Bright Burning Things(45)

We are both surprised by these words and the surge of moisture in his eyes. Emotion has finally caught up with him, taken residence inside him – I wonder if this is a sign of him getting old.

‘Talk to you tomorrow.’

And he is gone, the door shut firmly behind him.





27


I look around the recently scrubbed cottage, take in the biro marks on the walls, the spills on the once-cream carpets. I walk into the bedroom, the kitten following; settle her on the bed beside me and get out my phone, still plenty of data available on my last top-up, seeing as it hasn’t been used in three months. Tap in the words ‘Dublin pounds and rescue centres’ and spend the next hour calling each one in turn.

‘A big shaggy black carpet of a dog, all sorts, huge tail, long sloppy ears, beautiful eyes, you’d know him if you met him,’ I say to one young woman who sounds like she’s smoking, chewing gum and painting her nails all at once.

‘Nah. Sorry. Nothing of that description in here.’

‘What about three months ago?’

‘Well, if it was that long ago, he’d be gone by now, missus. Either rehomed, or sent to a rescue, or euthanised.’

I throw the phone down. I’m going to have to ask my father directly, though I want to avoid having that conversation as much as he does. I lie on my side, curled in on myself, my nose touching the tip of the cat’s. Rest my hand on her fur and close my eyes, imagine Herbie and Tommy snuggled up against me. Breathe in, out, in, out, Yaya, it’s safe to go to Nod with me and Herbie here.


Sometime later I wake to the sensation of a sandpaper tongue licking my cheek. I open my eyes and see two dark pools staring at me. ‘Ok, kitty.’ Push myself to sitting, check the time on my mobile: ten past five and already pitch-black outside. My stomach’s rumbling, so I head into the kitchen, pour a saucer of milk for Marmie, pushing aside the crowding images, and open a tin of beans. Eggs? The carton says ‘Free range’ – but are they really, or are the birds kept their entire lives in cages in cramped agony? At least my chickens got to run around and see the sky. The soft gooey centre of a boiled, poached or fried egg – which? Too much choice. Anxious whirrings start up; I’ve lost the ability to make decisions, having been institutionalised for too long. I eventually settle on fried, but when I serve them I can’t stop fixating on the rheumy white encasement. I scrape the eggs into a bowl for Marmie. Having lost all appetite, I stare into the fridge at the yogurts and cheese, and that one glaringly empty shelf. Please help. I look upwards. All I can hear are the echoing whispers. I imagine the sensation of being stroked, soothed, emptied out, blissed-out.

You can have MiWadi like me, Yaya. It doesn’t make you go all flop or your voice all gooey.

I turn on the TV: its flickering images, its disconnected voices, its bodies with their ridiculous posturing, its too-bright colours, its tinny sounds climb inside me, setting up a jarring jangle. Turn off the racket, place my hand on my heart, feel the crazed flight, pray. Help, please help, Mother Mary, help. Nothing. Grab my keys, bag and Marmie, wrapped in Herbie’s blanket, and open the front door, rage assailing me at the sight of my treacherous neighbour’s front door – I’m going to have to learn to look the other way.

I sit in my car for the first time in over three months. The engine starts, the kitten mewls, I step down on the accelerator.

There’s an hour to kill before the meeting in the church hall closest to my house. Sister Anne printed out a list of local meetings and folded them into my pocket before I left. ‘Not optional, Sonya,’ she said. I drive hard and fast, summoning up Roberto, foot to the floor, the engine’s roars blocking out Marmie’s bleating. At the seafront I pull to a jolting stop, get out, pick the kitten off the back seat and make a sling for her out of the blanket. I pull my shoes off and run on to the cold damp sand, my feet losing themselves in the soft suck of the sea foam. Exhilarating, wind in my face, sea spitting, cat’s claws scraping. My face must be red-welted. ‘Ok, kitty, ok.’

I run until it feels as if my insides are coming up and out, snot is streaming, breath caught high in my ribcage. Stop abruptly, sit, and Marmie jumps loose, running in distracted circles. I lie on my back, make angel shapes in the sand. The kitten comes to sit on my chest and settles there. Watch the clouds shape-shift above my head and raise my arms to orchestrate their movement. Let’s sweep away the clouds, Yaya, and find Mr Sunshine! I angle my face towards the concentration of light, eyelids close and dots spin. I sit up, holding the kitten lightly. ‘Come on, sweetie. Time for my medication.’ Drag myself reluctantly towards the car, and this time drive at a reasonable speed back towards the local church hall.

I walk in, ten minutes late, and position myself at the back, Marmie squirming in her makeshift pouch. The woman to my right leans in and smiles. ‘Adorable.’ The man to my left makes a disgusted face, stands, scrapes his chair loudly, muttering. Necks crane, faces turn, expressions holding the full spectrum of human outrage and delight. I’m doing it again, making a holy show of myself – a Lara favourite that prompted one of two responses: a desire to run and hide, or to make a further spectacle of myself on stage. The whisperings intensify. They’re not saying anything distinct, just a soft susurration, like a snake charmer, hypnotic and powerful.

‘The worst times for me are the evenings, when the ache kicks in. Typical empty-nest syndrome. Since James left, it is, quite simply, agony. I don’t honestly know if I would be here if I didn’t have these rooms to come to.’