The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  If only, I wanted to say, as Conall glared at his father.

  ‘Family business wasn’t good enough for you?’ he said. ‘God forbid. Anything to do with family’s not good enough for you.’

  That’s when I wanted to go and hug Conall because his dad clearly didn’t see the side of him that built shelters and looked after people and always tried to do the right thing. Apart from lie to me. Obviously.

  ‘For God’s sake, Colm,’ said Mary.

  ‘She’s their defence lawyer,’ said Colm to me, sticking his thumb towards Mary. ‘Always been soft. On the inside, anyway. They don’t say it but they don’t know why she didn’t pack her bags and leave me years ago.’

  ‘I must’ve had rocks in my head,’ she said, watching him as if she was a teacher who’d caught a student smoking behind the shed.

  ‘And then there’s my grandson . . .’ His eyes glazed over as he stared at the table, tears surfacing. ‘Oh, he’s grand. Funny. Answer for everything.’ He looked up at me. ‘Doesn’t God have a funny way of showing he’s merciful?’

  Mary put a cheese toastie on a plate in front of him. ‘Eat that.’

  ‘What do I want with food?’ he said, faltering as he stood up.

  ‘Your son . . .’ he added, looking and pointing at Conall, as if the sight of him gave Colm physical pain. He couldn’t seem to find any more words, though. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  With which he walked out of the room.

  ‘Well,’ said Mary, sitting at the table and pouring tea into a cup. ‘Your father always did like drama.’

  4.10 p.m. ‘Soffoo, they have linger-y here, fifty per cent off.’

  ‘What?’ I whispered as I came into the bedroom to answer Mum’s third call.

  ‘Linger-y.’

  ‘You mean lingerie?’

  Pause. ‘Lounge-aray?’

  ‘Lingerie.’

  ‘This spelling is very weird.’

  ‘It’s French.’

  ‘Le, are we living in France?’

  ‘What are you doing in the lingerie department, Mum?’

  ‘I’m buying some for myself, of course. Maria told me she doesn’t want anything. Silly girl – so cheap these bras are.’

  Oh my actual God. My mother wants us all to have matching marital underwear. Vom.

  ‘I’m kind of busy here, Mum.’

  ‘How are your in-laws? I hope you took Mary a present. Have you given the toy I put in your bag to Eemon? Oh, I have to go before this woman takes all the nice knickers.’

  4.12 p.m.

  From Maria: If Mum calls don’t answer. You’ll never recover from the conversation. Trust me. How’s Ireland? You OK? xx

  9.35 p.m. ‘So, that’s your dad then?’ I said that evening when Conall and I were finally alone.

  Conall rested his hands on his hips as he stared out of the window. ‘In all his glory.’

  ‘Could’ve been worse,’ I said. Probably.

  ‘You know the worst thing? Whatever shit he used to say to us; however many ways he disappointed us . . . at least he stayed.’

  He turned round, not quite looking me in the eye. ‘It’s depressing. Knowing he was more of a father to me than I’ve been to Eamonn. And it doesn’t help me like him better for it.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘At least now you know the other reason I don’t drink.’

  Just when I thought I’d peeled back a layer of Conall, he reveals ten more.

  ‘Well, feelings can be complicated,’ I said, playing with the corner of the bedspread.

  ‘How do I fix this, Sofe? Tell me. With your characteristic logic.’

  When I looked up he was already standing over me. I shrugged and took his hands.

  ‘Don’t make the same mistake twice.’

  Saturday 11 May

  3.55 a.m. Conall already awake and praying Tahajjud. People find it hard enough to pray the compulsory five times a day let alone the middle-of-the-night prayers. In the midst of thinking that I can’t be the fat-arsed, lazy wife who missed morning prayers in the face of all this holiness, I also thought, at least there’s something that’s giving him comfort.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said to him, getting out of bed.

