by Ayisha Malik
‘Goodnight, Dad.’
I closed the door and said to Conall: ‘I think we should go with your parents tomorrow morning.’
‘To Mass?’
I nodded.
‘No. I’ve read up on it online and it’s not right to take part.’
‘I’m not saying we should start a Holy Trinity club. Sometimes you do things for the people you care about – not because it’s right, but because you love them,’ I added. ‘Did you see your mum’s face? And what websites have you been looking at?’ I asked, stepping away and pushing back the duvet. ‘There’s some whacko stuff on some of those sites.’
He stood up too, lifting his side of the duvet.
‘We’ll just not sing parts of the hymns that mention Jesus being the son of God.’
He laughed, then seemed to remember he shouldn’t be laughing. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But if I go to hell because of it then you’re coming with me.’
Oh, Conall. We’re already bloody there.
Sunday 12 May
11.30 p.m. I thought it’d be a quaint cathedral with stone floors and intricate carvings set against stained-glass windows, but it was just a stone building with whitewashed panels, a small crucifix placed on top.
People looked at me and smiled – unsure, pleasant; proper. A man came and smacked Conall’s dad on the shoulder with his thin, long hands. ‘Mahoney’s cousin’s funeral tomorrow.’
‘We’ll be there, thank you, Ted,’ said Conall’s mum.
‘Hello,’ he said, looking at me.
‘Hi,’ I replied.
Everyone paused. He smiled. I smiled back.
‘This is . . . Sofia,’ said Mary, as if she had to physically dig into her throat and pluck my name that had lodged itself between her windpipe and throat.
The priest walked in and the congregation stood up, picking up the missalette laid out in front. I looked around and did the same. Conall stood there with his hands clasped in front of him. His mum glanced at his hymnless hands as I nudged him.
‘You made me come here, but you can’t make me sing,’ he said.
‘Why do you have a problem with the “City of God”?’ I asked. ‘There’s no mention of Jesus being the son of God or anything,’ I said, skimming through it.
Conall took a deep breath and closed his eyes as I looked round at the sea of white faces. I must’ve been an eyesore.
‘Do you think I should’ve worn a less colourful hijab?’
‘No, Sofe.’ Conall sighed.
‘If old Sarah in front of us can wear a hat that big you can wear a hijab that orange,’ said Colm.
‘He’s trying to make an effort with you,’ I whispered to Conall as the singing began.
When we finished the priest began his reading: ‘O give thanks to the Lord, for his love endures forever . . .’
‘Now, is it just the son of God stuff you have a problem with?’ Colm whispered to me.
I don’t mind theological differences, but isn’t it rude when you have them in a church? I looked over at Conall whose eyes were still closed. Maybe he was meditating.
‘Sons and fathers . . .’ added Colm. ‘Is that why he’s Muslim now?’
‘Because of Jesus?’ I asked.
I noticed Conall take a deep breath as the priest’s eye flickered in our direction.
‘If he took Confession he’d just be done with it, wouldn’t he?’ said Colm, his voice raised as people looked our way.
‘. . . Their soul melted away in their distress,’ spoke the priest.
‘Ssh, Colm . . .’ whispered Mary. ‘You’ll get us thrown out.’
‘What psalm did he say this was?’ I asked, flicking through the pamphlet, trying to change the subject.
‘If you ask me, it’s all guilt,’ said Colm.
No shit. More faces turned towards us as I tried to give my most winning smile. I think I might’ve scared people.
‘No new religion’s going to help that.’
‘Christ, Dad. Would you give it up?’ said Conall – his voice out-rising his father’s as more heads turned our way. ‘It’s not because of Jesus.’
‘So, it’s Mohammed? Now, I’m a bit hazy on that. Tell me more about him.’
‘Colm, honestly.’
‘I’m trying to understand my son, Mary.’
‘By asking about Mohammed?’ she replied between pursed lips.
‘Well, he seems to like him.’
Oh God. And I mean, literally, God.
The priest stopped his reading. ‘Perhaps you’d like to take this conversation outside?’
Mary looked embarrassed and enraged in equal measure. I looked around, wondering what to do.
‘Pardon us,’ said Mary, giving a tight smile, hands joined firmly together.
The priest cleared his throat. ‘They rejoiced because of the calm and he led them to the haven they desired. Let them thank the Lord for his love, the wonders he does for his people.’
6.45 p.m. Colm had gone out with his friend and said he’d be over later. As the rest of us entered Claire’s house there was a weird stillness to it; a quiet that needed to be broken for comfort before sitting in it. But nothing I said could take away from the reality that Claire was Conall’s first, while he was my first, and the imbalance of it threw me off.
Mary had insisted on making lunch since Claire had enough to deal with. She handed the vegetable lasagne to her. ‘Where is he?’
‘Upstairs. His friend’s come over,’ said Claire, looking at Conall.
‘You OK?’ he asked her.
