The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  I shook my head, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

  He grabbed my hand. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “I—”

  “Being here together right now is the most important thing to me.” He kissed my cheek. “I want you to be happy.”

  His lips were soft.

  We got lost in the moment, kissing, caressing, and escaping into each other.

  “You’re all I’ve got,” I said, staring into his eyes.

  “You’ve got a mom who loves you, too.”

  I pulled back, succumbing to tears and sadness.

  “Do you want to stay longer?” he asked.

  “I think we should get back. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

  “I’m not talking about that.”

  I looked at him, confused.

  “Do you want to stay in Arizona to be with your mother?”

  I stared out at the sweeping vistas, and people smiling and laughing in the warm, brilliant day.

  “Being home makes me sad,” I said.

  “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

  “I think I should stay for my mother,” I finally said.

  He winked, sadness filling up his tired eyes.

  “What about you?” I asked. “How are you coping?”

  “I’m fine.” He put his head on my shoulder.

  “Would you mind if we stayed another week?”

  He shook his head. “I’d mind if you’d said no.”

  “Do you have to call work and let them know?”

  He lifted his head off my shoulder and stood. “I’ll call Deputy Roland and let her know that I’ll be gone another week.”

  I took in a deep breath and let it out. “Thanks for everything.”

  He smiled, glided his warm fingers through mine. “Anything for you.”

  For another hour, we stood near the edge of the Grand Canyon, arm in arm, relishing the absolute peacefulness that had been missing in our lives for too long.

  “I miss Darth,” I said, an image of our dog flashing across my thoughts.

  “I miss him, too. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  “I wonder what he’s doing.”

  “Probably terrorizing everyone.”

  Chapter 23

  Nearly four hours later, traffic to blame for our lateness, Philip and I pulled into my mother’s driveway. He cut the engine and parked behind the monstrosity of a black Dodge Ram.

  I looked at Philip and rolled my eyes. “Could only mean one thing.”

  “Tiny Dick Marshall.”

  I laughed and reached down in front of me for the grocery bags. “I hope we got enough fish for us. My sister and Marshall can eat the steaks.”

  “Don’t go giving my meat away. One of those sirloins are mine,” Philip said, smirking, his face boyishly charming.

  As we lumbered along the recently mowed yard to the front door, Adam and Carly Bellingham were out on their porch swing, drinking Coronas. “How’s it going?” Adam yelled, his voice slurred from too much alcohol.

  Carly looked two sheets to the wind, waving limply, raising her bottle to me. “I’m sorry about your father, Chris. How’re you doing?”

  “Fine, thanks,” I yelled back.

  “Who’s the handsome man with ya?” Carly asked, fumbling to stand up and falling back into the swing, Adam reaching out to catch her.

  “My husband,” I said. “Philip.”

  “We should have dinner one night,” Carly shouted as if I was deaf.

  “Yeah, buddy,” Adam supported his drunken wife, raising a hand, gesturing his approval. “You and Philip should come over tonight. We’ve got lots of beer. We’d love to have ya.”

  “Maybe some other time,” I said, waving and running up the front steps, two at a time.

  I held the door open for Philip.

  I waved goodbye to the Bellinghams and disappeared into the house, grocery bags and my father’s remains tucked tightly under my arms.

  Chapter 24

  A feverish chill washed over me as I entered my mother’s house, Philip close behind me, carrying the extra grocery bags with this evening’s dinner.

  Something was amiss.

  My sister’s boyfriend, Marshall, was slumped in one of the two chairs by the TV, watching a football game. He looked scruffy, unshaven, a tangled mess of greasy strands of hair covering his eyes. His bulging stomach hung over his stained, too-tight white T-shirt. He slugged down a beer and belched. When he leaned forward to burp a second time, I glimpsed his gaping, hairy butt crack, and turned to erase the image from my mind. No such luck.

