The Bright Side (18 page)

We stayed for about half an hour and left feeling as if we had made things worse with our hopeless clichés and watery smiles. “If there’s anything we can do ..
.
” We said that at least six times, knowing full well there was absolutely nothing and it was at best pointless and at worst deeply irritating to keep asking
.

Jonathon’s operation came and went. It was a success, of sorts. Ninety-five percent of the tumour was removed, but ninety-five percent wasn’t good enough; he needed radiation treatment to take care of the rest. Tony seemed to find this news even harder to take than the original blow. He’d been stressed to the point of breaking by the operation, but now he fell into a state of deep depression. I had started to call over every couple of days, usually without Gerry, and I saw him deteriorate right before my eyes. While his physical decline
was dramatic
and obvious,
the
thing that
really worried me was the way he gradually lost the ability to hold a conversation. He wasn’t just being quiet. When you spoke to him, he would nod or shake his head and his lips would move in silence, as if he understood the general concept but couldn’t quite remember how to take part. He broke down one night and told me in short, stuttering sentences that he’d had several violent rages during which he’d smashed about half of his crockery and every mirror in the house. His cousin, Maria, who looked after Jonathon when Tony was at work, had seen the damage and had told him to wise up. They’d fallen out over it and now he felt more alone than ever. I reached across the table and patted the back of his hand, wishing I had this Maria character within throttling range. Once again, there was nothing I could say that might actually help. But he seemed to appreciate the contact
.

As
the
weeks
dragged
by,
I
found
myself
investing
more of
myself
in
Jonathon’s
health
than
I
would
have
thought possible.
Every
time
I
visited
him
in
hospital,
I
came
away cursing
God
and
his
mysterious
bloody
ways.
When
I
saw
my
own
children,
I
hugged
them
until
they
could
stand
it
no more
and
wriggled
away,
complaining.
One
Friday
night
I called
over
and
found
Tony
off
his
face
on
whiskey.
He
made no
attempt
to
keep
himself
together
in
front
of
me.
As
I
ran through
my
usual
list
of
hopeless
offers
–
to
Hoover
the house,
do
the
laundry,
scrub
the
bathroom,
bring
yet
another lasagna
–
he
gradually
curled
up
into
a
ball
on
the
sofa
and then
cried
for
a
solid
hour.
I
sat
down
beside
him
and
…
and nothing,
actually.
I
just
sat
there,
listening
to
his
wails
and gulps
and
periodically
rubbing
his
back.
When
eventually
I got
up
to
leave,
he
grabbed
my
sleeve
and
told
me
in
a matter-of-fact
manner
that
he
had
no
plan
to
go
on
living
if Jonathon
died.
My
mouth
fell
open.
I
started
to
protest,
but he
put
his
finger
to his
lips
and
shushed
me. It’d
be
easy,
he said.
No
body.
No
fuss.
He’d
just
leave
the
house
one
day and
he
wouldn’t
come
back.
Then
his
face
creased
up
and
he pulled
me
closer.
I
wasn’t
allowed
to
tell
anyone,
was
that understood?
It
was
to
be
our
little
secret
.

I
got
away
from
him
as
quickly
as
I
could
and
ran
home
to Gerry.
He
had
no
doubts.
“The
authorities”
–
whoever
they were
–
would
have
to
be
informed.
How
would
I
feel
if
the worst happened
and
he followed
through
on his
threat?
The man
needed
help.
I
knew
he
was
right,
of
course,
and
yet
I hesitated.
There
was
still
a
good
chance,
according
to
the doctors,
that
Jonathon
would
pull
through.
And
even
if
he didn’t,
there
was
no
way
to
be
sure
that
Tony
would
actually do
anything.
He’d
been
very
drunk
when
he
said
it.
Gerry was
furious
at
me
and
said
that
if
I
didn’t
tell
someone,
then he
would.
We
argued
about
it
constantly.
He
became
increasingly
angry
as
time
wore
on,
but
I
came
to
realise
that his
own
threat
had
been
an
empty
one;
he
had
no
intention of
telling
anyone.
Without
ever
making
a
firm
decision
to
do so,
I
wound
up
keeping
my
mouth
shut.
I
saw
Tony
as frequently
as
ever
during
that
period,
but
never
found
a
way to
ask
him
if
he’d
meant
what
he’d
said.
Quite
apart
from anything
else,
I
got
the
distinct
impression
that
he
didn’t remember
saying
it.
I
convinced
myself
that
by
bringing
the subject
up,
I
might
only
succeed
in
planting
an
idea
that
he’d never
seriously
considered
.

