Bright Burning Things(73)

‘Ok, guys, you hang tight. Won’t be long.’ I speak through the car window, press my nose against it. I’m sure I can see Herbie do his dolphin smile. I’m winning him back.

I press the bell on the door and wait. A disappointed-looking woman with a sunken mouth opens the door. Hear the guys: ‘If life gives you lemons…’ I know I’m smirking.

‘Hello, can I help you?’

‘I’m Tommy Moriarty’s mother. Here’s his lunch.’

The woman takes the bag, holding it a safe distance from her body.

‘What class is he in?’

‘I don’t know… The littlest. He’s four, five next week.’

I’m jabbering, feeling judged. Crap mother with her cheap Spar lunch, late.

‘Oh, is that little Tommy who arrived on his own this morning? We were trying to call you.’

‘No, you must be mistaken. I drove him here myself.’

The woman stares at me, really stares, probing. I look away.

‘What time is he finished?’

‘Do you have any ID?’ the woman asks, looking suspiciously at the bag.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Just something to tell me you are who you say you are.’

The woman continues with her scoping, which is starting to feel invasive. This is exactly the feeling I had in the days after my mother’s death, when the whole school’s eyes were on me, pinning me, a rare and dangerous species. I stick my tongue into the healing welt in my cheek. Breathe, ground, pray.

‘I’ll go home, get my passport,’ I say. Ms Sanity in the starring role.

The woman nods, all the while burning me with her magnified glare.

I turn to go. ‘Make sure you give Tommy his lunch, ok?’

The woman says, ‘Did you not get the list of acceptable food?’ I won’t turn around, will myself on, back to the car, to the sanctuary of the animals. ‘We don’t allow crisps, certainly not Tayto.’ The voice chases me down. ‘The sandwiches are fine, though.’


I pull up outside my front door and see Mrs O’Malley outside, watering her plants. In November? Does the Man Above not piddle down enough? Rage rips through me, grabs me by the throat, rattles me around a bit.

When I open the door, the smell of bleach is overpowering. Did I leave the top off, let it spill?

‘Hello, Sonya.’

He’s wearing the frilly apron that Tina gave me. Is he trying to be ironic?

Herbie and Marmie follow me in, tails down, hackles up.

‘Aren’t you surprised to see me?’ he says.

Something about the absurdness of the moment makes me play its opposite.

‘Should I be?’

‘You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried.’

‘All good.’

‘Your father doesn’t think so.’

Ah so.

‘He asked me to come check in on you.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘How was the little fella heading off to school?’

How does he—?

‘I have to go back for him at twelve thirty. Going for a quick shower.’

‘Have you eaten, Sonya? You seem a bit jittery.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘You gave me a key, remember?’

I don’t remember, but try to convince myself I do, even as I know I’d never do such a thing.

He opens the back door and says ‘Shoo’ to the animals.

A chill creeps in. No one moves.

‘They’re not used to being spoken to that way. Please close the door, David. It’s freezing.’

‘Better than stinking.’

A quality of silence that holds within it the beating of wings.

‘You ok, Sonya? Bit pale. Sit down.’

‘When did you speak to my father, David?’

He ignores this, pulls up a chair, pushes me down by the shoulder.

The sound of the flapping intensifies, creating an impression that I’m standing inside a wind tunnel.

‘I think you might be about to have one of your episodes. Here, I made you a cheese sandwich, got you some Tayto, an apple.’

I look down at my plate. The exact same lunch I gave to Tommy. I look at David, try to conjure the whole of him, but only get a blurred outline.

‘Do you want me to pick Tommy up?’ he says, voice even as he sets the tea down in front of me.

‘What? No, no thanks. I have to go back with ID anyway.’

‘ID? Why? What did you do, Sonya? Have you got them worried already?’ He smiles warmly. A shared joke. He closes the door on the animals.

I sip my tea. It’s lovely. Comforting and ordinary.

‘Let’s go together.’

I think of the look in that woman’s eyes. Her judgement, her anxiety. It might not be the worst idea; I may be Ms Moriarty, but that doesn’t mean I have to be a single mother.

‘Eat up,’ he says as he draws up a seat beside me and cuts my sandwich into neat triangles.

‘I don’t like crusts,’ I say, not sure what part I’m playing exactly.

He shakes his head, but then good-humouredly trims the edges of the bread. ‘Now, madam, to your liking?’

I take a bite, chew.

He moves in to kiss me on the cheek. ‘I missed you, Sonya.’