Sunshine Sisters
Niall
CLAIRE CAN GET me to do just about anything by simply flashing her puppy dog eyes.
It’s gonna get me sent to Joy someday.
I have to admit that it didn’t take her usual amount of groveling to get me to step into this situation. I was already morbidly curious about why this American girl was on the field, talking to a clearly put out O’Shea, and catching all the lads’ focus.
Even before Claire told me what Miss Molly Lockhart was trying to do, I already had planned to head over there and see what the fuss was about anyway.
And now that I know, I decide right away I’ve got to do something.
I wasn’t sure exactly what made me want to help her so bad.
For now, I’m just going to call it a friendly favor.
Before I could even get to moving over there to see what I could get O’Shea to do, Claire starts in on the— “Please, please, please, Niall, do something. I want her to be my friend and if you help her get on the team—”
“Claire, we’ve talked about your habit of trying to buy companionship,” I say, even though I already plan on doing something, holding up a hand to stop the ramble I knew was chugging down the tracks. “And I told you, I’m not a social lubricant.”
From handing out free buns at the bakery to offering lifts (in my car, from me, by the way) to everyone in school, my sister could write off her daily interactions as charity. I know she’s just a genuinely kind person, but I hate the thought of anyone taking advantage of her sweetness.
“This is different! It’s helping! I can just tell she’s dying to play, and I’m sure she’s brilliant,” she says, jutting her lower lip out. Even if I hadn’t already made up my mind, I would’ve marched my arse over there anyway. I can’t say no to her.
“I’ll see if I can get O’Shea to let her come to the trials,” I say, putting on a show of faux reluctance for appearances sake.
The resulting squeal and rib-cracking hug is my one small moment of clarity—one I probably should dwell on for longer. I’m not sure how the team was going to take to having a girl on the field with us. Most of them were good lads, but some were awfully crass.
It isn’t like it’s guaranteed she’ll get on, I tell myself. For all I know, she could be shite. O’Shea would cut her at the trials, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. Pat on the back, good deed done.
But a nagging voice in the back of my head tells me not to count on it.
“Coach,” I say, getting both of them to turn and look at me.
For a second, I’m caught off guard by how intense Molly’s eyes are—this watery, pale blue that looks like some sort of jewel with a fancy name—but I force my face to stay neutral.
I’ve known Coach O’Shea long enough to know how to get him to agree with you.
“Come on,” I say lightly. “She’s not used to how it works here. Just let her trial tomorrow. If she’s shite, she’ll realize it herself and leave us be. Better than the two of yis standing ‘round bickering all afternoon, yeah?”
Coach’s eyebrows do a little dance, and I can tell he’s weighing it up. I can tell the moment he decides it’s less trouble for him to just let this happen. Molly Lockhart looks like the kind of person where you can tell they won’t take no for an answer.
“Fine,” he grumbles, sounding like someone pulled the word out of him with pliers. “You get the trial. But if you get a ball to the face or a stud to the shin, don’t go crying to the board. I’m not responsible for you.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” I blurt, the words just coming out. What am I even doing right now? Actually?
Coach walks away, muttering something under his breath as per usual. I look back at Molly. Up close, the sun is hitting her just right, and I have to remind myself we’re on a pitch, not in some bloody movie. But I can’t help the grin that tugs at my mouth.
“So, tomorrow. 4:15,” I say, keeping the challenge in my voice. “You’re not gonna chicken out on me, are ya?”
She gives me a lopsided smile, and it gives me some sort of adrenaline rush to know I’m the one putting it on her face. “Of course not, Niall.”
She knows my name. “You know my name?”
“Do you not know mine?”
My mind is telling me to play it cool, so I just shrug my shoulders. Of course I know her name. I made JJ tell me everything he knew about her first thing during small break when he told me he saw her.
I start backing away, needing to get back to the lads before they start taking the piss out of me for lingering around the yank. I pivot, ready to get back into the session, but then I stop. I can’t just leave it at that, can I?
What would I care if she thought I was just some dickhead who wouldn’t ask her name though?
I do care.
“Hey.” She stops, looking back at me. “Good luck, Molly.”
