Bright Burning Things(43)

My father’s sitting on the bench inside the front door, his face hidden behind a copy of the Irish Times. I watch him, the receptionist watching me, before the paper twitches and lowers. ‘Hello, Sonya’ – as if this were just a normal, everyday occurrence, as if he saw his daughter every Sunday for a brunch and catch-up. ‘You look good.’ He stands. ‘Where are your bags?’

I gesture to my one half-empty suitcase, memories of that morning hurtling back when I’d had no time to pack.

‘What’s this?’ he says, taking in the bundle of fur.

‘This is Marmie.’

‘Well, aren’t you going to put it back with its mother?’

‘She’s coming with me. A new addition to the family!’

I recognise that suppressed eye-roll, that swallowed sigh. He holds himself in check, lifts my suitcase, turns and walks stiffly towards the car.

‘Off home now, Sonya?’ Sister Anne’s voice behind me.

‘Yes. Thank you, Sister – for everything.’

So many thank yous. Since when did I become so grateful?

The nun looks at me and the kitten. ‘Take good care, now. I’ll pray for you and the little creature and Tommy.’

I look towards the ceiling. The better actresses are those that don’t cry; those that fight the tears.

‘Well, then.’ Sister Anne extends her hand and encircles my free one.

‘Well, then.’ I bite on my cheek. I want my hand back.

‘Don’t want to keep your father waiting, Sonya. Go easy on him, now.’

I nod, turn.

‘And you,’ she says to my back. ‘Go easy on you, Sonya.’

Don’t look back, don’t look back, a display of emotion might follow, and I can’t let that happen in front of my father. I look down at Marmie’s sweet, bewildered face and kiss her on her button nose. ‘Don’t worry, baby. I’ll look after you,’ I whisper as much to myself as to the cat.

As I follow my father’s stooped back through the cars, I see a figure moving towards us, waving. I watch my father appraising the clothes, the bearing of the man, as he comes into focus.

‘Sorry I missed your leaving ceremony, Sonya. I meant to make it. Terrible traffic on the N9. An accident or something.’

‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘I didn’t want you coming out alone. I know how vulnerable this time can be.’

Something like real gratitude lands, a spreading warmth in my chest.

He turns to my father, extends his hand. ‘David Smythe.’

‘My counsellor,’ I say.

David looks in my direction.

‘Well, sort of,’ I say.

‘Duncan Moriarty,’ my father says, ignoring my last statement, looking intensely relieved. This man presents in the right package.

‘What’s that?’ David asks, taking in the little creature in my arms.

‘That’s Marmie, my new kitten.’

‘What about the big dog? Won’t he savage her?’ He’s trying on a jokey tone, although the mention of Herbie makes my father stiffen.

‘Herbie is the biggest softie that ever padded this planet!’ I say. ‘Can we go pick him up now, Dad?’ I’m trying to keep my voice light. If he treated my son so carelessly, or in his view carefully, then what would he do with a big shaggy dog?

A taut silence ensues, which David punctures by saying: ‘Probably best to settle in the little kitten on her own first. Don’t want to expose her to too many new things too soon.’

I can feel myself float above myself, surveying the scene from a safe distance, allowing for perspective. Don your cape and fly the fuck away. Is this recovery in action? My old version would’ve flown into a white rage at this point, lost all ability to focus on the bigger objective of the scene: to get my boys back.

‘Good idea. Marmie and I will go home and settle in together first.’ Allowing my father to untangle from the hook.

David offers his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Smythe.’

Is that his business card Father is slipping to him? They shake on it. Jesus. Wept.

‘Sonya. You know where to find me.’ David nods at me, keeping a professional distance. I don’t watch him leave.

My father breathes out, as if his body has been hostage to a held-breath dread. He holds the car door open. I climb inside, settling Marmie’s purring warmth on my lap, and press my cheek against the cold window. Close my eyes, wait until I feel my father is seated and hear the click of the belt buckle, before I speak: ‘I’m grateful to you for coming, Dad. Means the world to me.’

Those words are both insincere and the truest thing I’ve ever said.





26


My father drives deliriously slowly. He’s being beeped by drivers behind us and I wonder was it this bad on our outward journey – or was I just so off my head I didn’t notice? His hands are gripping the steering wheel, his body bent close to it, allowing him to peer myopically through the windscreen, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

‘Did you forget your glasses, Dad?’

He doesn’t answer. I shift my head at an angle that allows him to be observed without him realising. His skin is mottled grey and red, spots of high colour on his cheeks, a raised dark stain of pigmentation on his forehead, disappearing under his receding hairline into his scalp. I wonder at the circumference of the thing. Has he had it checked? His large frame seems diminished by his hunched posture, his hands suddenly an elderly person’s hands: brown-splotched, high-veined, knuckles protruding. A blast of one of Mahler’s symphonies in a minor key. My thoughts are suitably pitched: how much of Tommy’s growing have I missed? Has he lost all his miraculous toddler pudge?