The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  He looked at me, hard. ‘Do you get it?’

  To be honest, I still didn’t.

  He took a puff of his cigarette, looking away. I looked at his side profile, his Adam’s apple jutting out beneath the bristles of hair.

  ‘The way you saw me,’ he said, ‘I thought maybe I could actually be that man – even though I knew I wasn’t. You made me think I could be.’

  I put my hand to his face and stroked his beard. ‘We sat exactly here last year, having a cigarette,’ I said.

  He looked at me. ‘You leading me astray with nicotine.’

  ‘What was it that made you think, of all the women, this is the one I want to be with?’

  He stared at me, a plume of smoke swirling out from the side of his mouth. ‘Hmm.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You have a nice arse.’

  ‘Shut up. It’s huge.’

  ‘One of the things I’m grateful for. It’s a wonder I ever noticed,’ he added, ‘what with all the material you cover up with, but like you say . . . God has His plans.’

  I rolled my eyes and turned away, but I could still feel his gaze on me.

  ‘It was here. That’s when I knew,’ he said.

  I flicked some ash on the ground.

  ‘When I was in Afghanistan, sitting out here with you was the moment that played over and over in my head and made me get on that plane to come back.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Who’d have thought so much could rest on a moment.’

  He looked serious. ‘I’d do it again.’ He pulled me towards him, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

  ‘Well, long-haul flights are an arse, so let’s try to avoid that,’ I said.

  When he wrapped his arms round me and looked back up at the night sky, I thought: isn’t it incredible how the biggest decisions of your life can hinge on just a moment?

  Tuesday 28 May

  10.10 a.m. Coming back to Ireland together wasn’t the plan, but Conall said a friend of his is travelling and he’s able to stay in their home.

  ‘We’ve not really had proper time – just us, have we? His conservatory overlooks the sea. You can go for walks and get lots of fresh air.’

  ‘I hear that’s good for you,’ I replied.

  ‘Hide the cigarette butts from me,’ he added. ‘The usual.’

  So here we are. And, you know, at least it’s not Karachi. Even though I bet Conall wishes it was.

  2.50 p.m. Conall brought Eamonn back for lunch. I noticed how the circles under his eyes were that much darker against his pale skin. How long before he begins to lose his hair? Eamonn stared at the untouched food on his plate.

  ‘Want to watch a film on Netflix?’ I asked.

  ‘Mum never lets me watch Netflix,’ he said.

  I looked at Conall.

  ‘Oh, she won’t mind,’ he said.

  So we sat and chose a film, drew the curtains in the living room and sat on the sofa with him. It was a bit odd – this kid who I’d known for about five minutes was now like a ready-made family. But am I allowed to just put my arm round him or give him a hug? What would he think? What would his mum think? And if I don’t, then will Conall think I don’t like his son? Half an hour in and Eamonn had fallen asleep on Conall’s shoulder. He went to put him to bed when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Sorry, I’m early,’ said Claire, walking in and looking for Eamonn. I told her we’d been watching a film and he fell asleep.

  ‘Which film?’

  ‘One of the Marvel ones,’ I replied. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  She paused. ‘That stuff is full of violence.’

  I turned round from getting two mugs out. ‘Oh. Sorry. Conall –’

  ‘Conall tends not to think about things.’ She dropped her handbag on the table. ‘I’m sorry. You’re not to know.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine.’ I filled the kettle with water.

  She took a seat and put her head in her hand, looking at the table. ‘It’s not something to be grateful for,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’ I asked.

  ‘After years of Conall’s absence.’ She looked up at me. ‘But I am grateful that he’s here now. Every time I think it’ll get better, it doesn’t and he’s there and . . .’

  I watched her as she tried to get the words out. She shook her head. ‘I just wish as much as he does that he could stay.’

  The kettle began to whistle as I looked at her, trying to grasp the full meaning of what she’d said. A look of desperation came over her, one that felt so incongruent with the Claire I’d seen. ‘He won’t say it to you. He loves you.’ She paused here. ‘But I just know he wants to stay. Wouldn’t you? To make up for all those mistakes? You know him. You know he does.’

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was begging me. The steam filled the air, shrouding Claire in a mist as Conall opened the door and walked in.

  ‘Hey,’ he said to her. ‘You’re early.’

  He came and took another mug out as I poured the scalding water in it. She composed herself, shaking her desperation off. He gave her an odd look as she feigned a smile.

  ‘All OK?’ he asked, looking at me.

  I nodded in the most persuasive way a person who’s been bulldozed with words can.

  He wants to stay.

  ‘I know he’s not going to be well,’ she said to Conall, ‘but I wanted to invite some of his friends for his birthday. Make a deal of it, like.

  ‘This place is bigger so maybe we could have it here?’ she continued. ‘We won’t know how he’s feeling that day and so at least he can rest if he’s home.’

  ‘’Course,’ replied Conall. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked, looking at me.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Thank you,’ Claire said to me. And if ever there was a look of genuine gratitude, there it was.

