‘I’ll pray for you, Sonya.’
Is that it?
After some moments of contemplation she says, ‘Actually, I think it would help to see your little boy. Tommy, isn’t it?’
How can she know that? Does she remember all the details about everyone’s lives in here?
‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you, Sister. I’m really grateful.’ I whisper, ‘I’m afraid he’s been given away…’
They’re lovely people, by all accounts.
‘This can happen, Sonya, though usually not without the mother’s permission. Sometimes family members just can’t cope.’
How did my father get around needing my permission to place Tommy with strangers? I think of that poor manic kid I used to see running around barefoot on the road where I grew up, like an urchin out of a Dickens novel. The adults used to say things like, ‘Poor guy, God knows what’s going on at home,’ and yet no one ever did anything about it.
‘I need to go find him.’
‘I don’t recommend you do that, Sonya. I’ll find out what I can for you. If you leave now, Tommy will be deemed at risk. You need to finish the programme to get him back. You also need to finish the programme for you, so that you can be the best mother he deserves.’
I almost bless myself at this pronouncement and I don’t know if the impulse is about taking the piss or if it’s coming from a different place, a deeper place. I don’t fucking know.
‘Don’t you think it’s weird that his grandfather didn’t take him in?’
‘It sounds like relations were strained, Sonya. And maybe he felt he wouldn’t be able to cope.’
‘Bullshit. He has a cruel streak, hasn’t even got a message to me to let me know that Tommy’s doing ok.’
Sister Anne turns to me and looks me straight in the eye. ‘I can only guess at how that feels, Sonya.’
She gets up, touches me on the arm, scoops up the cups and the tray and leaves – a trace of something warm and reassuring in her wake, like the smell of the freshly baked scones, which I would dearly love to have now they’re gone.
17
Dear Dad,
I start to write a letter during a rare moment of alone time in the bedroom.
Dear asshole, motherfucker, shithead, lame-ass, twittlefuck, so-and-so…
I scratch that one out. Breathe, take my pen again, blow on its nib as if to cool it, and try again.
Dear Dad,
I hope you’re well. （Better than the sharks swimming beneath.） I am making great progress in here, and look forward to seeing you and Tommy very, very, very, very soon. （I scratch out three ‘very’s.） Visiting days are now every second Sunday between two and five, the second and fourth Sunday of every month （but then I’m sure you know this）。 I have tried calling you many, many, many, many times, but to no avail. I do apologise for how I spoke to Lara the last time （Sister Anne suggested this would be the best course of action, though I feel nauseous writing it） and hope you understand I was under considerable stress at the time. I was very very very very disappointed （the editing can wait till later, lest I lose my flow） to hear her voice, and not yours. I wanted （so very much） to talk to you and to hear all about Tommy. My writing is becoming increasingly jagged, that spidery, childish hand my father tried to straighten out. How much of my meaning is hidden in my hand? Father used to say it was an impatient hand. Nothing much changed there, then.
Lara said something about him being with ‘lovely people’。 Does this mean he is no longer with Mrs O’Malley? And Herbie? My thumb is starting to twitch, violently, and I wonder if this is the beginning of some rare neurological condition. Could this be why I am the way I am? All jangled and out of tune and harsh? I clamp my left hand over my right thumb and hold it a few moments, closing my eyes, trying to access that place I dip into sometimes during the rosary, when the chatter has subsided and there is only a background drone of others chanting. Try incanting the Hail Mary, but it just intensifies the jitters.
I quickly check the corridor to see that no one is coming, then go back into the bedroom, give myself a vigorous shake, climb under the quilt, stick my twitching thumb in my mouth, curl up into a tiny baby shape. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sonya’ – I can hear my father’s voice – ‘less of the histrionics.’ I sit upright, push back the quilt and try again. Find your adult, Sonya. Be an adult.
Where was I? Ah, yes. Tommy… And Herbie? Perhaps you could be so kind as to let me know where are they, how they’re doing? NO, scrap that. I don’t want to know second-hand how he’s doing, and my grammar stinks. I need to see him for myself. Perhaps you could arrange a time that suits to bring Tommy to see me? I’m sure it would be very good for him to see me again… You could at least let me know WHERE they are, HOW they’re doing. WHY do you feel this is a good idea? WHAT is it about me that you feel the need to do this? The tears are flowing hot and salty and I lick them, in case they fall on to the page. Won’t be sending him this draft anyway, might as well cover it in snot and tears and, hell, blood if I like. I push the nib of the pen into the page, the pressure tearing the paper.