by Harper Bliss
I open my mouth to protest but he holds up his hand, signaling he’s not done yet.
“You’re a damn good journalist. They don’t make ‘em like you anymore. It’s like the airiness and swiftness of journalism in this day and age doesn’t affect you at all. You’re only thirty and you already have such a solid reputation. The Post would miss you if you threw in the towel.”
Even though I’m flattered by what he just said, I’m too hung up on his first sentence to bask in his kind words. “I don’t feel like I owe Dolores.” I realize it’s a big fat lie as the words cross my lips and it gives me pause. “At least not the way you’re insinuating,” I correct myself.
“We shouldn’t talk about this now.” Jeremy’s features turn all mushy and apologetic. “Let’s have lunch or dinner tomorrow. Whenever suits you. I’ll make time. Come to mine. I’ll make you eggs benedict on avocado toast.” He flutters his lashes.
“You’re bribing me with food?”
“Bribing? I’m your best friend and I want to have a conversation with you. That’s not a bribe, only a normal request.”
“Hi, Jeremy.” James joins us.
Jeremy is right. This isn’t the right place to have a conversation about any of these things. Besides, I need some time to figure stuff out.
Jeremy and James start talking—James being a total fan boy and Jeremy enjoying every second of it. I focus my attention back on the room while I empty my champagne flute. Dolores is headed in my direction, determination in her tread, nodding at a few people but not stopping to talk to them.
“Want to go into my office for a minute?” she whispers in my ear.
I nod and follow her and as I do, I can almost feel Jeremy’s glance burn into my back.
* * *
As soon as we enter Dolores’ office she closes the door and locks it. She turns around, her back against the door, and says, “I’m falling apart, Sophie.”
I’m shocked but also not, because I know how she feels. I take a step closer and throw my arms around her.
“Everyone either asks me how I’m doing or looks at me with a pity in their glance I just can’t bear.” Her voice is muffled because her mouth is somewhere in my hair, but I hear her loud and clear. “I feel like it’s not about Vasily or his art at all tonight, but it’s all about me, and Ian, who, even though he’s no longer here, is very present.”
I hold her a little closer. “I know.”
“It’s so hard. I miss him so much and it’s just so damn hard.” Her muscles stiffen. She takes a deep breath, and another. “It’s so unfair,” she mumbles as she frees herself from my arms. “I really shouldn’t cry.” She brings a finger underneath her eye, trying to stop her mascara from running. “It’s like it only just now really hit me, on this night that doesn’t even have anything to do with him. I thought it would be a breeze, keeping busy, engaging in my usual chit chat, because this is what I’m good at. But with every person’s hand I shook or cheek I kissed, the question in my head grew louder: what’s the point? What am I even doing here? He was not supposed to go before me, Sophie. I was supposed to be a grandmother to his children. I was supposed to tell him off for sneaking a cigarette once in a while even though his other mother died of lung cancer. I was supposed to look for him tonight, see him peek out of the crowd with his tall body, with that easy smile on his face. He was such a charmer. He loved nights like this.”
“I know, Dolores, I know.” The words barely make it past the lump in my throat. “But we have no choice. We must plow through. It’s the only way. I know it’s unfair. Life is unfair, but it’s all we have. We owe it to him to live.”
Someone knocks gently on the door. “Dolores,” James says in a hushed voice, “are you there? Can I come in?”
“Just a minute, James.”
I witness how Dolores pulls herself together in front of my eyes. The metamorphosis is astounding. She goes from crumpled mother who lost her son to straight-backed gallery owner in the space of seconds.
“We all fall apart,” I say. It’s how we get back up that defines us, I think but don’t say out loud. Because Dolores obviously knows how to put herself back together. I’ve just witnessed her do it in such an expert fashion it makes me feel like the biggest amateur. Which I am.
She dabs a tissue underneath her eyes, casts a glance at Angela’s picture, gives my hand a quick squeeze and opens the door.
