In the Distance There Is Light by Harper Bliss Read Free Book Online Page B

and Emma’s lives. He told me once that the shittiest parents often make the best grandparents, because it gives them a chance to redeem themselves for their past mistakes. I believe my response was, “Good for you, but too little too late for me.”
    My dad just sits there, mostly saying nothing, in his default mode.
    “Tilda can already count to ten,” Sandra, my brother’s wife, says.
    At the mention of her name, Tilda turns her attention away from her sister. She waddles over to the couch, holds on to her mother’s knees, and starts counting on her fingers. Her big blue eyes shine brightly with innocence and being so alive, so young and unspoiled and at the beginning of everything. I suddenly realize that the last time I saw the girls was before Ian died. Do they even know their uncle is dead? If so, who told them and how?
    Not having any nieces or nephews in his own family, Ian loved spending time with the kids. He was always making plans for them, saying that we’d go pick them up at their mom and dad’s and drive them into the city, show them what life was really about—that there was so much more to it than the suburb where they lived. But then, as so many of life’s big plans, they got pushed away by other things to do, by work, and the way life can just consume you, eat away time without you realizing it, until it’s too late.
    “High five,” I say to Tilda and hold up my hand. She totters over to me, always running more than walking, and slaps the palm of her tiny hand against mine. I look at her, at this child who doesn’t know anything yet about the awful surprises life can spring on you, and I just want to hold her, press her against my chest, as if that will protect her for the rest of her days.
    “Can your auntie have a hug, Tilda?” I ask her in a silly, high-pitched voice.
    She looks at me as solemnly as a three-year-old can, her clear gaze piercing my heart, and throws her little arms around me. They must have told her something, because my youngest niece is usually not very generous with dispensing hugs. They must have instructed her to give auntie Sophie a hug whenever she asks for it. They must all have been talking about me for weeks. Now it all hangs unsaid in the air between us. I can almost see my dad straining to say something, but unable to find that magic string of words to break the ice with.
    So we do what we’ve grown accustomed to. We use the children as a buffer—I’m just as guilty of this as anyone else. “What did you get your mommy for Mother’s Day?” I ask Tilda.
    This is Emma’s cue to chime in. “I made her flowers,” she shouts.
    Tilda just mumbles something, but it’s enough to rouse a chuckle from the room.
    After the laughter has subsided, my mother says, “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.” She’s like a subdued version of herself today. At least she doesn’t ask me how I’m holding up. I know that me being so absent from her life hurts her, makes her question her self-worth in a way she’s not accustomed to, and though I’m sorry about the state of our non-relationship, this is the only way it can be. Because I’ve witnessed the change in myself. The more I removed myself from my family, the more confident and happy I became.  
    But now, happy is a word so obsolete, so ludicrous, so far-fetched that, for an instant, I think it doesn’t matter anymore. At least I still have a mother to visit on Mother’s Day. Then I think of Dolores, who is all alone today and no longer has a son to shower her with outrageous gifts. All I want to do is flee this scene and go be with her. After spending so much time with Dolores, a comfortable easiness has slipped in. We have a rhythm going that suits us both. When we have dinner, the silences are no longer awkward, but we find solace in them, because they are shared. Every night, I sleep in her bed, like it’s the most normal way of sleeping in the world.
    * * *
    After an hour of talking about nothing in