  I stumbled out of the room and into the bathroom to do pre-prayer ablutions. Almost fell asleep on toilet seat. Got up and noticed the small cabinet above the sink. Being nosy is, apparently, a trait that defies sleep deprivation. I took a peek inside and, amongst other pills, there was a bottle of Diazepam prescribed for Mary. Is that why she always seems so calm? Pills? Poor Mary. I could’ve done with some of those pills myself. I’d just about managed to apply whatever contortionist skills I had to get my foot in the sink (it being higher than most sinks), when the door handle turned. Argh! I’d forgotten to lock the damn bathroom door. Before I could move, say, or do anything, the door was already open and Conall’s dad stood there, watching me without a hijab, bare legs, and a foot in his sink. Seems the O’Flynn men all walk around in their boxers.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, averting my eyes from Colm’s hairless chest and pot belly.

  He didn’t move. ‘Why’s your foot in the sink?’ he asked, with a genuine look of curiosity.

  ‘I’m doing ablutions. For praying.’

  ‘Christ.’ He took a deep breath. ‘It’s three in the morning, you know.’

  I nodded. Why was my foot still in the sink?

  ‘You finished then?’ he added.

  My senses had awakened as I took my foot out – my arms and face still wet. I made to move out of there as quickly as possible when he said, ‘Don’t you need a towel? You get athlete’s foot, verrucas – all sorts otherwise.’

  VOM. Why was the second conversation I was having with my father-in-law about athlete’s foot??

  ‘Take another towel.’ He stepped into the bathroom and began looking in the side cupboard. My God, that bathroom felt small. He handed me a white towel.

  ‘Oh. Thanks. Thank you very much,’ I said, taking it and manoeuvring past him to get out of the door.

  ‘Now you make sure you dry right between the toes.’

  I nodded and dashed back into our room.

  ‘My God,’ I said.

  Conall was staring out ahead, sitting on the floor, when he turned round.

  ‘That was gross.’

  When I mentioned his dad he stood up as if ready to go out and do or say who-knows-what. By the time I finished the story about the drying between the toes Conall’s face had relaxed.

  ‘He did that?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘At least he didn’t catch me with my pants down.’

  I put my scarf on, pulling down my sleeves and getting ready to pray as Conall sat on the edge of the bed, seeming to contemplate something.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ He looked up at me as he paused. ‘I guess he must like you.’

  I don’t know how giving someone advice on foot hygiene is tantamount to liking them, but perhaps Conall wasn’t the only O’Flynn man who defies understanding.

  10.20 a.m. Getting ready to go to hospital after a breakfast of father-in-law asking if I had to pray again, and mother-in-law preparing lunch platters.

  ‘You eaten?’ Conall’s dad barked at him.

  ‘Coffee’s fine,’ Conall replied.

  Mary and I both looked at them.

  ‘Does no one any good if you don’t eat anything.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Well, of course you’re not hungry. Your son’s in hospital.’

  Quiet.

  ‘But praying’s not going to fill that hole,’ he added.

  Conall looked up at him. ‘I suppose drinking does that for you?’

  ‘You should try it some time. Help you to crack a smile.’

  ‘I think we should go now,’ interjected Mary.

  ‘Well, thanks to you, Dad, I tried it for a while and I can’t say it did much good.’

  I think I’d have preferred to have a conversation with Mum about matchi
ng lingerie. Colm scoffed as he wiped his mouth with his napkin and got up.

  ‘You don’t blame your parents for everything, do you, Sofia?’

  He waited for me to answer. Mary was almost as still as Conall – I guess that’s where he gets it from.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . in the end we all mess each other up in one way or another.’

  Mary looked unimpressed but Colm let out a laugh. ‘You want to take a leaf out of her book,’ he said to Conall.

  Conall stood up, taking the plates, as he mumbled, ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I have.’

  10.25 a.m. I realise this isn’t about me but what do you wear to see your stepson and husband’s ex-wife for the first time?

  3.30 p.m. Conall spoke in monosyllables. Walking into the hospital, I grabbed his hand – practically cracked one of my knuckles. Mary and Colm walked behind us.