I watch her as she walks off with James, as though the past five minutes didn’t even happen. I’m the only witness to her moment of weakness. It’s what keeps us together.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ian,
I don’t even know how to begin this letter. I can hardly say “Happy Birthday”, can I? And then there’s that other thing…
Let me start by saying that we’re having a party in your honor today. You would have been thirty-six. Everyone is coming. Alex and Bart, Sydney and Ethan, Jeremy. Some of Dolores’ friends as well, the ones you always charmed with your geeky wit and overly courteous manners. June and Helen, Patsy.
But this was not how it was supposed to be. If you were still alive, I know that, as usual, we wouldn’t have made any plans, and we’d have probably ended up at your mother’s for dinner and a bottle of champagne, but, well, you were supposed to be here for this, Ian. You were not supposed to die. You were not supposed to leave and let us ‘celebrate’ your birthday without you. And…
There’s something else. Something has happened, but I feel like when I write it down, it will become more than it is. It will become something official. Something I can’t deal with in that capacity. As long as I keep it just in my head, it’s not as real as I want it to be. It is real, but also strangely not.
Oh fuck, Ian. You’re not going to believe this. You may actually want to die, not by accident but by choice, after hearing this. But let me tell you something: the only reason why I ended up in Dolores’ bed is because you did die. It’s the only reason. I can’t seem to stress that enough.
We haven’t just been sleeping. We’ve been… I don’t know how to call it. Comforting each other in other ways. I don’t want to use the f word. It’s too crass for the tenderness we have between us. For the love we share. A love born solely from shared love for you.
You brought us together, so please don’t judge me, wherever you are.
Dolores and I have been making love. Christ. It sounds so trite. So wrong, spelled out like that. But I do have feelings for her. I do. I just don’t know what they mean exactly. All I know is that being with Dolores makes me feel infinitely better. Sometimes, when I wake up, I smile when I see her. I actually smile when I open my eyes. Isn’t that a miracle in itself? I never thought I’d smile again. I never thought I’d feel anything like this again.
I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. You don’t want to hear. But guess what, Ian? You no longer have any say in the matter, in any matter, because you’re dead. And what was I supposed to do after that?
The thought of another guy simply repels me. That would feel like cheating. Being with Dolores doesn’t. Granted, the taboo aspect turns me on. It does. How can it not? But that’s not what it’s about. Dolores is such a spectacular woman. Sometimes, she lets herself fall apart in my arms, and I always consider her even more spectacular afterwards. She lets go for me, in more ways than one, and I’m honored that she does. We’re so close now, she can probably read my thoughts. We can just sit in silence and have the same thoughts running through our heads. It’s pretty magical, come to think of it.
And yes, Ian, I can hear you think it. Am I a lesbian now? Have I gone gay for your mother? Though, please allow me to point out, which I’ve been doing to myself a lot, that she’s not your biological mother. Not even your stepmother. I know how much it would have hurt you—and Dolores—if I’d said those things while you were alive. But you not being alive is what set this whole thing in motion in the first place. And yes, I use it as an excuse. Every single time. Every single day.
You’re dead and I’m sleeping with your mother. How fucked up is that? It actually makes me chuckle as I write this. It’s ridiculous. Maybe I should do some research on the subject. There must be some literature on this, some study conducted by an obscure university. And, oh my god, Ian, imagine my mother’s face if she were to find out. Imagine the shock. No boardroom experience can prepare you for your daughter sleeping with her (non-biological!) mother-in-law.
But you have to understand. As perverted or depraved or sick as this may be, I need to get my comfort where I can now. My smile in the morning, that miracle, that little glimmer of being glad I’m alive because I’m waking up next to her, even if it lasts only a split second, it’s all I have. It’s what keeps me going. It’s what stops me wishing I was buried with you. Dolores is my lifeline. Nobody may ever understand, but we do.
I may never read this letter again, but there… Now you know. The ink has dried on the page.