And
then,
slowly
but
surely,
the
news
from
the
hospital began
to
turn
positive.
The
“ifs”
and
“buts”
that
had peppered
every
doctor’s
report
gradually
dropped
away
and the
word
“remission”
was
spoken
out
loud.
Tony
seemed unable
to
believe
it
and
didn’t
show
any
real
signs
of
relief until
he
was
given
a
firm
date
for
Jonathon’s
discharge.
The day
before
the
big
event,
he
called
at
my
front
door.
He looked
like
a
different
man,
as
if
he’d
been
suffering
from
a demonic
possession
and
had
just had
a
very
successful session
with
an
exorcist.
I
made
tea
and
we
sat
down
at
the kitchen
table.
It
was
the
first
conversation
we’d
ever
had
in which
it
was
okay
to
laugh,
and
we
did.
He
told
me
that Jonathon
had
demanded
a
welcome
home
party
and
had specified
that
the
venture
should
be
undertaken
with
an attitude
of
“Money
is
no
objective”.
Tony
had
already
been planning
one,
of
course,
but
had
made
a
great
show
of pretending
that
he
wasn’t
keen
on
the
idea.
Jonathon
went spare
when
he
heard
his
dad’s
protestations
about
being broke
and
having
no
time
to
get
things
organised
and
ended
up
calling
him
a
“complete
bastard”.
Hadn’t
he
noticed
that his
son
had
nearly
died?
Hellooo?
What
the
hell
was
wrong with
him?
My
smiles
and
giggles
gradually
faded
as
Tony related
this
story,
and
he
noticed.
Did
I
think
he
had
been cruel?
Not
so.
I
had
to
understand
something
–
he’d
been sure
that
he
would
never
get
the
chance
to
tease
the
boy again;
that
it
would
be
all
hand-holding
and
anything-you- wants
until
he
finally
slipped
away.
This
wasn’t
cruelty;
it was
normality
.
He
teared
up
when
he
said
this
and
I
found that
it
was
contagious.
Before
long, the
pair
of
us
were
bent double
over
the
kitchen
table.
Then
Tony
got
up
and
came around
to
my
side.
He
leaned
over
me
and
put
his
arm around
my
shoulder.
I’d
been
his
best
friend
in
these
last
few months,
did
I
know
that?
Even
though
he
had
no
family
–
no brothers
or sisters, no parents,
no wife – he’d
felt supported and
that
was
down,
almost
single-handedly,
to
me.
He wanted
to
thank
me,
from
the
bottom
of
his
heart.
I
had never
heard
anyone
use
that
phrase
before.
It
should
have sounded
corny.
But
it
didn’t.
I
told
him
he
was
perfectly welcome
–
cried
it
more
than
said
it.
And
then
he
kissed
me on
the
forehead,
the
way
you
might
kiss
an
infant.
I
cried
on, as
did he. It was only when he leaned closer still
and kissed me
on
the
cheek
that
I
realised
what
was
going
on.
I
turned my
face
towards
him
and
he
kissed
me
on
the
mouth.
Then I
was
on
my
feet
with
my
arms
around
his
skinny
frame.
Without
a
word,
we
walked
down
the
hall
and
up
the
stairs, where
we
did
the
things
that
I
had
only
ever
done
with
my husband.
At
the
time,
my
only
conscious
thought
was
that life
was
fragile
and
brief.
My
parents
were
dead.
Tony’s
parents
were
dead.
His
wife
was
dead.
His
son
had
just scraped
through.
Yes,
it
was
sympathy
sex.
But
it
was
myself I
was
feeling
sorry
for
.