  We turned a corner into a room splashed with reds, blues, oranges and greens. Claire was sitting with Eamonn, looking over his shoulder as he played with his iPad. I watched her, looking so calm and sad. This was the woman Conall had once loved, had a child with, married and left. She was betrayed by the man whose hand I held and it made me wonder how much a person can really change? The old Conall must still be there, inside, caged in the confines of his own principles that were perhaps waiting to burst under the weight of reality. Eamonn’s hair was as curly and black as Claire’s was straight and blonde. Conall let go of my hand.

  ‘They’ve got a new reading area for children then,’ commented Mary.

  Claire stood up, tapping the iPad as Eamonn put it away. Her floral dress swayed as she stepped towards me.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, putting out her small hand.

  ‘Hi,’ I replied, shaking it.

  We stared at each other for a fraction longer than seemed necessary. Conall was already kneeling in front of Eamonn. ‘How’re you doing, kid?’

  ‘Got to level eight on Clash of Clans.’

  Colm went and sat next to him. ‘Get it out then. Let’s see what you got.’

  Eamonn glanced at his mum. She nodded as he picked up the iPad again.

  ‘First say hello to the lady,’ she said to him.

  I smiled at him as he got up and shook my hand.

  Mary cleared her throat. ‘Isn’t that a lovely jumper you’re wearing,’ she said, kissing him on his head.

  What am I doing here? I caught Claire looking at me as I decided to join in the jumper-complimenting session.

  But then Eamonn looked up at Conall, and with a familiar look of focus said, ‘Dad –’

  The word was a jolt. But even more so was Conall’s response to it; slipping into a role after a nine-year absence. Claire folded her arms and watched them as Eamonn asked when Conall was going to teach him to box with his new boxing gloves. When did Conall get him boxing gloves? Eamonn glanced at Claire.

  ‘Mam told me not to tell you, but she’s already shown me. I could throw a right jab and knock Grandpa out right now.’

  Mary and Colm laughed as Conall looked at Claire. ‘I bet she did. Your ma always had a good right hook.’

  ‘Tattle-tale,’ she said, ruffling Eamonn’s hair. Her hand rested on the back of his neck. ‘It’s always paid for me to know how to fight,’ she added.

  And there it was: a look between her and Conall that only two people with a shared history can have. It wasn’t as if the ground had been taken from beneath my feet, but something was slipping away. If I knew what exactly, I’d have tried to hold on to it.

  I waited with Mary, Colm and Eamonn as the doctor asked to speak to Conall and Claire. I watched Eamonn and thought of Dad – what if the worst happened? No wonder Conall was getting up to pray in the middle of the night. This isn’t about comfort; it’s about clutching on to a semblance of hope.

  ‘Yes!’ Eamonn exclaimed as he got to the next level. I noticed his dimpled cheek as he looked at the screen.

  ‘I could do with some tea,’ said Mary, looking at Colm.

  ‘Right then. Tea allowed in your religion?’ he asked me.

  I semi-laughed, but to be honest, I don’t know if he was serious or not. ‘Thanks,’ I replied.

  ‘Young man, you come with me and tell me about your ma’s right hook.’

  Mary watched the two walk down the corridor; Eamonn reached his arm up, his hand just about resting on Colm’s shoulder.

  ‘Grandchildren bring out the best in you,’ she said. ‘You stumble through as a parent and make all sorts of mistakes – ones you don’t realise until you pay for them later. But with a grandchild, there aren’t any mistakes. It’s just joy.’

  Perhaps that was the reason Conall managed to be in the same room as his dad – all this love his dad has for his son.

  ‘It was good of her to let you both see him still. Considering,’ I said.

  ‘Claire’s not a spiteful girl.’

  Which didn’t feel entirely truthful given she hadn’t let Conall see Eamonn when he’d finally wanted to correct his mistakes. It might’ve taken a while to forgive him but five years seemed rather harsh.

  ‘Her dad passed away when she was young and her mother doesn’t exactly do well for herself,’ added Mary. ‘And let’s just say she wasn’t the maternal type with Claire. Anyway, a single mother bringing up a child isn’t cheap. We do what we can.’ She rested her hand over her bag. ‘It’s not like Conall to push people and forgiveness has to be earned. My boy’s always shown less than he feels. But he’s realising that sometimes you have to be what other people need you to be, not what you are.’

