The Bright Side (61 page)

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure there is. And that’s not even the worst part.
”

I was still struggling with the current part but felt obliged to say, “Oh?
”

“Niall.
”

“What about him?
”

“I’ve damaged him. I know I have.” “What? How?
”

She attended to her cheeks again. The taps had been turned off, I noticed, which seemed like progress of a kind
.

“I was such a basket case when they died. That affects a child. All those chemicals rushing around – stress hormones. And don’t tell me that’s rubbish because I’m married to a doctor.
”

“I wasn’t going to –
”

“And I was no better when he was born. You’ve seen how he is. Episodes, tantrums, whatever the hell they are. He’s … not right. And it’s my fault.
”

She took a gulp and seemed to be on the verge of fresh tears. I stepped in quickly
.

“Melissa, I think I can help you on that score. I know exactly what’s wrong with Niall. The child …” I paused for dramatic effect. “… is spoiled
rotten
.
”

She shot me a look, half-sneery and half-curious. “What do you mean?
”

“I mean what I say. You spoil him rotten. Both of you. But mostly you. Maybe you’re over-compensating for the way you felt around the time he was born, but I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong with that little boy that wouldn’t be put right if he got a bit of a talking-to once in a while.
”

“A
talking
-to?”

“Yeah. A talking-to. Get tough with him. Tougher, anyway. He isn’t
damaged
. He’s just learned that the fastest way to get what he wants is by screaming and throwing things.
”

She tried to give me a how-dare-you look – but she couldn’t quite pull it off
.

“Look,” I said. “This is a conversation for a different day. Right now, let’s agree on this: Mum and Dad’s death wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t your fault. It was the van driver’s fault.
”

Her head drooped. It was much too soon for her to agree to that or at least, to voice agreement. I reached out and grabbed her hand
.

“I have an idea,” I said. “Put your shoes on.” She looked up. “Why? Where are we going?” “
Shoes
,” I said firmly
.

CHAPTER
26

When
I
was
a
little
girl,
I
had
a
very
clear
picture
of
what heaven
looked
like.
It
was
an
enormous
green
field, dotted
here
and
there
with
the
fluffiest
of
sheep
(I
had
a thing
for
sheep
back
then).
Because
I
had
no
idea
what
a
soul might
look
like,
I
envisioned
the
inhabitants
as
Valentine’s Day
hearts
with
arms
and
legs.
I
mentioned
all
of
this
to Melissa
one Sunday afternoon when I was about seven.
We had
just
come
home
from
mass
and
I
was
in
a
spiritual
frame of
mind.
Melissa,
unfortunately,
was
not.
She
almost
bust
a gut
laughing
and
then
adopted
a
serious,
slightly
superior expression.
How
could
heaven
possibly
be
anything
like that?
she
asked
me.
It
was
supposed
to
be perfect
and everyone
in
it
was
supposed
to
be
perfectly
happy.
What were
they
going
to
do
all
day
in
a
big
field?
They
couldn’t
even
talk
to
each
other
(I’d
mentioned
that
my
Valentine’s Day
hearts
lacked
faces).
I
sulked
for
a
while
and
then
threw it
back
at
her.
What
was
her
idea
of
heaven,
if
she
was
so smart?
I
didn’t
think
she
had
ever
given
it
much
thought
– the
answer
she
came
up
with
seemed
to
be
nothing
more than
the
opposite
of
my
own.
Heaven,
she
declared,
was
a
very
busy
place.
Everywhere
you
looked,
there
was
something
exciting
to
do.
It
was
like
a
giant
fun-fair
crossed with
a
giant
sports
centre
crossed
with
a
giant
toy-shop. Nobody
ever
got
bored.
Everyone
had
a
face.
There
were few
sheep.
I
had
to
admit
–
to
myself,
not
to
Melissa
–
that her
version
did
indeed
sound
more
fun
than
mine.
But
the conversation
got
me
thinking.
Supposing
she
was
right
and everyone
in
heaven
looked
“just
like
they
did
on
Earth”. What
exactly
did
that
mean?
Did
they
look
the
way
they
did when
they
had
died?
Most
people
who
died
were
old
and wrinkly.
They
had
bad
hips
and
false
teeth
and
ugly,
purple veins
in
the
backs
of
their
hands.
Surely
they
didn’t
go
to heaven
looking
like
that?
What
good
would
a
giant
sports centre
be
to
someone
who’d
lived
and
died
in
a
wheelchair, like
poor
old
Mrs
Farrelly
from
across
the
street?
And another
thing:
I
knew
from
experience
that
fun-fairs
were great
crack
for
a
while,
but
the
thrill
wore
out
pretty
quickly. Heaven
was
forever.
You’d
get
bored
in
the
end;
you
were bound
to.
The
toy-shop
bit
didn’t
stand
up
either.
I
liked toy-shops
as
much
as
the
next
girl,
but
Mum
and
Dad
didn’t. They
seemed
to
prefer
supermarkets
and
bakeries
and
DIY superstores.
It
was
possible,
I
supposed,
that
heaven
had
a mixture
of
retail
outlets.
But
if
that
was
the
case,
then
it
had
bits
that
some
people
found
boring,
which
would
mean
that it
wasn’t
perfect
after
all.
I
thought
about
the
problem
every
day
for
a
week
or
more
before
giving
up.
There
was
no
way
to picture
heaven
that
made
sense.
This
attitude
was
to
stay
with me
throughout
my
life.
It
didn’t
change
when
my
pets
died.
It
didn’t
change
when
my
grand-parents
died.
And
it
didn’t
change
when
the
van
ploughed
into
my
mother
and
father’s
beloved
Golf,
leaving
it
concertina’d
at
the
edge
of
a
ditch,
looking
for
all
the
world
like
a
controversial
piece
of
modern
art.
When
I
stood
by
my
my
parents’
grave,
which
I
didn’t
do
very
often,
I
found
myself
looking
not
at
the
headstone
or
the
flowers
but
at
the
other
relatives
scattered
around.
I
imagined that
they
all
had
perfectly
clear
visions
of
heaven
and
saw
the graves
as
mere
memorials.
Their
loved
ones
were
really
somewhere
up
above,
having
a
whale
of
a
time.
I
found
it
hard to
shake
the
feeling
that
mine
were
right
in
front
of
me
.