Bright Burning Things(33)

‘No one has documented that, not that I know.’

‘I bet the price tag puts people off reoffending in a private rehab.’

I can hear how my words are speeding up, becoming garbled.

‘Reoffending? Interesting term, Sonya.’

A warm, giddy feeling is building inside me. ‘It seems every second person I talk to in here has been here before, and not just once.’

‘Do you believe the twelve-step approach works?’ he asks.

Is he trying to draw me into some shared complicity, or is he trying to catch me out?

‘Not sure about the one-size-fits-all philosophy.’

‘Have you found anyone in here you can relate to?’

‘In a way.’ I think of Jimmy and the kittens.

He stops walking, turns and looks in my direction. ‘Unless a person gets honest, it doesn’t matter where they go.’

My body is in his shadow. I look over his shoulder, seeking the light.

He moves away, sits on a mossy wall. I sit beside him. It’s damp.

‘How’s the meditating going?’

How can I tell him that focusing on my breath sends me into a heightened sense of panic? There is nothing calming in plugging into the internal mechanisms of my body, or my mind. I seem to inhabit an inner life sewn from the fabric of dread.

‘Have you found a sense of a Higher Power?’ He seems embarrassed to be asking me this. It feels invasive and somehow ridiculous.

I shrug, like a teenager.

He quickly changes tack: ‘Have you been exercising?’

‘Swimming is my thing.’

‘Right, well, when you get out, make sure to incorporate a swim into your day.’

Oh yes, and how might I do that, a single mother, on benefits? I don’t say anything, just sit on my hands, which are trembling.

Watery sunlight filters through the trees, dappling his face, accentuating his cheekbones, the animal-likeness of him. The light is moving across the planes of his face. The urge to chase that light with my hand, to trace its path, to land on his stubble, the smooth skin above. I imagine him reaching out and taking my hand, his big, solid one encircling mine.





19


My name is called out over the loudspeaker. As I make my way to reception, undulating lines appear in front of my eyes. I move towards the phone as if towards an unexploded grenade, terrified that whoever it was has hung up, and even more terrified of hearing his voice. I pick up the heavy receiver, wipe it down with my sleeve – God knows how much spittle this thing has accumulated – breathe deeply and dive in.

‘Hello?’

‘Sonya, is that you?’

Stay on script: the suitably chastised daughter, the subdued recovering alcoholic.

‘Yes. It’s me. Good to hear from you, Dad.’

‘I heard from Lara you had a bit of an outburst.’

Exhale. ‘All I said was that I wanted desperately to see Tommy. And you. I miss you both.’

‘I thought it was best to allow you time to settle in. And reflect.’

Silence crackles like static electricity down the line. Careful not to ignite the charge. I squeeze my hands together, imagining someone else is exerting a calming pressure.

‘I’ve had that now. Dad, I need to see Tommy. For his sake. He needs to know his mother hasn’t abandoned him.’

Tommy’s face, serious and bewildered, floats in the spaces between my words. I know how much that feeling of being pushed away, of getting the crumbs off a parental table, sets up a hunger that can’t be sated.

‘I took professional advice, Sonya.’

‘What were you advised to tell him?’

‘That you had gone away, for a bit.’

Gone away. Tommy wouldn’t buy that one. I would never go anywhere without him. I can imagine the whirrings of his overactive mind, tossing up alternatives, each more morbid than the last. I remember being fed the same line when my mother died, when adults were revealed to be liars. ‘When is she coming back?’ Over and over I’d repeat these words, until eventually Uncle Dom said, ‘For God’s sake, tell the child the truth. Her mother’s not coming back. Tell her.’

‘Is that wise, Dad? Tommy is a very intuitive child.’

Could they not have told him I was not well, in hospital. At least then he’d have some chance of understanding. But ‘gone away’. Jesus. It’s not a euphemism. It’s an outright cruelty to utter such words to a child.

‘Dad?’ This is hard; I can hear how high-pitched my voice has become. ‘Where is he? What happened with Mrs O’Malley?’

My father moves away from the phone, or places a hand over the receiver, blocking any line of communication.

‘Who’s looking after him?’

‘It was too much for Mrs O’Malley. He’s being looked after by people who know about these things.’

‘What things, what people, Dad?’

‘Sonya, trust me. He’s in good hands.’

I look down at my own hands and my ragged nails, nibble on my right thumb. ‘Did Sister Anne call?’

The receptionist taps her watch.

‘I don’t have much time here.’

I find myself shouting a little down the unresponsive line. I hear him clear his throat, trying to formulate the right response.