In the Distance There Is Light by Harper Bliss

particular and avoiding the subject of Ian’s death, I’ve had enough. Though I haven’t said much, and done even less, my energy has been depleted. I’m emotionally empty, but I already know that the drive back to Chicago, back to Dolores, will make me feel a little more alive again.
    “I’d better go,” I say.
    “You can stay the night,” Mom says, as she always does, even though I haven’t slept in this house in more than a decade. It’s just another one of those habits of hers that are hard to shake—and another opportunity for me to reject her and highlight the fact that I’m the sole reason for this distance between us.
    I say my goodbyes, giving Emma and Tilda an extra-long hug, and take a deep breath before starting my car. On the way back to Chicago, I think of all the things that were left unsaid, about the unease in the air, only pierced when one of the kids said something funny, followed by an overly hilarious bout of laughter.  
    As I approach the city limit, I almost, out of habit, turn left to drive to where Ian and I used to live, but I quickly correct myself, banning every thought of the apartment from my mind, and head over to Dolores’ house. My home now.

Chapter Twelve

    Dolores is not home when I arrive at the house. She’s left a Post-it on the counter saying she’ll be back late and not to wait up. But I always wait up. I’d rather sit on the couch flicking through channels until after midnight than go to bed on my own. Going to bed together is what we do now. It’s the pinnacle of the comfort rituals we have created. She goes into her bathroom, the ensuite to her bedroom, and I go into what I now consider as mine but is actually the guest bathroom. We go in fully clothed, and come out ready for bed. When I hop in next to her, the sense of relief that washes over me is indescribable.
    It’s not late yet and instead of plonking myself down in front of the TV, I go up to the make-shift office I’ve set up in the guest bedroom. It’s just a desk with a monitor on it, my laptop and some chargers and pens and a notebook. Turns out that of all the things I acquired over the course of my life, these are the essentials. I don’t need the fancy lamp I bought to cast its expensive light on me when I write. I don’t need the colorful mug I drank coffee from every morning to start my day—one of Dolores’ well-used ones will do. I don’t need the noise-canceling headphones I used to wear while working, because up here, on Dolores’ second floor it’s always quiet.
    I sit at the desk and start composing another letter to Ian. I write it by hand, which I’m not used to anymore, but that way no one but me can ever read it—because my handwriting has become terrible due to lack of use.

    Ian,

    There’s something I haven’t told you yet. Something that will make you arch up those full eyebrows of yours the way you did when you made fun of something I said.
    Dolores and I have been sleeping in the same bed.
    I know it sounds ridiculous, especially written down on a piece of paper like this. I’m snickering as I read it myself. But you have to understand that sleeping in your mother’s bed is the only thing that makes this loneliness bearable. Because together, Dolores and I are not alone. We have each other.
    She is so strong, Ian. I can’t believe it. Sometimes I think that having lost Angela all those years ago inoculated her against future loss. I’m not claiming she’s not grieving for you, because she is, but the way she carries herself through this pain and grief is so admirable. I don’t know where she gets the wherewithal to do it, but I’m hoping to find out. Because I need me some of that, babe. Any other person would succumb under the accumulation of loss, but not Dolores. Her spine is cast in iron. She doesn’t allow her head to hang low. In that respect, she’s also an inspiration.
    Maybe I’m paying extra attention to it because today is Mother’s