In the Distance There Is Light (16 page)

By the gallery’s opening night, Dolores and I have explored each other’s bodies every chance we got. I know that, strangely, her left nipple is more sensitive than her right. I’ve traced the faint birth mark she has on the back of her thigh with my tongue numerous times. I know what she smells like, and notice the difference in the morning and in the evening. As I stand under the bright lights of the gallery, it feels as though all we’ve been doing is having sex. Not just for the past couple of days, but for months. That’s how much she is in my head, how much she is part of me.

I’ve come to the gallery a couple of times with Dolores and whereas before we started making love like two teenagers who have just discovered the joys of sex, I wouldn’t have thought twice about what Dolores’ employees might think of me being at the gallery all the time, now I often wonder if they somehow know. James, who spends a lot of hours with Dolores, must know her so well. He must be able to tell that there’s something different about her. Or perhaps he just automatically chalks the subtle difference in her complexion up to a new stage of grief. Maybe he thinks the tad more confidence in her gait is just down to time passing.

And tonight, she shines. I feel sorry for the artist her gallery is displaying, with his wooden demeanor and overly visible self-consciousness. He’s not meant for the spotlight, I can so easily tell. He prefers making his collages—paint over print—in the solitude of his studio. But he needn’t worry, because he has Dolores on his side. For a nice percentage, she’ll do the heavy lifting of selling his work for him.

I wander around the crowd, nod back at people politely when they offer one, and catch snippets of Dolores’ voice while I wait for Jeremy to arrive. Whenever she speaks, I remember how her voice lowered to a whisper as she demanded that I come. Just watching her move about the place makes my skin tingle again, to the extent that I begin to wonder what the hell is going on with me.

We’re well into the twenty-first century, and sexuality is supposed to be fluid; one is supposed to question it from time to time in this post-post-modern age, but I never have and that’s what throws me the most. Does sleeping with Dolores make me bisexual? Does it even matter?

“Hey stranger.” I hear Jeremy’s voice coming from behind me. “You’ve been M.I.A.” His tone is not accusatory, only teasing. “Let me guess—” Luckily, he doesn’t finish his sentence. Despite his lack of decorum, Jeremy knows all about time and place. This is not the place for him to say certain things to me.

“I’ve been busy.” I kiss him on each cheek, then inspect his attire. He’s dressed in an electric blue suit, white shirt and very yellow slim tie. Vintage Jeremy.

“Oh, I’m sure you have been, darling. How’s that novel coming along?” His tone is full of innuendo. “Is it an erotic novel, I wonder? I hear they’re going out of fashion so you’d better hurry.”

“I don’t want to write a novel anymore. I can’t bear to sit in a room for hours alone with my thoughts. It would drive me mad. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Jackie O. will be so pleased.” He examines me. “You look good, Soph. Better. And, of course, I’ll be at the party on Saturday. Am I allowed to call it that?”

“Yes. It’s a party to celebrate Ian’s life.”

“Hello, my dear.” June, one of Dolores’ closest friends and fellow art aficionado, greets me by putting a hand on my shoulder. I’ve gotten to know her a little over the years. She and Dolores go way back and I was told they’re about the same age, except June seems to look at least ten years older than Dolores. “So good of you to come and support Dolores.”

Jeremy and I exchange a quick glance.

“She’s been a big support to me,” I reply.

June nods thoughtfully and I can’t help but wonder if Dolores has told her about us. After all, I’ve told Jeremy. But he’s Jeremy. It seems different, but, of course, it’s not. Why would Dolores not need someone to confide in? Maybe I’m wrong to assume things are different at their age.
Their age.
It makes me question again what the hell Dolores and I are doing. I can explain away our motives all I want, but what is the outcome here? The end game? More pain? It’s not as if we can possibly ever really be together. Attend an opening night like this as a couple. It’s unthinkable.

June gets wrapped up in conversation with someone who’s tapped her on the back, which allows me to refocus my attention on Jeremy. I’m so grateful to him for coming. Because this is my first art gallery reception without Ian too. When we used to come here together, he’d be milling about the place, helping his mother to put the artist at ease—he had that way with people—and then, when guests started to leave, and he’d had a little too much champagne, he would whisper in my ear, “What do you think, babe? Should I follow in my mother’s footsteps, stop being an architect and join the world of the arts?” It was one of many plans he had. One of the many that he will never get to carry out. Out of nowhere, by the sheer force of that memory, there’s the anger again. Isn’t it absolutely ludicrous to have a birthday party for someone who’s dead? Who will never have another birthday? Instinctively, I try to locate Dolores in the crowd, try to find her gaze for support.

“So what are your new career plans, Soph?” Jeremy’s voice cuts through my train of gloomy thoughts just as a waiter passes and offers us a new glass of champagne. We both eagerly accept. I have to keep myself from knocking it back in a few big gulps.

“I’m not sure yet. While I figure it out, I’ll just help out here. It’s the least I can do for Dolores.”

Jeremy looks at me with that semi-condescending stare he’s so good at, but doesn’t say anything.

“What?” I drink again.

“Sweetie, I know your world has been turned upside down and I get that you’re questioning
everything”
—a lot of emphasis there—“but I hope you’re not doing any of this because you feel you owe it to Ian’s mother.”

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.