He worries the one in his own hand, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, crumbling it into tiny pieces before letting it fall to the ground. My offering lies vulnerable in my palm. He reaches out, as if in slow motion, and takes the leaf, which has dried even further since it fell only moments ago. I expect him to shred and stamp on it, but instead he kisses it and puts it in his pocket.
‘Would you like me to kiss it too, Tommy?’
He looks at me, his face registering first distaste, then consideration, followed by a tussle: yes, no, no, yes, stupid, yes, before he pulls the leaf out and offers it to me. I take it, kiss it, and put it back into his pocket.
‘Be careful not to tear it, Tommy. Remember how fragile it is?’
He nods, tapping on the outside of his pocket.
‘You can kiss me goodnight every night now.’
His face closes down, an expression I recognise from my father.
‘Would you like some ice cream, Tommy?’ I look up at the grey, cold sky.
I wonder what he’s eating now. Have they made him swallow meat? He doesn’t look like he’s eaten much. Has he developed my fascination with blanking out, spinning from lack of food? I long to reach out and rub his belly, cover it in butterfly kisses. You will never have to look after your mummy again. He needs to learn to be a little boy, he needs Herbie by his side. That dog has been there since his beginning, and even if I was passed out or otherwise off my head, Herbie’s soft animal bulk was a constant presence. An ache pushes behind my eyes; the mist is rising.
I walk ahead of him, determined not to let him see my building panic. I need some soothing music but am terrified of what I might conjure.
‘Have you been to the beach, Tommy? I miss our outings to the sea.’
I turn around and see him shaking his head ferociously as if trying to rid it of terrible things. Have my creatures made their home inside him too? I gently hold his head in my hands.
‘First thing we’ll do when I get out of here is pick Herbie up, go to the beach, throw skimmers, paddle, eat our creamy ices, and then we’ll all eat our fishies on the couch together.’
Does he buy it, trust me?
‘And Marmie? Can she come to the beach too?’
‘Why not?’
‘Can we get a lead for her? She wouldn’t like to be left home when we go for walkies.’
‘What a great idea. I think she’d like that!’
I picture our motley group being stared at, judged. I wouldn’t give a damn – let them stare, they have nothing better to do.
‘Yaya?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘Have you been very sick?’
How do I answer this one without adding to his overspilling anxiety?
‘I have been sick, darling, but I’m nearly all better.’
He nods, a kind of a half-nod, as if trying to convince himself. We’re outside the shop now, seconds away from another separation.
‘Would you like a hug, Tommy?’
I risk it, terrified of the possible rebuff my question might give rise to.
He’s weighing it up, turning over the possibilities in his mind, when I hear my father’s voice beside us: ‘Ah, there you are. We were getting worried. Come on, young man. Time to get going.’
He grabs hold of Tommy’s hand, which goes limp, while the rest of his body turns hard. Lara is right behind him.
‘Bye, darling.’
He says bye, then walks away, his hand still caught in my father’s grip. Just as they’ve almost reached the car park he breaks free, and runs back towards me, hurtling his body against mine, nuzzling his head against my stomach. I bend down to kiss the top of his head, which smells of anti-dandruff shampoo, or is it anti-nit? It smacks the back of my throat. I picture him getting his hair washed by someone else, eyes scrunched tight, soap dripping in. That shit stings.
21
I’m not sure I’ll be able to contain this mad fluttering thing in the centre of my chest now. I need to run, to fuck, to fly, need an outlet, release, soothing. So I run. In my shitty Converse, with my shin splints, I run around and around the circumference of the grounds, visitors still present – who is that mad bat? That mad bat is me! I want to shout at the top of my voice, and I think I see her, my imp, in her gaudy gear, gearing up. And I’m tempted to engage, I really am. It’s all going on in there: love, longing, loss, rage, looping, cranking itself up. Lara… I mean… what was Father thinking? Dear God, how is this in Tommy’s best interests? How? You saw him. The pain of him, his shrunken little self, his confusion, his look of bamboozlement, his fear, his abandonment. And yet – to have seen him makes happiness explode inside me like fizzy sherbet. Still, I run.