  I should’ve asked her to stay for dinner, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I apologised to God for lack of open spirit, but I suspect it was one of those times that God felt I was apologising to the wrong person.

  10.55 p.m. ‘Do you want to stay here?’

  I blurted it out. Just like that. In bed. Because if I had any more fucking thoughts in my head it’d explode and that’s the last thing anyone needed. Plus, maybe this is the evolution of modern marriage: what happens between people who understand each other’s wants and needs, etc.

  ‘What?’ He put his book down and looked at me.

  ‘You’ve one foot in London and one here – isn’t it a little much?’

  He considered me for a while.

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’ I asked.

  He closed his book. ‘Exhausted.’

  ‘So stay here.’

  ‘Without you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Is that what you want?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t it what you want?’

  His silence told me the answer to that one.

  ‘I’m not here to make someone be somewhere they don’t want to be,’ I said.

  ‘Right.’ He looked down at his book.

  Why wasn’t he saying more? Why wasn’t he saying: No, of course I don’t want to stay here. I want to stay wherever you are. Which, given his disposition and the fact that life isn’t a Hollywood film is a little unrealistic. But sometimes you want the unrealistic.

  ‘And you wouldn’t stay with me?’ he asked.

  There are moments of truth that come along in life, except you only see them in hindsight. If I knew that he was truly sorry for all that he’d done, then I should’ve nodded and said: I’ll stay with you. If I looked at him, I’d have wanted to reach out and touch the lines around his eyes, the contours of his face, and disappear into his arms. So I avoided his gaze, only glancing at him, before staring at the bedsheet. Even then, my head almost moved involuntarily to say I would stay, despite the fact that the words seemed to be locked in my mouth.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘What, Sofe?’

  Between Ka
rachi and Kilkee, I had to wonder why I’m constantly moving from country to country for him.

  Note for book: You’ll probably think you’re a much better person than you actually are; there will be times when the disappointment in others is nothing compared to the disappointment in what you turn out to be.

  ‘If I don’t want you to be in a place where you’re unhappy, why would you want me to be?’

  ‘You’re my wife,’ he whispered.

  I nodded.

  ‘Staying here’d just be temporary,’ he added. ‘Until Eamonn’s better.’

  ‘What about the documentary that was once so important?’ I asked.

  ‘Life has a way of showing you perspective,’ he said.

  ‘But where would we go afterwards?’ I asked. ‘London? Karachi?’

  In the haze of flying back and forth, I’d almost forgotten the long-term picture: where exactly was home?

  He shook his head, looking deflated. ‘Sofe, I changed religion for you.’

  The words came out from his mouth, but they seemed to belong to another person. I stared at him in disbelief, pulling off the bed covers and getting out of bed.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said. ‘You changed it for yourself because you couldn’t live with having walked out on a wife and baby.’

  He clenched his jaw. Why did he get to be the martyr? I walked out of the room, slamming the door behind me, managing to bang my foot on the kitchen chair on the way. Grabbing a glass, I filled it with water. I changed religion for you. The audacity.

  ‘Listen.’

  I started, spilling some water on the floor.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Conall. He got a cloth and cleaned it up. ‘I didn’t mean that. It just came out. I just meant that there are compromises to be made.’

  This was not helping the anger that was bubbling somewhere in the pit of my being. I had to laugh at the sheer mettle of this man.

  ‘You want to talk compromise? Are you actually fucking kidding me?’

  ‘Yes, compromise. Putting up with shit you might not like.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go and bring my book into this. As if the two can compare,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not the one that brought it up.’

  ‘But you were thinking it.’

  ‘Sofe,’ he said, grabbing my glass of water and practically throwing it in the sink as he stepped towards me. ‘I need you.’

  If I were a better woman, maybe I’d have put my hand on his face and said, OK.

  I folded my arms. ‘Well, I’ve been needing you for a while now and I’ve somehow managed to survive. I’m sure you can do the same.’

  For a second, as he bore down on me, it looked like he might hit something. His body was too close to mine, but I wasn’t going to budge – neither in thought nor form.

  ‘Stay here,’ I continued. ‘And be a Muslim, atheist, Buddhist – whatever the hell you want.’

  I thought he might step back, but he just came in closer. I glanced at his hands, clenched into fists.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said.

  The problem with feelings is when they start coming out they tumble forward – a tumult of words, gushing out of your mouth. His fists tightened, his knuckles white, his face a kind of rage.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ he repeated. ‘I should never have –’

  ‘I know; lied –’

  ‘-Married you.’

  We spoke at the same time. But I heard him: a lightning of words, searing through my own bitterness.

  ‘I was selfish, Sofe. I had no right to bring you into all of this,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Perhaps I knew it all along: he should never have married me. Panic rose to my chest, swelling in my throat, pushing tears and my very own nightmares to the surface.

  ‘Of course you are.’

  In a second, his fist rose and hit the cupboard behind me. I started, unable to look away from him.

  ‘Christ, Sofe. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know.’ I glanced at his hand, his knuckle red from where he hit the cupboard. His eyes were brimming with tears as a pain in my head brought my own to the surface. ‘So am I.’

