The Bright Side (11 page)

Relations
between
us
remained
good
right
throughout
our teenage
years.
We
argued
about
little
things,
of
course
–
who had
used
the
last
of
the
conditioner,
who
had
ruined
a particular
T-shirt
–
but
by
and
large
we
stayed
pretty
close. Things
turned
sour,
for
a
while
at
least,
when
I
became pregnant
with
the
twins.
I
wasn’t
surprised
to
find
that
Mum and
Dad
were
horrified.
They
were
old-school
Catholics, apart
from
anything
else,
and
not
so
keen
on
the
old
pre-
marital
–
not
to
mention
teenage
–
sex.
But
I
expected
a certain
level
of
support
from
Melissa
–
more
than
none,
I mean.
She
was
at
university
then,
studying
law,
and
her principle
concern
seemed
to
be
that
I
would
never
be
able
to “advance”,
as
she
called
it,
with
a
couple
of
babies
in
tow. When
I
reminded
her
of
my
mediocre
Leaving
Certificate results
and
pointed
out
that
the
advancement
ship
had sailed,
as
I
frequently
did,
she
clammed
up
and
gave
me
a look
of
unbearable
disappointment.
Her
attitude
to
Gerry,
on the
few
occasions
when
she
could
bring
herself
to
meet
him, ranged
from
frosty
to
openly
hostile
(Mum
and
Dad,
at
least,
gave
him
points
for
sticking
around
and
declaring
his
intention
to
marry
me
as
soon
as
I
turned
eighteen).
There was
a
time,
in
fact,
when
I
was
sure
that
our
relationship
had been
trashed
beyond
repair.
Then
the
twins
were
born
and the
thaw
set
in.
When
Melissa
saw
that
the
barrier
to
my advancement,
the
awful
burden
that
had
caused
her
so
much concern,
was
a
beautiful
little
boy
with
twinkly
blue
eyes
and a
gorgeous
little
girl
with
the
chubbiest
cheeks
this
side
of Louis
Armstrong,
she
seemed
to
forget
what
her
point
had been.
Our
relationship
got
back
to
normal
and
stayed
that way
until
we
were
both
well
into
our
thirties.
Then,
on
the night
of
November
29th,
2002,
my
parents
drove
into
Dublin
to
visit
Melissa
and
her
husband,
Colm.
Melissa
was
pregnant
for
the
first
(and
last)
time
and
was
feeling
highly gregarious.
I’d
been
invited
over
there
myself
every
couple of
days
for
the
past
several
weeks
and,
on
every
occasion,
had solemnly
done
the
duty
that
was
expected
of
me
–
smiling
shyly,
placing
my
hand
on
her
expanding
middle
and
declaring
her
“blooming”
and/or
“glowing”.
Mum
and
Dad brought
a
small
gift
on
this
particular
occasion,
a
book
of baby
names. Melissa and
Colm already had
at least three
of these –
two of
their own
and another
that I
gave them
–
and my
parents
knew
that.
It
was
all
they
could
think
of,
my
mother
confessed
on
the
phone
(during
our
final
conversation).
The
gift
went
down
a
treat,
Colm
told
me later
–
it
was
thicker
than
its
three
predecessors
combined
– as
did
the
home-made
pavlova
that
accompanied
it.
Even
my father
seemed
to
enjoy
himself,
which
was
something
of
a wonder;
he
was
invariably
uncomfortable
in
social
situations, even
those
involving
family.
The
last
cup
of
tea
was
knocked back
at about eleven and my parents set off
for home. They were
about
three
miles
away
from
their
destination
when
an oncoming
van
decided
to
overtake
on
a
corner.
The
driver
of the
vehicle
that
he
was
trying
to
pass
later
classified
the manoeuvre
as
“suicidal”.
It
was
all
that,
and
homicidal
too. In
the
inevitable
head-on,
Dad
was
killed
instantly.
Mum died
at
the
scene,
shortly
after
the
ambulance
arrived.
The van
driver
made
it
to
hospital,
but
he
too
died
within
a couple
of
hours
.

I
suppose
any
pair
of
bereaved
siblings
might
have
found something
to
fight
about
in
the
debris
of
such
a
loss.
But
with Melissa
and
me,
there
was
an
extra
edge.
