‘Maybe should’ve put it outside first. Semi-feral, by the looks of things.’
I check the parameters of the yard. Is it a safe, enclosed space? I didn’t have to worry about Herbie as he never ventured more than a pace behind Tommy.
Father has turned on the kettle, taken down two tea bags, two mugs, and goes to pour milk in mine. I hold a hand up. No milk in this house. Shit, I can’t put the kitten’s health in peril because of my personal beliefs. What about Tommy? Maybe Mrs O’Malley was right; maybe I did put him at risk of rickets because of my own skewed relationship with food. Anxiety mounts, the whispers start. That fucking fridge. I think of one of Sister Anne’s nuggets: ‘Contemplative eating and drinking. A way to interrupt the mindless devouring mentality of the addict.’ Cradling the cup of tea in my hands, I consider the shifting liquid, the way it slides up the sides of the enamel and down my throat, the aroma, the texture, all its own thing.
‘You look well, Sonya.’
‘Thanks.’
I watch the kitten running in circles, sniffing, pawing the ground. This is good, this sitting with my father, sipping tea, a frolicking kitten in the kitchen. Maybe ‘good’ is all I need.
‘Right, Sonya, better get going…’
Of course this moment was coming. I gather my reserves of strength and dignity and say, ‘Sure.’
‘We brought in all the basics, except cat food. Didn’t reckon on that one.’
Who’s this ‘we’？ Mrs O’Malley, or Lara? Neither option fills me with much pleasure.
‘Thanks, Dad. Chat tomorrow?’
He lifts his heavy grey overcoat from the back of the chair, lumbers towards the door, one hand pushing into the sleeve, the other dangling awkwardly.
‘You going to be ok?’ he says.
I nod; a trooper. Just as he’s turning to go, he hands me a card. ‘Tommy’s social worker’s number. Maureen Brennan. She’s expecting a call from you in the morning.’
‘Thanks.’ Then I ask in as casual a tone as possible, ‘Do you have the contact details for the one who’s actively minding Tommy? Clare, or something? She might be very glad to hear from me. He could be being a handful.’
‘Sonya, that’s not how this works. This Maureen Brennan is your contact.’
The torture of having to get through a night here without either Tommy or Herbie.
My father kisses me lightly on the cheek. ‘You did it, daughter.’
We are both surprised by these words and the surge of moisture in his eyes. Emotion has finally caught up with him, taken residence inside him – I wonder if this is a sign of him getting old.
‘Talk to you tomorrow.’
And he is gone, the door shut firmly behind him.
27
I look around the recently scrubbed cottage, take in the biro marks on the walls, the spills on the once-cream carpets. I walk into the bedroom, the kitten following; settle her on the bed beside me and get out my phone, still plenty of data available on my last top-up, seeing as it hasn’t been used in three months. Tap in the words ‘Dublin pounds and rescue centres’ and spend the next hour calling each one in turn.
‘A big shaggy black carpet of a dog, all sorts, huge tail, long sloppy ears, beautiful eyes, you’d know him if you met him,’ I say to one young woman who sounds like she’s smoking, chewing gum and painting her nails all at once.
‘Nah. Sorry. Nothing of that description in here.’
‘What about three months ago?’
‘Well, if it was that long ago, he’d be gone by now, missus. Either rehomed, or sent to a rescue, or euthanised.’
I throw the phone down. I’m going to have to ask my father directly, though I want to avoid having that conversation as much as he does. I lie on my side, curled in on myself, my nose touching the tip of the cat’s. Rest my hand on her fur and close my eyes, imagine Herbie and Tommy snuggled up against me. Breathe in, out, in, out, Yaya, it’s safe to go to Nod with me and Herbie here.
Sometime later I wake to the sensation of a sandpaper tongue licking my cheek. I open my eyes and see two dark pools staring at me. ‘Ok, kitty.’ Push myself to sitting, check the time on my mobile: ten past five and already pitch-black outside. My stomach’s rumbling, so I head into the kitchen, pour a saucer of milk for Marmie, pushing aside the crowding images, and open a tin of beans. Eggs? The carton says ‘Free range’ – but are they really, or are the birds kept their entire lives in cages in cramped agony? At least my chickens got to run around and see the sky. The soft gooey centre of a boiled, poached or fried egg – which? Too much choice. Anxious whirrings start up; I’ve lost the ability to make decisions, having been institutionalised for too long. I eventually settle on fried, but when I serve them I can’t stop fixating on the rheumy white encasement. I scrape the eggs into a bowl for Marmie. Having lost all appetite, I stare into the fridge at the yogurts and cheese, and that one glaringly empty shelf. Please help. I look upwards. All I can hear are the echoing whispers. I imagine the sensation of being stroked, soothed, emptied out, blissed-out.