  I looked to where my mother sat at the butcher-block island, drinking something hot, the curly wisps of steam clouding her glasses. She was struggling over last week’s crossword, filling in the boxes with letters and then erasing them, cussing under her breath, and penciling in different words.

  “We’re back,” I said, walking around the dining room and setting the grocery bags on the marble counter.

  “Welcome back, dear,” she said, stewing over the puzzle.

  Philip held up the extra grocery bags. “Do you want me to help with dinner?”

  I nodded. “Please.”

  “No. No.” My mother swung her arms halfway in her high back chair. “I’ve assigned Paula and Marshall the cooking chores tonight. Boys, make yourselves a drink and sit down with me. I need help with this darn crossword.”

  I looked to Philip and then at Marshall.

  I caught Philip’s gaze when he turned to me, his expression nonplussed, a deer trapped in the headlights.

  “Where’s Paula?” I asked my mother.

  She drank her coffee, the aromatic smell of hard liquor infusing the air.

  “Mom?” I placed my hand on her shoulder.

  She shook off a shiver. “Huh? What?” Then her gaze fell to the bag of urns on the counter behind her. She looked as if she had forgotten I was picking up Dad’s remains.

  She froze, her mouth agape. “Is that my Henry?”

  I hugged her, her body going rigid in my arms. I could smell booze on her breath, mingled with freshly brewed coffee. “Are you all right?”

  “Son.” It was a whisper, barely discernible, on the cusp of my ear. “I miss him.”

  Her body went slack in my arms, and the start of a slow, rocking rhythm nudged us to sway back and forth. She ran her hand up and down my arms, like a child without the safety of his blanket. Leaning her head against me, she asked me to hold her.

  Philip came up behind me, stroked my back with a soft hand in his heartening, husbandly way.

  “Where’s Paula?” I asked again.

  “Don’t know,” my mother answered, sniffing and pulling off her glasses, wiping her eyes with her fingers. “The last time I heard she said she was going to the bathroom.” She looked at her watch. “That was twenty minutes ago.”

  I kissed her forehead. “Philip and I will cook dinner.”

  She stared over at Marshall in front of the TV who was preoccupied, engrossed in the game. “Fine.” Sniffing some more, she asked, “How was the drive?”

  I looked at Philip and smiled. I mouthed, Tell her.

  “We had a nice afternoon, Lori. Just the two of us.” He looked to her then back at me. “I brought Chris to the Grand Canyon.”

  She smiled, her lips parted, taking in another mouthful of coffee and Kahlua. “You’ve made my son very happy.” She looked saddened by something, death I supposed, her eyes misty.

  As I was unpacking the groceries and storing them in the refrigerator and cupboard, I heard a crash somewhere in the house, down the hall. I turned to Philip. I waited a few seconds for the noise to return. “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  The subtle sounds of sickness emitted from behind the bathroom door as I ventured down the hall to check on my sister. I turned around to see if my mother or Philip or even drunk Marshall could hear her vomiting, wrenching, and dry heaving her sins into the toilet.

  My mother sat
nursing her tea, mulling over the crossword and telling Philip where to store the groceries. Marshall was collapsed in the living room chair, glued to the football game.

  I wasn’t prepared for the depth of her despair when I swung the bathroom door open and stared down at my sister, clutching the toilet, ribbons of vomit dripping from the corners of her mouth. She looked up at me, dazed, startled, shame shrouding her face, her eyes bloodshot and glossy, and mascara trickling down her cheeks.

  She wore a short black skirt pulled high over her thighs, lace panties poking through, and a taut white blouse and bra exposing an emaciated midriff underneath. Nothing was left to the imagination.

  My stare fell across a line of coke on the Formica counter next to a razor and a neatly folded dollar bill. I felt alarmed, scared, worried.

  The room carried the heavy stench of alcohol. The hard stuff, I thought.

  I looked away from Paula and sighed, exasperated, wracking my brain, thinking, hard, trying to think of ways to hide this atrocity from Mom, my mind rolling relentlessly, over and over and over.