  Friday 31 May

  11.55 p.m. It was dark when I arrived home and walked up the stairs, getting straight into bed. An hour or two must’ve passed when I heard footsteps in the passage. I opened my eyes as the handle on the door turned and I thought I was going to be killed in body as well as in spirit.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Sofe?’

  I turned round and switched my lamp on. It was Foz.

  ‘Fuck. You gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I got a message from Conall. He told me where he kept the spare key.’

  I stared at her. It felt too much like a dream.

  ‘Oh, Sofe. What happened?’

  I looked at her face, concern etched in the knit of her brow. That’s when the tears came.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, a loud sob escaping me. ‘I just don’t know.’

  She took me into her arms and all I remember is crying there for what seemed like forever. The tears just kept coming; every time I remembered his face; every time I thought of what I’d had; every time I thought of how easily I’d lost it.

  I tried to catch my breath as she tucked me into bed. The vision of him leaving me at the airport flitted around my head, bringing a new wave of sorrow as I fell into a dreamless sleep.

  JUNE

  The Art of Losing isn’t Hard to Master

  Muslim Marriage Book

  What are your partner’s vices? Whatever they are, you’d better believe you can’t change them. And don’t think of the person you’re marrying today; think of who they used to be – do your research, people, no one likes a blast from the unknown past. In fact, take each of their evils and multiply them by ten, because that’s the ratio of vice (the ones you know of, anyway) you’ll have to live with once you’re married or living together. Because the one piece of advice people don’t seem to give before you get married is: be prepared.

  For the best of times, and the worst of times.

  Saturday 1 June

  11.20 a.m. They say that endings are hard, but no one ever says how easily they can come about. When I opened my eyes I forgot why they felt raw, why my head hurt, or why it felt like some kind of vital organ had been scooped out from inside me. Then I saw the empty side of Conall’s bed and remembered. I tried to hold the tears back; but you can’t pull back from falling. I clutched on to the bed covers because I’d forgotten how physical the pain could be. I thought of when Dad died – how one loss is always connected to another by virtue of it being loss. How sad it was to have accumulated so many in the space of one year.

  ‘Sofe?’

  Light came through the door as it opened.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I couldn’t open my mouth.

  How was anything going to be OK ever again?

  9.10 p.m. ‘Sofe? Sofe, wake up.’

  I turned round and squinted at Foz, who was standing over me. ‘Darling, I’m sorry but your mum’s banging at the door and I think she’s seen me because I had the light on.’

  It took a while to register what she said. ‘Just . . . just tell her I’m not well.’

  Moments later Mum came barging in and I felt a cold hand on my forehead. ‘Fozia, get me a cold cloth. Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?’ demanded Mum. ‘Where is Conall?’

  My tears ducts were empty or I’d have cried again. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum. I just need some rest. He’s still in Ireland.’

  ‘Le, why doesn’t he just live there? I was calling and calling you, wondering where you have died.’

  On the inside, Mum. On the inside.

  ‘Then I called Maria and she was calling you too, but you didn’t pick up and Conall didn’t pick up. We almost rang the police.’

  The screen of Mum’s phone lit her face up – like the ghost of my married present.

  ‘Haan,’ said Mum, speakin
g into her mobile as Foz came in with a cold towel. Mum slapped it on my forehead.

  ‘She is here. She thinks she’s so ill she couldn’t pick up the phone.’ Mum then put the phone against my ear as I heard Maars.

  ‘Oh my God. Where the hell have you been? The woman was calling me all day. I have a baby to look after, you know? Anyway, what’s wrong with you? Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, just need some rest. Bad migraine.’

  ‘Better get Mum out of the house then, because she’s not going to help.’

  Foz was looking down at me in concern and it turns out the tear ducts weren’t so empty. Turning away from Mum and Foz, I had to wonder – how am I going to tell my family that my marriage is over?

  Sunday 2 June

  8.20 p.m. ‘Your mum brought some food round.’

  I had to shield my eyes from the sunlight streaming through the living room window. Foz stared at me.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I look like shit.’ I sat on the sofa. ‘You don’t have to stay. You’ve got things to do.’

  She got up and went into the kitchen, bringing back a bowl of chicken soup. I didn’t even realise I had tears in my eyes until one fell into the soup. I put the bowl on the coffee table. This house was meant to be our home but it’s never been more than transient. I put my hand over my eyes.

  ‘How does this happen?’ I said.

  I felt her arm round my shoulder.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  You’re meant to get married, then you’re meant to just be together. No one ever mentioned that your wants and desires might not meld with your partner’s. No one said that you might not be enough for each other – that each respective feeling could collide into a kaleidoscope of disaster; that someone could slice something out from inside you, and whatever’s lost you know you’ll never be able to find it again.

  Note for book: The only thing that is ever certain, is uncertainty.

  Friday 7 June

  9 a.m.

  From Hannah: Did you know that having a job and having the hundred spare hours you need to fill out adoption papers are incompatible? Where are you, by the way? Xx