He piles a teaspoon with sugar, then tips it back in the bowl. He lifts the cup to his lips, then stops short of sipping, puts the cup carefully back into its saucer.
‘Are you paid to say stuff like that?’
Above my head is another sort of balloon. I sit back in my chair, slumped and heavy. No point in engaging with any of that.
He picks up a napkin and folds and unfolds and folds.
‘Sonya, I only wish you all the best with everything, I hope you know that.’ He stands up, pushes his chair away from the table.
And before I have time to think of something to say, he’s gone.
The sight of a back again. I think of all the times when my father turned away. The turning away when my mother died and I was only eight; when I was a hormonal, grieving teenager, crying my heart out over my first lost love; when I was off to London to pursue my dreams; and then, back in Dublin, when I was most likely mired in post-natal depression. Has the sight of my father’s back set up some kind of psychic imprint? Every man I’ve tried to love since has turned away too.
The boy is standing at the counter, staring straight at me, smirking, before he too turns his back. I squeeze my eyes shut. Behind my lids a kaleidoscope of various shades and patterns of darkness play out. The creatures stir and rouse themselves, a kinetic force of nature, a flock programmed to fly thousands of miles, even in inclement weather, even if they might be flying to their death. My eyes open just as my mouth does. This shouldn’t happen, not while I’m sober, and not in front of this angry, wretched boy. It’s all I can do to witness the stream of abuse I hurl at the world, the boy, who turns and observes me in a detached manner, as if he’s watching a play, and maybe he is, and I’m entirely taken over by the character I’m playing.
23
Sometime after my white-out （I’ve no idea how much time has passed）， I find myself sitting in front of Sister Anne in her office, sipping tea heaped with sugar. The nun is playing with her hands, seemingly fascinated by them. ‘How do you feel now, Sonya?’
I look out the window at the squiggles of rain that hit the glass, little translucent worms, and think of Simon the torturer, my childhood neighbour who used to dangle earthworms in front of my face until I’d cry – for the poor worm. I draw my attention back to the room. Is Sister Anne scared of me? The way she’s sitting, tensed, at the edge of her seat, ready to bolt, suggests she is.
‘We have seen this kind of behaviour before. Usually in men with violent tendencies. When they can’t use their fists, their tongues will have to do.’
‘I have never hit anyone.’ I feel my colour rising, my hand starting to itch.
‘Have you ever lost control like that around Tommy?’
‘No, no, never with Tommy.’
‘How can you be so sure? You’re not in control of yourself when rage takes over, or when you’re under the influence of alcohol, surely?’
‘Sister, it’s because I’m away from my boy that I feel this angry. It’s like part of me has been cut away.’
‘What about your blackouts?’
‘Blood-sugar levels dropping.’
‘Or perhaps it’s a way of the mind shutting down when things get too much?’
Perhaps, but I just need to learn to control myself. I thought I’d be better able to do this now I’m not drinking, but then the booze, alongside being an aggravator, is also an anaesthetic. There it goes, my mind: tossing up plausible reasons, intellectualising, interpreting, excusing, justifying.
‘Sonya, that was a very serious incident.’
How weird that my school principal said these exact words, just before I was expelled, when I eventually reacted to the bitches ignoring me and lashed out at the puniest of them, a fury of fists and feet. My father was called. Unacceptable behaviour. He agreed, of course, didn’t even ask to hear my side. A director wrangled this story out of me when I was trying to access a heightened state during rehearsals for my strung-out modern Nora in A Doll’s House. How pleased he was, rubbing his hands, a parody of glee. ‘A real-life rebel!’ Somehow, in this life, this reality, I’ve found myself cast as a mother, and I’m terrible. That casting director was right – what did she say exactly? ‘Too angular and febrile.’ Too something, alright.
‘Sister, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
Sister Anne nibbles on the corner of her biscuit. ‘We have strict guidelines we have to adhere to, Sonya. You know this.’
Seems pretty unlikely that no one else in here has lost it on occasion. Sister Anne gets up and moves to the window. She looks out, seeking something in the patterns of the rain, some guidance from the Man Above. Her lips are moving, muttering a silent prayer.