  I looked around the corner to where everything seemed to be playing out just fine in the other room, and stepped into the sickening stink of Paula’s world and closed the door. I kneeled by her, controlling my anger by staying quiet.

  Disgusted, I took in a breath and held it, working to swallow the bile crawling up my throat. The acrid smell of vomit and illness saturated the air, nauseating me.

  Paula pulled herself up against the wall, dragging her legs up to her chest, exposing more skin than I needed to see.

  I leaned back against the wall next to her and closed my eyes, thinking of ways to help her through this difficult period.

  “I fucked up big time,” she said, bursting out in heaving cries, her head falling in front of her, her body shaking.

  “We all do, sis.”

  Shaking her head violently, she mumbled, “I’ve really messed things up with Mom.”

  “What happened?”

  “This. Me. I’m ashamed of myself.”

  I patted her back, watching her regurgitating into the toilet. Reaching into the cupboard behind me where Mom stashed her potions, powders, and night creams, I handed Paula a dry hand towel.

  “What can I do for you?” My anger had subsided, although I was still reeling with distaste for my sister’s self-pity.

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  “There must be something I can do to help.”

  She wiped her mouth on the corner of the blue embroidered towel. “Don’t tell Mom.”

  “I thought she knew about your…problem.”

  I’d hoped she couldn’t hear the disdain in my voice. I was working hard, trying not to be overbearing and judgmental. I’m only here to listen. Do what I can to help my sister.

  She wretched into the toilet again, this time flushing the vomit down the pipes. “Not all of it.”

  I stood and cracked open the window on the far wall.

  “How bad is it?” I asked.

  She sat hunched over the toilet, still dry heaving.

  I turned on the cold and hot valves on the facet, letting the water run a steady rush, drowning out Paula’s putrid retching. I wasn’t sure my presence was any help for her. But when she answered, “I don’t know if I can handle it anymore,” my sibling radar spiked.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She asked for water and told me the bitter taste in her mouth and throat was making her sick to her stomach. I filled a paper cup with tap water. She drank it, wincing, complaining about how hard it was to swallow.

  “Take your time,” I said, then added, after she emptied the cup and handed it back to me to refill, “What did you mean, you can’t handle it anymore?”

  I noticed she was trembling when I handed her the cup. “I can’t handle life anymore. Waking up is too hard. Leaving the house is a challenge.”

  “Some days, I find it hard to get of bed, too.”

  She blew out a stream of pent up breath, spitting and drowning her sins into the toilet. “I can’t believe you’ve got such a rough life.” She meant for it to sound cynical.

  “You don’t think I’ve got problems?”

  A headshake.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  She glared at me, the patch of skin under her eyes swollen, puffy and dark-circled. “You’ve got a comfortable nest in Milestone.”

  “I’ve had to work hard for it.”

  She rubbed her nose. “I’ve lost everything.”

  “You’ve got me.”

  She heaved one last time before I asked her about the drugs. “How long has it been?”

  Heavy sigh. When she didn’t answer, I turned to her, my voice rising, annoyed, lively, and argumentative. “Paula, talk to me. How long has it been?”

  A network of mascara lines blotted her face. “I don’t—”

  “You don’t remember?”

  She shook her head, snot flying from the nose. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You’re making it impossible for me to help you.”

  “Just leave—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said softly, on the brink of hysteria, worry and unrest clutching me, clouding my better judgment.

  “Get out.” She jammed me with her elbow in the side of my ribs. “I want to be alone.”

  I cringed, holding back, controlling the burning rage running through my veins.

  “I don’t need your help, Chris.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said, holding my own.

  There was a flat rap on the bathroom door, Philip whispering, asking how everything was, his mild voice observant and straightforward.

  Paula wrapped her head in her arms. I pushed off the floor and stood, shutting off the facet. I brushed the fine dusting of coke into the palm of my hand and sprinkled it over the opened toilet.