  I looked towards the door that Conall and Claire had walked through, wondering what he needs me to be, and what I need him to be – and who gets to win in the game of necessity. As Eamonn and Colm approached, I thought about Maria, Tahir and Adam – what if she found herself without Tahir and, God forbid, potentially without Adam?

  ‘Claire seems tough,’ I said to Mary.

  ‘She’s a woman, dear,’ Mary replied. ‘She’s had to be.’

  And it wasn’t over for her yet. I knew it the second we saw the two of them come out of the room, her face drained of colour and her eyes red-rimmed; Conall’s face taut and a heart – I knew, without him having to say – full of regret. Whatever was slipping away from me now, I couldn’t grab on to it, even if I knew how.

  9.15 p.m. Colm took a third beer from the fridge, slamming the door shut. Conall glanced at the bottle in his hand and looked away.

  ‘I don’t need your judgement,’ said Colm, opening the bottle.

  The most noise made at dinner was the clattering of cutlery, which was ironic given no one was really eating. The cancer’d reached stage two. They’d have to begin an aggressive course of chemotherapy to contain it. Eamonn had taken the news with a shrug and an ‘OK.’

  ‘Will I die?’ he had asked so matter-of-factly it almost made me cry. Conall was on one side, Claire on the other. She looked at Conall as he put his arm round Eamonn.

  ‘Everything turns out just as it’s meant to,’ he replied, pulling him closer. Claire’s hand went to her face.

  ‘Better tell Ma that,’ Eamonn replied. ‘She says nothing turns out the way it’s meant to.’

  Now Conall stood up from the table, just as Colm sat down. He went to leave the room. ‘Tell him to give that shit a rest, Mum.’

  ‘My son thinks it’s OK to have abandoned his family, but not to have a drink,’ he said, looking at me. ‘What does your religion say about that, eh?’

  ‘Leave her out of this.’ Conall stopped at the door. ‘Come on, Sofe.’

  ‘You go, let her stay. We’re having a chat.’

  ‘Colm, that’s enough,’ said Mary.

  ‘What did a girl like you see in him?’ Colm asked. ‘I asked Claire the same and she laughed and said the folly of youth.’ He shook his head. ‘To be honest, all he’s ever needed is to loosen up.’

  Oh God. What was I doing here? I glanced at Conall.

  ‘This is the shit you put up
with?’ said Conall, looking at his mum.

  Mary stood up, clearing the plates from the table. ‘Don’t speak about your father like that.’

  I got up and began to help her.

  ‘You can leave that,’ she said to me. ‘Both of you get some rest.’

  As we were walking out, Mary added: ‘We’ll be going to Sunday Mass tomorrow.’

  Conall turned round. ‘No, Ma. Sorry. We don’t do Mass. We’ll meet you at Claire’s.’

  Mary paused.

  ‘Christ,’ said Colm.

  ‘You’ll have it your way then,’ she said, and we walked out of the room.

  We both sat on the edge of the bed. Conall rubbed his hand over his face. ‘What have I done?’ he said, looking at me.

  I put my arm round him, bringing him into a hug, taking in his familiar scent. ‘Your dad’s just upset.’

  ‘I mean all of it,’ he replied.

  Of all the many regrets that he has, when he looks at me, am I on the list? There was a knock on the door and when I opened it Colm was standing there with another towel. He handed it to me. How many towels did he think I needed? He glanced into the bedroom, but Conall’s back was turned.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  He waited for a few moments before he said to me: ‘You know, he made some mistakes but . . . it’s not like I think I’m any better than him.’ He paused again. ‘You’d do well to know that,’ he called out, watching Conall.

  He didn’t turn round.

  ‘Anyway, I’m . . . Forgive me. It’s not the easiest time,’ he said.

  I don’t know if he was talking to me or Conall. I told him not to worry, wishing Conall would turn round. Colm waited, and just as he was about to leave Conall looked over his shoulder without meeting his dad’s gaze.