The closer Sunday creeps, the more terrifying the prospect of leaving becomes. Everything about this place takes on a kind of sepia-toned hue, steeped in longing, a view already filtered through a lens of nostalgia. I want to hold tight to every person I encounter. The bitten inside of my cheek has become a gaping hole, my tongue incessantly prodding and stretching its limits. Every relationship that ever ended, even those I didn’t feel meant anything at the time, comes flooding back. Even though it was me that was doing the pushing away, it was rarely what I wanted.
I’m swinging with delirious daydreams of my reunion with Tommy and Herbie one moment, and then smacked in the face with reality – who can even tell me where our beloved Herbie is? I find myself following Sister Anne about, then trying to conceal this fact. The nun regards me with a new level of unease and wariness, or so I think. I think I feel things, then feel things I can’t conceive of – I try to hide them in a box and tie them neatly with a ribbon, but the ribbon is satin-slippery, and unravels, and the box opens. Although I don’t want to admit it to myself, the cravings have started up again, the whisperings. The closer it comes to leaving, the more my mind fills with an image of my old pal, my soother, my true-blue cure. I really want to knock myself out.
The day of reckoning finally comes. There are three of us leaving today, including Roddy, the guy in the pink pyjamas from the first day. I’m glad to see he has graduated to wearing his tracksuit. He is very loquacious about all he learned this time. His fifth time, he tells the gathering, which is met with a rambunctious round of applause. Christ, how I miss that sound.
Cold, cold, cold. Empty, empty, empty. Terrible, terrible, terrible… Like a captive flung into a deep, empty well, I know not where I am nor what awaits me… I am Chekhov’s Nina, bathed in the spotlight, transported, transporting – my performance in The Seagull regarded by the critics as ‘an absolute triumph’。
This final meeting is meant to be a testament to our shared recovery, to our commitment to continuing the journey together outside. This fostering of codependency is a makeshift raft, leaky and likely to go off course. The two boyos seem hopeful, excited even; they say they are looking forward to the next chapter of their lives, when all I can feel is a fluttering of wings. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, I declaim loudly to my captive audience, spouting the expected terms: gratitude, humility, experience, strength and hope. My words ring out hollow and false. I am a seagull – no – no, I am an actress… I never knew what to do with my hands, and I could not walk properly or control my voice…
Sister Anne is watching me closely. I think she sees.
‘Ok, young one?’
Jimmy is standing in front of me, his arms outstretched. I move into his circling arms, head pressed against his chest.
‘Now, we have one last goodbye.’
‘Not sure I’m able.’
‘What about the promise you made to your little boy? The little tabby?’
‘Don’t think so, not right now.’
‘No more broken promises, Sonya.’
‘We’ll come get her another time.’
‘By then it might be too late. She’ll be wild. You have to do this, for your boy. Good for you to have a little creature on the outside. It won’t be easy, the first few weeks…’
He takes me by the hand, gripping it firmly. I feel Sister Anne’s eyes following us. We leave via the front door and the receptionist is someone I’ve never seen before. I wonder where Ms Bookworm is. I hope she’s living her life.
‘Nice day, all the same,’ Jimmy says, for something to say.
And it is. A November-fest of reds, ambers, rusts. The leaves are golden in this light.
The guys are standing outside the shed, smoking, their grey faces lifted towards the sun like withered plants. Jimmy goes inside and I follow, my eyes struggling to adjust to the gloom.
‘There she is, hiding, under the bench.’
‘Ah no, Jimmy. This is far too traumatic for her. Leave her with her tribe.’
‘You’ll give her a great life. She’ll have a new family, settle in in no time.’
The tabby is lifted by the scruff of her neck, squealing and clawing at the air.
‘Here…’ He thrusts the kitten at me; I hold her against my heart. ‘Ok, little one. We’re going to take very good care of you.’ The cat seems to relax in my arms, purr a little.
Something seems to have shifted in the cat’s bearing, much as it has in mine.