It was normal for him to show concern, but even as he did something snagged in me: I was caught in the tendrils of my own sprawling jealousy. Claire nodded, folding her arms, leading us into the white and bright living room. I suddenly wondered: doesn’t she mind that I’m here? Would I mind if I were her? Except I don’t know, in her place, what I’d do with any of this. It was the worst kind of jealousy because it wasn’t just about their shared past, or even their shared present; it was her, with all her stoicism and good nature – the jealousy born of admiration. If it was any other circumstance, I would probably have wanted to be her friend.
‘I’ll go up and say hello,’ said Conall, as Mary said she’d use the bathroom.
Claire nodded for me to follow her into the kitchen as she carried the lasagne through.
‘Do you want me to help?’ I offered.
‘No, thanks.’ She put the lasagne in the oven before she turned round and looked at me. I noticed she wasn’t wearing any make-up. ‘He’s making up for lost time,’ she said as we heard Conall’s laughter from Eamonn’s room.
I nodded.
‘Good of you to come. Considering,’ she added.
Saying ‘no problem’ sounded a bit feeble, but it was all I could muster.
‘He almost seems like the man who I first met,’ she said. ‘Before he left.’
She gave a faint smile. I wanted to say he was always this man to me, just covered with those inevitable layers of confusion and self-loathing, that, let’s face it, we’ve all had. I looked round the kitchen and noticed Eamonn’s boxing gloves flung over one of the chairs.
‘Conall taught me,’ she said.
Another jolt.
‘We met at university and I’d get trouble from guys when I’d come home late so he taught me how to defend myself.’
She smiled at the memory.
‘He taught me too,’ I said. ‘Except it was to punch the next person that called me a terrorist.’
She laughed and it caught me off-guard. ‘Typical Conall.’
I wanted to ask her; when did he begin to change? Why? How? But it wasn’t the same as hearing it from him – he was so trapped inside his own head sometimes that he probably didn’t even realise the impact of what he said or did.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t congratulate you on your wedding.’
It seemed such a ridiculous thing to say, I was embarrassed just having to hear it.<
br />
‘I have to say I was surprised how quickly it happened,’ she added.
We heard more laughter come from upstairs as she began putting placemats on the table.
‘When you know, you know,’ I replied.
Her hair fell over her face so I couldn’t read her expression. ‘I thought I knew too.’
I folded my arms as she turned towards me.
‘Sorry, I’m not being presumptive –’
‘It was a leap of faith,’ I interrupted.
She paused. ‘And where has it got you?’ Her voice was so low and soft I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or not. ‘Where has it got any of us?’ she added.
She turned round as I saw her take a deep breath. Should I go and hug her? She didn’t look like the type of person who was used to them. Just then Mary walked in. Claire went to get plates out of the cupboards as Mary looked into the garden.
‘Those flowers have really grown,’ she said. ‘You always were good in the garden,’ she added.
Mary turned round as Claire smiled at her and handed me the plates.
‘Well,’ she said, looking at me – sad, almost friendly. ‘People never really change.’
12.20 a.m. When Conall fell asleep I went into the garden to have a fag. (I probably shouldn’t have, but frankly it was a miracle I wasn’t smoking a packet a day.) Colm sitting on the porch took me by surprise.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, hiding the cigarette and lighter behind my back.
He glanced at me before he looked back out into the garden.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said.
‘Sit,’ he said, so firmly that I practically leaped into the chair next to him. ‘Smoke, I won’t tell.’
I sheepishly lit my cigarette. I squinted and leaned back just so I could see the back of Colm’s head – it could’ve been Dad sitting in that chair.
‘God gives you grandkids to make up for the mistakes you made with your own children,’ he said after a while. ‘But then He can take them away. Just like that.
‘My son Sean now, he left this place too – and he can be an eejit – but at least I can sit and have a conversation with the man. But his brother . . .’ He paused. ‘Chalk and cheese.’
The ash on my cigarette fell and I put it out, holding the butt in my hand.
‘Well . . . we can’t change the past, can we?’ he said, still looking out into the garden.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘But we can learn from it.’
He gave a wry laugh. ‘Spoken like a woman with youth on her side.’
‘He’s grateful, you know. For the way you are with Eamonn.’
‘I don’t do it for him,’ he said.
‘No. He knows. But he’s grateful anyway.’
‘I’ve never given him an easy ride, but you have to be tough in life, don’t you? How else do you survive? When he left – Christ, I could’ve killed him. A man doesn’t just leave.’ He paused. ‘But what if I had tried harder when he came back to make amends with Claire and see Eamonn? When she said that she didn’t trust he wouldn’t abandon him again, Conall told Mary that what he wanted didn’t matter any more. He had to do what Claire thought best.’
I could imagine it. Colm looked at me. ‘He won’t run away again, will he?’
What an absurd notion. ‘Of course not,’ I said as emphatically as possible.
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good. Because, Sofia, I tell you – this time I might take some of the blame for it.’
I wanted to go into the room and tell Conall: see; regret lives inside everyone.
Monday 13 May
10.50 a.m. I’m back home, having left my husband behind with his ex-wife. I sat on the sofa as soon as I came in, the curtains still drawn. All I’d wanted was for him to come home with me, but even as the thought came into my head I knew how selfish it was. The phone rang.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said.
‘You’re back?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Why are your curtains still drawn?’