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
WHEN I’VE HAD a pint, I always end up staring at some form of water. Be it rain streaks on the window, the lake in Riverbend, or even sitting on the roof of the Escort out on The Strand—I’d find some source of water and sit there and stare at it, mind going blank.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had gone out with Da that day.
Other times I think about walking out into the waves, and just...
letting them decide what happens to me. The latter scares me the most. It’s always a jarring thought to be slammed with, one I have to dismiss right away.
What would happen to Mam, to Claire, to the lads, to the future I’ve promised myself?
Usually my solution to these thoughts is to just have another drink.
Right now I’m staring into the basin of the sink, my hands submerged in lukewarm water. I’d nipped the last of the bottle I had stashed under my bed while I was making dinner, and am still riding on the lingering buzz.
“Niall? Did you hear a word I said or have you finally vacated your skull entirely?”
“Sorry, what were you saying?” I glance at my mother, handing her the plate I’ve been obsessively scrubbing for the past three minutes.
“What kind of cake do you want?”
My seventeenth birthday was now only ten days away, and I was probably at the bottom on the list of people actually excited about it.
JJ and Finn were already planning on using my house to throw a massive session “for me” on the Friday after, and clearly Mam was thinking about sweets.
Not that she ever really stops thinking about sweets, since that kind of came with the job of running the bakery.
“I dunno. Surprise me.”
I don’t want to think too much about cake, mostly because I hate thinking about my birthday. Because it wasn’t just my day—it was his. Of all the days to be born on, I had to share mine with my father.
One of many short sticks I’ve drawn.
The older I get, the more the mirror betrays me.
I see his eyes in my reflection—that specific shade of sea-water blue that looked like it was searching for a storm.
My jawline, the way I stand with my weight on one hip, it’s all a blueprint of Patrick Blue.
Even football is his legacy, a career he’d cut short when he blew his own knee out in sixth year.
Everything about me leads back to my father’s headstone..
“Alright. I’ll leave it up to Claire, she’ll be delighted. She was asking about gifts, and I told her—”
“Don’t let her spend all her money,” I cut in.
Mam sighs, the sound heavy with affection. “Too late for that. She’s already had Joey take her to the shopping centre. Probably bought out the half of Brown Thomas.”
“I’ll bet,” I mutter. My sister was seventeen months younger than me, and treated birthdays like liturgical events.
Mam pats my shoulder, and I fight the urge to pull away. It’s another thing the alcohol does to me. Always makes me want to push everyone away. “She loves you, pet.”
“I know.”
Her hand lingers as she adds, “And I’ve heard about your little get-together next week. I'm going to ask you to keep that under control. I don't want the Gardaí knocking because JJ decided to do a nudie-run down the main road. Again.”
“I’ll keep it PG-13, Ma. I promise.” She doesn’t need to know that I was the one who dared JJ to do that.
She gives me that trusting look and kisses my cheek. “Is there anyone you want to invite to your birthday dinner at Aunt Val and Uncle Mike’s? A... friend?”
I know what she’s asking, thinking she’s being clever about it.
She wants to know if I have a girlfriend.
Last year I’d brought Gemma Byrne—a relationship that had the shelf life of an open carton of milk—and another time in second year I had invited éadaoin Byrne—no relation—and that’s about it as far as my dating (and otherwise sexual) history goes.
“Nope,” I say flatly. “Just the usual suspects.”
Mam nods, and I can tell she’s a little disappointed even though she won’t ever say it.
She wants me to be a normal teenager, to do more than put all my energy into football.
She wanted me to hang out with the lads, to have a girlfriend, to go to discos, to be happy.
But after the summer I’d had—spent in a haze of painkillers, physical therapy and feeling like I’d lost it all—I wasn’t ready to go back to playing the part just yet.
Every year on my birthday we go to the Keane’s house—JJ’s cousins on both their Mam’s sides, so Aunt Val and Uncle Mike are also not my real Aunt and Uncle, just like Aunt Ro.
We go because my da always went to the Biggs’ house for his birthdays when they were younger, since they had money and a nice family and he, well, did not.
The lads’ll join us there, and then we’ll probably go out back with Gerard and Declan and have a kickabout and a few scoops.
Just like always.
I didn’t mind that routine. Really. I’d have a cake, get a couple gifts, but could mostly fade into the background. It was the big party the next day JJ and Finn were planning that I’m dreading this year.
