Bright Burning Things(19)

In the morning, at first light, my father walks over the road to Mrs O’Malley, who’s awake, on high alert, having been forewarned of this intervention. I go to the fridge, finish what’s left of the bottle, slip another two from my emergency stash under the sink into my suitcase. Mrs O’Malley bustles in like she owns the place, nods at me, then speaks directly to my father: ‘Don’t worry, Mr Moriarty, I’ll look after them well.’

I battle an urge to scream, to slap the woman, to throw my arms around her and say thank you, thank you, be good to them, love them, but not too much, all my thoughts tossed and rushing, each one contradicting the last.

‘I’ll come straight back, Mary, after I’ve dropped Sonya off. We can discuss further arrangements then.’

Am I imagining it or do I see euro signs flash in front of the hag’s face? A swarm of them. Is this the only reason she’s here? How much has she taken from my father over the years to spy on me and my son? Even as all these thoughts barrage me, I know this is the best option for now. They are both familiar with her. Why did I plant that terrifying tale in Tommy’s mind? Could I get my father to talk him down from that one – like he used to with me, when I was having night terrors about cancer eating away at him from the inside, or me, or the rest of the world? You couldn’t see it in my mother, yet it claimed her, all of her. I remember his soft, soothing voice in the middle of the night, telling me it was all just a dream, nothing to be afraid of, just an overactive imagination. And those Pierrot dolls staring down at me in the darkness, eyes flashing, gearing up.

He could tell Tommy that I was just pretending, playing, making up stories. Not lying, not that.

‘I’m just going to look in on them.’

‘Sonya…’

‘I promised him.’

The one thing I remember from the time immediately following my mother’s death are the lies, or rather the omissions, the silences the adults held when I was around, which only fuelled my already growing free-floating anxiety. It was a girl in school who said the dreaded C-word, which her mammy had told her had done for my mammy.

I stall, not trusting my instincts, but my feet take me to the door of the bedroom, and I push it ajar. My two boys are cuddled into each other, fast asleep. The struggle not to tell my father and my neighbour to fuck right off and leave us here. I look back at them both: the set of Father’s jaw, a twitch in his right cheek, Mrs O’Malley’s face a mask of resolution. Neither of them is going to back down now. Next step would be the guards, the social workers, which (my father is right) would be a whole other level of trauma for Tommy. A tearing in my centre. I look towards the ceiling, and beyond. I blow Tommy and Herbie ten kisses each and a silent blessing, even though I don’t know who the hell I’m calling on. I would sprinkle them in holy water right now if I could. I would rip my heart out and leave it under the quilt with them, if I could.

I turn to Mrs O’Malley. ‘Thank you.’ I think I mean it.

The woman looks sad and, for a moment, real.

‘I will take very good care of them, Sonya. With your father’s help, of course.’

‘Sonya, I need you to call the centre, say that you’re coming in. The final decision has to be yours.’

He holds his phone out. They have me cornered and, like a wild animal caught in a trap, I’m flailing, losing my reason. I want to bite, snarl, get the fuck out of this bind.

‘Mrs O’Malley, how about you give us a few more days? I’ll get Tommy used to the idea. I’ll go to AA, I promise.’

Mrs O’Malley looks down at her feet. ‘Sonya, I’m afraid I couldn’t let that happen. I’ve seen too much in the last few days to let that happen.’

I want to punch her in the face, drop to my knees, cling to her ankles, plead with her: hit me, hug me, tell me I’m not so bad, tell me you trust me, tell me it doesn’t have to be this way.

‘Please, Sonya, can you make the call before Tommy awakes?’

I take the phone from his hand. I look at them both defiantly. I will show you: this is what a responsible mother looks like. I am never, ever, ever going to get drunk around a child again.





8


We drive for almost two hours with not a word passed between us. Classic FM provides the soundtrack: a mournful medley of Saint-Sa?ns and Bach. A pretty obvious underscore, straining and melancholic. A close-up of my father’s face, closed, giving nothing away. We arrive at big, scruffy black gates; a guy in a security hut waves us in. On either side of the driveway are dense, artificial-looking trees, poplars or something – how I hate their formality, their constraint. I think of that game we used to play: Mr Gnarly, Ms Sappy, Mr Knobbly, Ms Dewy, Mrs Weepy, Ms Mossy… The ancient birch in our garden, Mr Silver Fox, was my favourite; his leaves used to quiver with excitement as I’d pour all my secrets into him. I look sidelong at my father, his mouth tight, and find it impossible to see the man who would play such games.

‘Well, here we are.’

The building in front of us is large and grey, institutional. An oversized statue of the Virgin Mary in a grotto looms in the neat, ordered gardens.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me. I didn’t think these places still exist.’

‘This centre has an excellent reputation.’

And Lara wouldn’t have let him spend all that money on a private rehab for me.