  Before Paula could protest, reaching up to stop me from flushing her expensive drug of choice down the drains, I yanked on the handle and watched the white powder dissolve into the murky water of bodily fluids, swirling quickly out of harm’s way.

  “I’ll be right out,” I told Philip.

  “Do you need my help?” he asked, and I could hear the hurt and worry in his voice.

  I stared down at my sister, anger and frustration ruining my next chess move. “No. I’ll be out in a minute.” I needed more time, but I knew Paula wasn’t going to give me the time of day. Not now. Maybe soon. Hopefully.

  When I knew Philip was gone, I crouched down next to Paula. “Take a shower. Lie down in the guest bedroom. I’ll make you a cup of hot tea.” I stood perched by her side, concerned and powerless, confusion dimming my thoughts.

  I turned and left the room.

  Chapter 25

  The second I entered the living room and kitchen, Philip noticed something was wrong. His eyes darted from me to the hallway as he shelved cupboards and filled the empty refrigerator with groceries.

  I didn’t talk, just helped put cookies and cakes for dessert on top of the counter, and shoving organic kale leaves and Christmas-bulb sized tomatoes and big-bodied beets into the crisper drawer.

  Our gazes met, when our hands brushed each other’s, cramming large boxes of whole-wheat crackers and a can of green olives on the same top shelf. Philip turned to me, unsure what to say, eyes focused on me.

  I shook my head, defeated, provoked by fear, thinking about my sister. I sighed, and asked my mother if she wanted anything. She batted a hand at me, concentrating on the puzzle before her. To Philip, I cocked my head, smiled weakly, and gestured him to follow me in the laundry room, down the dark hall, off the kitchen.

  In the semi-darkness, I shut the door, folding my arms around his broad shoulders. He asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Hypnotized by the stillness, we savored the silence.

  “What’s up?” he asked, his words muffled beneath my collar.

  I felt his lips grazing me gently. I didn’t
want him to stop.

  “It’s Paula,” I said.

  “What is it?”

  I could hear the faint sound of rain smacking the windowpanes.

  These gentle moments between us were fleeting, I thought, snuggling up next to him in the dark.

  “She’s using drugs again,” I said. “Cocaine.”

  His intake of breath, thick and phlegmy, caught in his throat. “How long has it been?”

  I shook my head, as if that would answer him. “I don’t know. I left her in the bathroom, told her to take a shower. Sober up. Get herself together.”

  “Your mother—” he started to say, channeling my thoughts.

  “I hope she doesn’t notice.” Then more to myself: “It’ll be impossible, if she doesn’t already know.”

  “How bad is it?”

  I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to know.

  He hugged me. I wanted to stay in his arms all night.

  “Do you want me to check on her?” he asked.

  I interlocked my fingers so as not to let him go, or leave me alone. “When you knocked on the bathroom door, she was going to yell and make a scene. She was angry with me for intruding. I gestured her to be quiet; that’s when I sent you away. I didn’t want her to go on the defense with you either.”

  “I want to help.”

  I stared up into his frazzled face. In the shadows, I could see stress lines around his mouth and in the tousled silver-white hair on his head. “I don’t want you getting in the middle of my family drama.”

  “Christopher.” He shook his head, nudged my nose with his, and leaned in to kiss me. I closed my eyes, his breath tasting like a sweet glass of chardonnay. “Your family is my family,” he said. “I want to help.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure what you can do. My sister needs to hit bottom—”

  “She’s grieving. Like you and your mom.”

  “Snorting coke seems like a bigger issue than trying to cope with Dad’s death.”

  “This is her way of dealing with it. I agree, it’s out of character for her, but she’s hurting, too.”

  I nodded.

  “Drugs are an escape for her,” he went on.

  “Paula looks like death,” I said.

  “She needs help. This is her way of asking for it.”