19
My name is called out over the loudspeaker. As I make my way to reception, undulating lines appear in front of my eyes. I move towards the phone as if towards an unexploded grenade, terrified that whoever it was has hung up, and even more terrified of hearing his voice. I pick up the heavy receiver, wipe it down with my sleeve – God knows how much spittle this thing has accumulated – breathe deeply and dive in.
‘Hello?’
‘Sonya, is that you?’
Stay on script: the suitably chastised daughter, the subdued recovering alcoholic.
‘Yes. It’s me. Good to hear from you, Dad.’
‘I heard from Lara you had a bit of an outburst.’
Exhale. ‘All I said was that I wanted desperately to see Tommy. And you. I miss you both.’
‘I thought it was best to allow you time to settle in. And reflect.’
Silence crackles like static electricity down the line. Careful not to ignite the charge. I squeeze my hands together, imagining someone else is exerting a calming pressure.
‘I’ve had that now. Dad, I need to see Tommy. For his sake. He needs to know his mother hasn’t abandoned him.’
Tommy’s face, serious and bewildered, floats in the spaces between my words. I know how much that feeling of being pushed away, of getting the crumbs off a parental table, sets up a hunger that can’t be sated.
‘I took professional advice, Sonya.’
‘What were you advised to tell him?’
‘That you had gone away, for a bit.’
Gone away. Tommy wouldn’t buy that one. I would never go anywhere without him. I can imagine the whirrings of his overactive mind, tossing up alternatives, each more morbid than the last. I remember being fed the same line when my mother died, when adults were revealed to be liars. ‘When is she coming back?’ Over and over I’d repeat these words, until eventually Uncle Dom said, ‘For God’s sake, tell the child the truth. Her mother’s not coming back. Tell her.’
‘Is that wise, Dad? Tommy is a very intuitive child.’
Could they not have told him I was not well, in hospital. At least then he’d have some chance of understanding. But ‘gone away’。 Jesus. It’s not a euphemism. It’s an outright cruelty to utter such words to a child.
‘Dad?’ This is hard; I can hear how high-pitched my voice has become. ‘Where is he? What happened with Mrs O’Malley?’
My father moves away from the phone, or places a hand over the receiver, blocking any line of communication.
‘Who’s looking after him?’
‘It was too much for Mrs O’Malley. He’s being looked after by people who know about these things.’
‘What things, what people, Dad?’
‘Sonya, trust me. He’s in good hands.’
I look down at my own hands and my ragged nails, nibble on my right thumb. ‘Did Sister Anne call?’
The receptionist taps her watch.
‘I don’t have much time here.’
I find myself shouting a little down the unresponsive line. I hear him clear his throat, trying to formulate the right response.
‘Yes, Sonya. I spoke to Sister Anne. I will bring Tommy to see you next Sunday.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘I have been advised not to interfere.’ His voice drops a notch, as if he doesn’t want his next words witnessed, as if he’s ashamed. ‘He doesn’t really know me, Sonya.’
And this was your chance to change all that.
‘What are you going to tell him when you see him? What is this place?’
‘I don’t know yet, Sonya.’ His voice is becoming fractious. ‘I’ll take advice from the experts on that.’
Experts. Who are these people?
‘Tell him exactly how long it will be before I’m out of here, Dad. Tell him I’ve been unwell. Getting better…’ Nothing they say can explain this away.
The receptionist waves at me. ‘Time’s up.’
‘See you Sunday. Between two and five, remember? Come at two?’
He mutters that he will see me then.
‘Bye, Dad.’ I almost choke on the word. I throw a final insincere ‘And thank you’ down the line, which reverberates back, an empty echo.
The next few days are exhausting, my nights being taken over by bolts of manic energy, my dreams and waking state at 4 a.m. jumbled together, one indistinguishable from the other. Surges of adrenalin rush through me, making me want to run. At home I’d masturbate, before Tommy came along, for a kind of release. Here, with people either side of me, it’s impossible, so I lie rigid, eyes open and staring, trying to block the livid images that snarl and unsnarl behind my lids any time my eyes close.