‘Hope you brought your PJs? I forgot we had to wear them for the first week, so they gave me these.’ He gestures to the faded, shrunk pink pyjamas. ‘They wouldn’t let me wear my tracksuit.’
Laughter shoots out of my mouth, airborne.
‘Sonya,’ my father says.
‘Sorry,’ I manage, before another wave of hysteria moves through me.
The man smiles. ‘Look at my big belly in these little dinky things.’ He pats his stomach, winks at me. ‘First time, darlin’？’
My father answers for me. ‘Is this place mixed? I thought it was segregated.’
‘Separate sleeping quarters. Otherwise mixed. This disease isn’t particularly fussy who it chooses. And I should know; this is my third visit.’
My father reflexively wipes the seat with his starched white handkerchief before sitting. I sense his mood shifting, see his judgement hanging in the air. Third visit: how could anyone be so weak-willed? A familiar surge of rebellion moves through me. Fuck him, with his patronising distancing ways. How have I let him back in like this? A familiar giddy breathlessness.
‘Sonya Moriarty?’
I get up, called to action, although I’m not sure whether I’ll follow directions.
My father stands, air-kisses me, cheek to cheek, eyes unfocused.
‘I’m proud of you, Sonya.’
That hurts. There have been so many times in my life when he could genuinely have been proud of me.
He walks away down the hall, holding himself carefully as if bits of him might break off.
The sight of his back sets up an ancient terror in me. I go off-script. No no no no no no no. I shout after him: ‘Dad?’
He doesn’t turn around.
‘Dad? This is a terrible idea. You know it is… Come back, Dad. Take me home. For Tommy…’
He has pushed through the front door. A hand on my arm, restraining me.
‘Time for your medical, Sonya.’
9
The ‘medical’， it turns out, is just a weigh-in, a blood pressure test and a chat with a nurse about my ‘habits’。 No blood tests or urine samples, just a series of questions, rat-a-tat-tat. My instinct is to minimise, to convince this woman of my intelligence, my ability to manage myself, my father’s overly protective stance in all this. I wear my serious face, tell her I have been sober the last few days, that it really wasn’t that difficult. I don’t think I’m slurring; to my ear I am cut crystal, perhaps overly articulated.
‘Is there any way I could shorten my stint in here, Nurse? I have a little boy at home who needs me.’
‘It’s a twelve-week programme of abstinence. Designed that way, for a reason.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but I’m really not that bad.’ Ms Perfect Diction. ‘Is there a bathroom nearby?’
She points at a room down the corridor. ‘You can leave your bag here.’
‘I need it. Women’s stuff.’
In the cubicle I unscrew, swallow, soothe. Down the hatch. Nice n floaty.
Nursey Nurse brings me to a room with fluorescent tube lighting running the length of the ceiling, flicker flicker hum, and four beds. I’m shown to the bed by the window, which I’m glad about as the air is stifling, not with heat but with something heavy and stale. The colour and sense of brown, a gagging smell of Dettol. I’m in Mrs O’Malley’s stuffy front room with my boys, surrounded by plastic-covered furniture and tiny knick-knacks that line every surface. Don’t break them, Herbie! Static has built up in my head and I can’t hear the words the nurse is saying, something about needing to check my luggage, is that ok? I shake my head as she removes the remaining full bottle, the other almost empty one, no judgement, no surprise, no need for any outrage: mine or hers. I place my hand on my chest. What will happen to the winged creatures without my daily dose of anaesthesia? I’m scared they’ll rise up and rip out of me.
Nurse holds her hand out. ‘Your phone?’
‘How will I make contact with my son?’
‘No contact with the outside world for two weeks, except in the case of an emergency.’
I get up off the bed. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘I understand this is all a bit of a shock, but bear in mind if you leave now you may not be allowed access to your young son.’
Seriously? I hand my phone over, instantly bereft. Nursey tells me that the next twenty-four hours will be the most intense. There’ll be no expectation on me to do anything, bar eat and sleep and take my Librium. I don’t need that shit. I’m not that bad.