Bright Burning Things(41)

This is so much less harsh than a Howard-swipe, yet it lands. A thump to my windpipe.

‘Fancy a walk?’

I nod.

On our way down the corridor, I stop at the dispensing machine. ‘Think I’ll get a Coke. Feel like something fizzy today.’

‘That shit affects the body’s enzymes, pushes the brain into overdrive.’ He sounds so patronising.

I drop the coins in, loudly. First time I’ve ever done this: a new departure! David pushes the front door open, holds it for me. The light outside is grey, flat. I shake the can up and down a few times before I pull back the ring, the pressure inside exploding, foam cascading over the top, spray flying in all directions. I know I should get centred, contact the earth beneath my feet, but sometimes a girl just wants to fly. Must be the bubbles: they always have this effect. A kid’s kick. Speed is building up inside me, making me want to run, jump, high-kick, cartwheel, ‘Wheee, look at me!’ I hear my father’s voice telling me to be careful, to stay on terra firma, to stop making a spectacle of myself.

‘Don’t think you need that stuff,’ David says, gesturing to the can.

‘Nope, I guess not.’

I run my tongue over my teeth, which are singing.

‘Can you tell me what happens when I leave? With regards to Tommy?’

‘You’ll have to present yourself for assessment, obviously.’

‘Any idea of a time frame?’

‘Each case is different. They have to see you can maintain your sobriety, that you’re not a risk.’

‘So, breathalysers, that sort of thing?’ I take another gulp of the sticky, gassy liquid.

‘I imagine so, yes. They will do everything they can to reunite a child with his mother. Unless the child is deemed at risk, of course.’

How did my father get around needing my permission to have him placed in care?

We stop in front of the grotto. Neither of us genuflect or cross ourselves. He looks at me sideways.

I try it, silently. Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death… Not working.

‘Anything that helps, I guess,’ he says.

‘She looks like an old, pissed Mona Lisa,’ I say.

He laughs, the sound of someone laughing at a funeral. Too loud, all wrong.

‘You look well, Sonya.’

Where did that come from? First time he’s mentioned anything about my appearance. I regard my clothes: the elbows of my synthetic jumper worn and shiny, my jeans faded and baggy. Maybe he’s referring to some ‘inner glow’ of which I’m unaware. Probably the Coke.

‘Thanks. You too.’

‘You’ll be ok,’ he says, looking down.

‘Hope so, for Tommy’s sake.’

‘And yours. Your life is important too, you know, Sonya.’

He looks directly at me for the first time. Eyes a flecked hazel. I thought they were green. I look up: the wispy clouds are gathering into solid shapes, the outline of sheep. Baa baaa black weep… Sheep, Tommy! Yes sir, yes sir… The sun is obscured, again, obscured.

I try to be casual as I say, ‘Ok to continue seeing you the other side?’

‘Not in an official capacity, but feel free to check in.’

That feels weirdly transgressive. I wonder how Sister Anne would feel about that. Not in an official capacity.

I don’t tell him I still have his card in my wallet.

‘Sonya, have you figured out your triggers?’

‘Yeah, yes, I think so.’

I don’t mention Sister Anne’s insight into whether my drinking might be related to becoming a mother. What am I meant to do with that, anyway? Can’t avoid that one. My mind turns to my own ghost mother, to my smudged memories of her, to the absence of any sense of safety in my recollections.

‘Don’t isolate. Get to meetings.’

‘I imagine that’ll be one of the conditions of getting Tommy back.’

‘Yes, and that’s a good thing.’

My lack of support outside is dizzyingly worrying. Being in here has made me reckon with the scale of the task of trying to navigate parenting solo, sober. Any notion of romance has melted away. Who will babysit? I look at this man in front of me. How mysterious that our paths crossed the way they did. I tell myself to be careful not to build castles in the air.

‘Well, Sonya, I have to go shortly, so all that’s left for me to do is wish you the very best of everything.’

That sounds terribly final.

‘Thank you. For everything.’

He looks like he wants to say something in return, but he extends a handshake instead. We pump each other’s hands, dry, formal, no eye contact. I drop mine first, turn, so I don’t have to watch his back retreating, and wave, a little jazzy, frisky one, a final upbeat, defiant gesture of goodbye.





25


I have always hated things ending. Every play that ever ended was experienced as a sort of intense grief. Only seven more nights to go, six, five, four, three, two, one. Blast off, Yaya! And then I’d be left alone, without the bright lights to blind me to myself and the clapping that would allow me climb back inside myself, even for a brief, fleeting moment.

Much as I have spent most of the three months resisting my time here, willing it to end, I now find myself clinging to the familiar surroundings, experiencing a surge of maudlin emotion towards my fellow ‘inmates’, particularly Jimmy. Even though I’d like to convince myself we’ll stay in each other’s lives after, I know we probably won’t. We only fit in this set of circumstances, like a holiday romance who turns up in real life on your doorstep, all false intimacy and amore, in the exposing light of daytime.