Something bad is bound to happen at a gaff party.
??ˋ ?? ?ˊ?
March, 2002
IT’S LASHING DOWN outside, same as it has been all week.
I know now I should have listened to Mam on Thursday when she’d forbidden the lads and me from playing footie in the much, because now my nose is a tap and my head feels like it’s stuffed with wool.
And now it’s Saturday. Fishing Day.
After Da stopped drinking, and started being Normal Daddy all the time again, he’d gotten a boat.
And ever since he had, we go out on it every Saturday morning—every Saturday for the past six years.
Sometimes we’d bring Claire—but she didn’t like the water anymore, not since she fell through the ice at Riverbend a few December’s ago, and she got bored quickly.
We bring JJ sometimes too, but he had the same problem with not being able to sit still for ten seconds.
I selfishly love the mornings where it ends up being just him and I. It makes me feel like the favorite, even if just for a little bit. The rest of the time he loves Claire and I the same, but on the boat it’s just Da and Niall.
But now Ma is saying I can’t go—Da silent and packing his snacks into the lunch pail—as she pours medicine in a little cup for me. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, still dressed in my dinosaur pyjamas, and utterly distraught.
“Ma, please,” I beg, hands clasped like I’m praying to God. “I'll be fine. The fresh air will do me good.”
“You're sick, Niall,” she says flatly, holding the tiny cup of grossness out to me. I’m convinced medicine doesn’t actually make you feel any better, it just tastes so nasty that it makes you forget you’re sick. “Drink this and get back to bed.”
“But Da—”
“Da understands,” she cuts me off, shooting him a look. He’s pretending to be very busy with his box, but I saw his shoulders slump. Da doesn’t like to be alone. He told me once. “Besides, with this weather...”
“The boat has a roof!” I argue.
“I don’t care, Niall. Patch—tell him that he can’t go.”
Da sighs, finally turning around. “Listen to your mother, lad. You’ll catch your death out there today. It’s a bit choppy anyway.”
I hear the thump-thump of feet on the stairs, and coming up behind me.
I know it means Claire has woken up, even though it was only five in the morning.
She always likes to be up to say goodbye.
She just turned ten two weeks ago, but still acts a bit like a baby—so it doesn’t surprise me when she scoots past me in the doorway, running to jump into Da’s arms.
“Please,” I beg one last time. “I’ll be fine.”
Da looks at me, then at Mam, then at the little girl in his arms. “Let the boy come, áine. He's tough.”
“No, Patrick. He is staying here. We don’t need a hospital trip.” Mam only calls him Patrick when she’s bleeding angry. The rest of the time, she and all of Da’s other friends call him Patch.
Like a clover patch, lad. ‘Cause us Blues’ are damn lucky, yeah?
Da sighs, kissing Claire’s head. “Do you want to come, Clairey? See the big fish?”
She frowns, playing with his shirt buttons. “I dunno. My tummy hurts. I think I’m sick too.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I can’t do anything lately without Claire being a copycat about it. She’s about as bad as JJ.
Da sets her down with a chuckle. “Alright then. I'll be back by noon. I'll bring you back a monster pike, yeah?”
Ma sighs. “I'd really feel better if you didn't go out at all, Patch.”
“The rain is clearing,” Da insists, grabbing his gear. “And it's the ocean. There's water everywhere, Angel. Don't worry.”
I feel like I’m going to cry. I never miss a trip. “Da—”
“Your mother said no, Niall,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. “Stay home. Get some rest, lad.”
Claire hugs his legs, and he ruffles her hair, then leans down to kiss Ma's forehead. She sighs, but doesn't push him away. I suddenly feel like begging him to stay, too.
“I'll be back soon,” he says, pulling away and grabbing his tackle box off the dining table. He holds his arm open for me, and I go and hug him tightly.
"Be careful," Ma says.
Da chuckles, squeezing me. "I will."
Then he leaves, the door shutting behind him.
I feel my heart sink as Claire runs to the living room, so she can watch him get into his car from the window, and Ma sets the medicine on the counter. “Come take your medicine now, Niall. You can go fishing any old time. Take this, and you can watch Star Wars on the VHS.”
I relent and take the cup, coughing at the bitter taste as the medicine goes down.