This is what your dying has done to me.
Fuck, I love you. I miss you. Our friends will be here soon. I’m supposed to get all dolled up for this party. I went back to the apartment—into our bedroom—especially to get that teal dress you liked so much on me. And for what? Are you looking down on me from your comfortable spot in heaven? I sometimes wish I was gullible enough to be religious, but I’m not. Not one little bit. My loss, really.
So much is my loss these days.
I miss you.
Sophie
Chapter Twenty-Four
At the party, I just drink. I drink and I feel like a cliché—except when I look at Dolores. Then I feel like anything but.
Everyone we invited has come, because how can you possibly turn down an invitation for a dead man’s birthday? It’s not an option. All selfishness, all other plans, are trumped by death.
As I sit in a chair and drink more, totally neglecting my duties as hostess—Dolores and Jeremy are picking up the slack—I also feel mightily sorry for myself. I shouldn’t have written that letter to Ian just before people started arriving. What was supposed to be an activity that brought me some sort of solace, some closure, has begun to make me feel like a freak. A freak wallowing in self-pity. The absolute opposite of what Ian would want me to be.
Everyone keeps repeating what a great guy he was. If I have to hear that particular phrase one more time, I’m not sure what I will do. Everything is just so fucked. As if I actually want to snuggle up to Dolores each and every night. No. What I want is for Ian to have left the apartment one minute later that morning, for him to have taken an alternative route, for me to have kissed him profusely before he left, making him late, making him miss the reversing truck. Keeping him alive.
I could have kept him alive.
Instead, I’m sitting here, surrounded by people but feeling more alone than ever. Dolores is chatting with her friends. She must have quite a few things to say to them, the way she’s gesticulating. Perhaps she’s just happy to have a conversation with people her age for a change.
“Come on, you.” Jeremy tugs at my elbow. “Mingle. Turn that frown upside down. You can’t just sit here with that scowl on your face all afternoon.”
“Excuse me?” I shake him off me.
“Sweetie, I know exactly what’s going on in that head of yours. And while I understand, you invited all these people here. They came here for you—”
“They came for Ian’s irrelevant birthday,” I protest.
“No, Soph. They came for you. Can’t you see that?” He grabs me by the arm again, gentle but insistent. “I came for you.”
“I just… want to talk about something else than what a wonderful, lovely guy Ian was. Just for five minutes,” I whisper. “Does that make me a horrible person?”
“No, darling that makes you human. Come on, Bo and Cindy have been asking about you, but have been too timid to approach you. Anyone would be with the way you’re sitting here. You have so much in common with them now. Maybe you can ask for some tips.”
“Don’t push it, Jeremy.”
“Apologies, but I’m pushing you. You need it.”
“Then pour me another drink first.”
Jeremy shrugs, grabs a bottle of red wine from the table and refills my glass.
I follow his advice—or command, more like—and mix with the small crowd. There are about twenty people in Dolores’ house. Michael, Ian’s boss, is here. And Tommy. There’s no one here who didn’t love him to bits, yet they all get to go home after this party, relieved that that ordeal has passed, and get on with their lives. Whereas me, I’ll be climbing into Dolores’ bed again, trying to forget, trying to forgive myself for not pushing him more to wear a helmet when he rode his bike. “Nobody wears a helmet in Chicago, babe,” Ian would say. “This isn’t Southern California.”
“Hey.” Dolores suddenly stands beside me and puts her arm on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” I can’t help it. I flinch a little at her touch. Fearing that my friends will somehow be able to read from my face what we’ve been doing.
“I’m drunk and I think this party was a bad idea,” I mumble, no longer able to keep up appearances in front of Dolores. Having had a dozen orgasms at someone’s fingers will do that to you.
“Come on.” She places a hand on the small of my back. “Let’s get you some coffee.” She coaxes me toward the kitchen and closes the door behind us. She sits me down on a chair and pours me a steaming cup.
