‘Sonya, some part of me believes in you, your capacity for change.’
I’m flooded by relief and a desire to go and hug the nun’s small, compact body. These urges – they’re not normal, are they? I resolve to question every impulse before I act, to never pay heed to the strong inner prompts.
‘Thank you, Sister. I won’t let you down.’
‘Can you promise me something, Sonya?’
‘Yes, Sister?’
‘That you try to be more gentle. Eat more, breathe more, soften yourself. Loosen and soften. It’s the only way the spirit can get in.’
Loosen, soften: such strange words for a nun.
‘And Sonya?’
‘Yes, Sister?’
‘Try simple prayer. Start with a “Please help”。’
I look at her, willing her to provide more guidance.
‘This is an official warning.’
‘Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister.’
That feels like a prayer: Thank you.
‘You may go, Sonya…’
Please help, please help, I incant over and over as I walk down the dimly lit yellow-stained corridor, where the lingering smell of traces of smoke transports me: a woman with high colouring, fine blonde hair like mine, cigarette dangling between her lips, ‘Dance, sweetheart, dance,’ her eyes narrowed into slits, her lipstick bleeding, make-up flaked and peeling. Mother Mary, Mother of God… Mary, Mary, quite contrary. My father’s voice: ‘Christ. Leave the girl alone, can’t you? Let her sleep.’ A sensation of spinning, of being held high and jiggled, stardust falling, off-pitch singing in my ear.
24
Sipping my tea in the cafe, I’m relieved to see the boy isn’t there today. ‘Has he left already?’ I ask the girl who serves me. ‘That fella? Gone. Just walked, thank fuck.’ I stare at the mildewed, splotched windows, trying to divine a sequence and meaning that isn’t there. What will happen when I finish here? Do I get a certificate of completion, a licence to be a sober, fully functioning mother? The marks on the window start to swirl.
The tea is scalding and I swallow, barely registering the burning sensation on my tongue. I clamp my hands tight around the thin enamel mug, feel mild pleasure. I wonder if they’ll blister.
‘Hello, Sonya.’ David Smythe’s voice registers in my left ear. ‘Looking very serene, sitting there in contemplation.’
Did he just say ‘serene’？ Amazing that gap between how someone looks and what’s really going on, something I’ve learned so much about since coming here.
‘Not too long to go now,’ he says.
‘Ten days.’
‘Congratulations. That’s quite a feat.’
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me again.’
‘That’s ok, though I don’t have much time.’
I wish he hadn’t said that.
‘How are you?’
‘Tommy didn’t come again this Sunday.’
‘I asked about you.’
I look at him as if he’s stupid. He gets this.
‘Your father has to follow the guidelines.’
‘He’s his grandfather. He promised me he’d look after him.’
‘It was a big ask to expect him to look after a four-year-old.’
‘I didn’t ask. He insisted I come here.’
My father complex is a hugely unattractive side of me, pointed out by Howard enough times: ‘Grow up, Sonya. Not all Daddy’s fault,’ or some variation of this.
‘I know how disappointing it is to feel let down by the people we love.’
This is so much less harsh than a Howard-swipe, yet it lands. A thump to my windpipe.
‘Fancy a walk?’
I nod.
On our way down the corridor, I stop at the dispensing machine. ‘Think I’ll get a Coke. Feel like something fizzy today.’
‘That shit affects the body’s enzymes, pushes the brain into overdrive.’ He sounds so patronising.
I drop the coins in, loudly. First time I’ve ever done this: a new departure! David pushes the front door open, holds it for me. The light outside is grey, flat. I shake the can up and down a few times before I pull back the ring, the pressure inside exploding, foam cascading over the top, spray flying in all directions. I know I should get centred, contact the earth beneath my feet, but sometimes a girl just wants to fly. Must be the bubbles: they always have this effect. A kid’s kick. Speed is building up inside me, making me want to run, jump, high-kick, cartwheel, ‘Wheee, look at me!’ I hear my father’s voice telling me to be careful, to stay on terra firma, to stop making a spectacle of myself.