About
a
month before
the
accident,
I’d
had
the
house
to
myself
for
once,
so I
decided
to
curl
up
with
a
Marie-Claire
and
a
small
glass
of wine.
One
small
glass
became
two,
then
three,
then
certainly four
and
possibly
five.
I’d
had
most
of
a
bottle,
at
any
rate, when
I
noticed
the
DVD
that
Robert
had
rented
the
night
before
sitting
on
the
mantelpiece.
If
I’d
told
him
once
that afternoon,
I’d
told
him
six
times
that
I
was
sick
of
paying
his fines
at
Xtravision
and
still
he
had
once
again
failed
to
leave his
movie
back.
I
tried
to
tell
myself
that
this
time
I
wasn’t going
to
play
ball.
But
I
knew
that
it
was
pointless.
Robert would
be
quite
happy
to
enter
into
a
battle
of
wills
because he
knew
that
the
longer
it
went
on,
the
bigger
the
fine
that would
be
owed,
and
I
was
the
one
who
would
have
to
pay
it. I
did
have
a
moment
of
doubt
as
I
snatched
my
car
keys
from the
coffee
table.
You’ve
had
a
glass
or
two
of
wine
,
I
said
to myself.
But
the
follow-up
thought
came
quickly:
So
you’ll have
to
drive
very,
very
carefully
.
And
I
did.
I
left
the
movie back,
having
done
a
pretty
neat
job
of
parking
in
a
tight
spot,
and
headed
for
home,
congratulating
myself
on
my
achievement.
I
was
halfway
down
the
main
street
when
the door
of
a
parked
car
swung
all
the
way
open
right
in
front
of me.
The
thing
to
do,
of
course,
was
to
stand
on
the
brakes. Instead,
I
swerved
to
my
right,
at
which
point
I
remembered
oh
yeah
–
that
there
was
traffic
on
that
side
of
the
road.
I swerved
back
and
caught
the
open
door
with
my
left
wing;
then
I
hit
the
brakes.
The
owner
of
the
parked
car
went
nuts at
once
and
then
nuttier
still
when
I
criticised
his
over- enthusiastic
door-opening
technique.
He
called
the
Guards, who
chatted
to
me
quite
amiably
for
a
couple
of
minutes, then
breathalysed
me
and
pronounced
me
over
the
limit. Long
story
short,
I
wound
up
in
court
and
received
a
three- month
ban,
which
I
thoroughly
deserved.
I
didn’t
tell
the kids
about
it;
I
was
too
ashamed.
We
only
had
one
car
at
the time
and
it
was
easy
enough
to
think
of
excuses
for
me
to
stay
out
of
it.
I
faked
a
(recurring)
stomach
bug
that
kept
me house-bound
for
almost
a
month
and
when
that
finally
went away,
I
pretended
to
be
on
a
health
kick;
I
bought
new trainers
and
walked
everywhere,
glancing
excitedly
at
the pedometer
that
was
permanently
clipped
to
my
waist.
In
all probability,
I
could
have
got
away
without
telling
Melissa either.
I
confessed
the
truth
to
her,
no
doubt,
because
of
the guilt;
I
wanted
someone
(other
than
Gerry,
who
was
furious) to
give
me
a
right
telling
off.
And
Melissa
certainly
did.
“You could
have
run
over
a
child,”
she
pointed
out
(stroking
her tummy),
as
if
I
hadn’t
already
thought
of
that.
“Just
so
you could
save
a
few
quid
on
The
Mask
of
Zorro
.”
Her
anger
only lasted
for
that
first
conversation,
however.
Next
time
we spoke,
she
made
no
mention
of
my
“lapse”,
as
she
had
called it.
She
might
never
have
mentioned
it
again,
in
fact,
if
it hadn’t
been
for
one
unfortunate
detail:
the
van
driver
who killed
our
parents
turned
out
to
have
been
plastered
at
the time.
It
was
Melissa
who
heard
it
first.
She
passed
the information
on
to
me
in
an
even,
colourless
tone.
She
didn’t come
right
out
and
say
it,
but
as
far
as
I
was
concerned,
she didn’t
need
to.
The
message
was
clear
enough:
I
could mourn
my
parents
all
I
wanted,
but
I
had
no
right
to complain
about
the
man
who
killed
them.
Not
with
my record
.