Because I want to shut out the world forever more. She began telling me about her lingerie as I lay down on the sofa and thought of the various looks that passed between Conall and Claire; Conall’s face every time he looked at Eamonn; the ease with which he’d slipped into his past life as a reformed person. Of all his regrets, what was the biggest? Having left his family behind, or now being tied to me so he can’t be the father he needs to be?
‘Mum, I have to go. I’ll call you in a bit.’
I hung up, instantly dialling Conall’s number. I had to know the answer.
Claire picked up. ‘We’re on our way to the hospital,’ she said. ‘He’s driving.’
‘Can you ask him to call me back?’
She paused. ‘Sure.’
11.20 a.m. He hasn’t called. Can’t move from sofa. If I don’t open the curtains Mum will probably come over and do it for me.
11.45 a.m.
From: Sakib Awaan
To: Sofia Khan
Subject: The Happiness by Shahida Al-Fadhl
Hi Sofia,
Good weekend? I’ve attached a new MS for consideration.
Let me know what you think.
Sakib
P.S. How’s the marriage masterpiece coming along?
11.48 a.m.
From: Sofia Khan
To: Sakib Awaan
Subject: Re: The Happiness by Shahida Al-Fadhl
Thanks for this. It’s coming along great.
3.05 p.m. ‘Hey,’ Conall said.
They were still at the hospital. Some kind of delay with the chemo session.
‘How long will it take?’
‘Another hour. It’s an aggressive session.’
My need to know about his regrets dissipated – a shameful badge of self-involvement in the face of radiation.
‘Listen, I might not come home until the weekend,’ he told me. ‘I said I’d look after Eamonn for a few days. Give Claire a break.’
Be the person someone needs you to be.
‘OK. She’ll appreciate it.’
‘If she’ll let me. She’s struggling but she won’t admit it.’
It doesn’t matter how complete you are before you’re married; the person you’re with pokes holes into you – one by one – and they replace these scooped-up holes with pieces of themselves. What happens if they leave? Do you walk around as a perforated human form?
‘Sofe?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. Sorry. Just got an email from Sakib. He’s sent another manuscript.’
He paused.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said.
I lay back on the sofa and wondered, comparatively, how perforated Conall might be. Most importantly, who it was that filled in the scooped-up pieces.
Friday 17 May
8.50 a.m.
From Foz: You’re not on my recent call list. You know how nervous that makes me.
As an antidote to life’s worries I’ve buried my head in the professional sand. My new job’s proving a decent distraction from my empty bed and too-full brain.
Saturday 18 May
9.35 p.m. Conall went to see Sean before he came back home.
‘Is he all right?’ I asked.
‘Grand. Going to Ireland tomorrow to see Eamonn. Said he needs a normal father-figure around him. The bastard.’
I smiled. He looked at me.
‘You know what we haven’t done in a long time?’ he said.
I raised my eyebrows. He ran up the stairs and came back down five minutes later with a packet of cigarettes.
‘No . . .’ I said. ‘We don’t smoke any more. Heart attacks. Lung cancer. Clogged arteries . . .’
My gaze rested on the packet as Conall looked down at me. ‘Sofe, you’ve always been a terrible liar.’
We both sat on the garden step as I glanced over the fence. ‘Have to be careful of The Eyes next door,’ I said.
Conall lit a c
igarette and gave it to me. ‘It’s completely normal as an adult that you still can’t tell your mum you smoke.’
I took a long drag of the cigarette. ‘Some things are best left unsaid. It just feels so good, you know.’
‘Filthy habits always do.’
I nudged him. ‘Not all filthy habits.’
He began talking about taking some wedding photography jobs in Ireland since the freelancing wasn’t paying the bills.
‘Ireland?’
‘Just when I’m there. Makes sense, doesn’t it?’
Note for book: Just because something makes sense, doesn’t mean you’ll like it.
We heard a cat cry in the distance as Conall looked round the garden. ‘It’s a decent place this, isn’t it?’ he said.
I peered over the fence again, putting my cigarette out of view just in case Mum was spying on us. ‘Locale is a little too close to home sometimes,’ I said.
He took a puff of the cigarette and looked towards Mum’s house. ‘It was either this or she’d have packed her bags to come and live with us.’
‘Now someone’s going to live with her,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Good for her. And us,’ he said.
We both gazed up at the sky, barely a star in sight. Some calypso music started playing, which at least shut the cat up.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said, unable to look at him. ‘All those times you had the chance. Before we got married. After we got married.’
He paused. ‘You never made mistakes.’
I turned to him, first of all thinking of course I’ve made mistakes! And then I thought, so, it’s my fault?
‘I don’t mean it like that.’ He rested his arm on his knee, the ash on the cigarette burning. ‘I mean . . .’ He looked away. ‘Sofe, in a life full of disappointment – and I don’t mean this so you feel sorry for me, but my dad wasn’t the easiest man and with all of the shit from my past . . .’ He rubbed his brow with the palm of his hand. ‘The anger about my ma putting up with him and then my own drinking, I just . . .’ He looked at his cigarette. ‘Telling you was worse than having to tell anyone . . .’