table. “We’ll visit her as often as you want.”

  “I feel like everyone’s leaving me,” I said.

  “I’m still here,” Philip piped up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Come to church for Sunday Mass,” Father O’Brian told us. “My last sermon will be about faith and moving forward.”

  Chapter 42

  Bronchitis set in during the bitter months of January and February and through the beginning of spring when I started writing again. Writing always kept my mind busy even through the tough days.

  The house was strangely quiet and abandoned without my mother and sister.

  I spoke to Mom every day since she left Milestone, and her upbeat voice reminded me of our happier times, when life was simpler and more meaningful.

  She told me she was enjoying her days at Meadowland Nursing Home. Her stories were rich in color and character and enthusiasm, especially when she’d enlighten me on how she’d play to win at bingo or rummy, taking fifty or hundred dollars from the other residents.

  I’d ask her about her strategy, how she managed to win every Friday and Saturday night. She’d say, “Everyone is either gullible or riddled with dementia. They haven’t caught on to my conniving little secrets.”

  “In other words, you’re cheating them?”

  “All I’m saying is that it’s all legal.” I was happy to hear the joy in my mother’s voice again, even if she was back to her scheming old ways.

  When I mentioned the holidays next year, my mother said, r
eminding me of our plans, “You’re coming here for Christmas.”

  “Christmas without snow?” I asked.

  “You’ll adapt.”

  * * * *

  I smiled at the afterthought of our last conversation in mid-February as I stood over the stove, sautéing heirloom tomatoes, Shiitake mushrooms, and Vidalia onions in olive oil and garlic butter.

  The house had been too quiet all afternoon, but when I heard Philip’s footfalls behind me, coming down the hall after having showered and shaved, I turned around to see him sauntering towards me in his flannel pajamas and a dashing smile.

  He crept up stealthily behind me and slipped his arms around my waist, his breath smelling like cinnamon toothpaste. His masculine aftershave engaged all my senses. I gripped the ladle and stirred our late evening dinner sluggishly, spellbound in the moment.

  His mouth found mine, and his kisses tasted sweet. “How are you feeling?”

  “Broken, sad, and depressed.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The long cold winter, for starters. I miss my mother and sister. I feel like a lost child trying to find his way home.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  I didn’t know if there was anything he could do to help me.

  He came around and opened the cupboard above us, reaching inside for two thick tumbler glasses.

  I uncapped it and slid a bottle of chilled Chivas Regal across the counter to him. He filled our glasses half full, the ice clinking against the sides. We sipped and savored the thick, smooth taste.

  “Tell me what I can do to lift your spirits,” he said, tapping his glass to mine, toasting our life together. “I don’t like seeing you this way.”

  “There’s just so much I want to do before I die.”

  “You sound like it’s the end of the world.”

  “I’m haunted by my father’s memory.”

  “I know it’s difficult now, but with time, you will look back on your father with happiness, not sadness.”