“The last party I was at, it was different, you know?” I slur my words.
“Drink this.” Dolores crouches next to me, her hand on my thigh. “Do you want to go upstairs for a bit? People will understand.”
“They will understand what? That we go upstairs together?” The amount of pure rage I’m feeling toward everything and everyone is new. “That we sleep together?”
“Sophie, please.” Dolores’ nails dig through the flimsy fabric of my dress.
“Why don’t we just go into the pantry and fuck while all our friends are out there?” I wave my hand toward the door and knock over a glass of water in the process.
“Please calm down.” Dolores pushes herself up and picks up the glass I knocked over. The water I spilled drips onto the kitchen floor.
“I’m sorry.” I bury my head in my hands. “My turn for a party breakdown,” I mutter into my hands. All the energy I had left, escapes me. I feel as empty as I’ve ever done. What was supposed to be a celebration of Ian’s life has just become a massive reminder of his death, more so than on any regular day. “I’m in a funny mood today,” I say when I look back up.
A tear runs down Dolores’ cheek.
“It’s okay. Come here.” She pulls me out of the chair and wraps her arms around me. “It’s okay.” With Dolores’ hands in my hair and her breath on my neck, and her love and support on display, I can’t keep it dry. I cry on her shoulder, wishing I could just disappear, like Ian did, leaving everyone to sort out their subsequent misery without me.
“I know very well it was a stupid accident, but sometimes it just feels like he deserted me. And fuck if I know how to deal with all this… shit.” I don’t care that I’m swearing in front of Dolores. “Sometimes, I just think he’s such an asshole for dying like that. So in vain. So uselessly. Nothing good will ever come of his death. All there is, is pain and grief and loss and endless days of agony and drinking too much and missing him, while the world just keeps on turning. I bet he’s been replaced at work. I bet there’s nothing where he died to show that anyone lost their life at that spot. The paramedics who were first on the scene have responded to a hundred more calls since then. The bloody truck driver is probably driving along happily, feeling lucky because the police didn’t find fault with him. Well, I do. I find him guilty, because the simple fact is that if he hadn’t been backing up his truck, Ian would still be alive. He would be celebrating his birthday today. We’d be singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him, out of tune, and he would have that goofy grin on his face, and kiss you on the cheek and me on the lips an
d thank us for our performance, and we would all be so very, stupidly, recklessly happy, not knowing that it can all just end in a split second.”
“Oh, Sophie.” Dolores kisses me on the cheek first, then she cups my jaw with her hands, and kisses me full on the lips. In her kitchen. While, behind the door, twenty of the people we know best are drinking and chatting and reminiscing.
When she does it again, her lips lingering this time, I’m the one—me, the woman who just drunkenly knocked over a glass of water and yelled at her—who suggests she stop what she’s doing.
“Let’s go into the pantry,” she says. Her eyes are intense.
“What?” I figure I must be too tipsy to have heard her correctly.
“I need you,” Dolores says, and takes me by the hand. “Come.”
I let myself be dragged into the pantry. When Dolores closes the door behind us, it’s pitch black inside. She doesn’t switch on the light. Instead, she locks her lips on mine, her hands already traveling underneath my dress.
“Dolores, come on. Are you sure about this?” I try, but hell, I need this too. I need this to snap me out of my funk, out of my stupor of unflattering self-pity. I need Dolores to bring me back to myself again, at least to the version of me who can face her friends in the living room, and toast her dead boyfriend’s birthday.
“I am if you are,” Dolores says in between moans. She’s clearly not waiting for my reply. Her hands have reached my belly already. My dress is pulled all the way over my behind. “I want you,” she says, as though she hasn’t made that loud and clear yet.
And I want her, too. I need her and I want her because, thus far, what we’re about to do, is the only thing that cuts through the pain. Alcohol makes me too maudlin. Talking to my friends makes me miss Ian so much more than when I’m alone. Only this, being here with Dolores, brings relief.