The wave crashes over me and I let myself be tumbled, swallowing gulpfuls of the sea. What is it, Tommy, what do you see? Is it that seagull? The colour of ice cream, he says, licking his lips, my lips, my cheeks. Come here, Tommy, come here. I reach out and press his body close, too close. He wriggles free, like a little sprite – like everyone in my life, he manages to escape my fierce, needy grasp.
I wake to a tiny bleating sound. ‘Ok, little kitty, ok.’ The kitten is trapped behind the fridge. I can see Jimmy’s horrified face staring at me. Jesus wept.
‘I know, I know, but I told you I wasn’t up to this.’
I stand gingerly and reach in to free the cat, wavy lines dancing in front of my eyes. Selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish, monstrous, selfish. Tommy’s anxious eyes following me. What was that? Weakness, greed, testing, obliteration, giving up, giving in, madness, indulgence? Think back to the moment of ‘choice’， the moment of choosing to buy the booze, and all I can recall is an out-of-body sensation: giddy and high. Blackout before the booze, now there’s one I haven’t heard before. Bullshit, Sonya, excuses, excuses. Awful how sudden and sober and acute the thoughts that come are. How long have I set myself back with Tommy? How long before I can be breathalysed, give a sample or whatever I’ll be expected to do?
There they are: three empty bottles winking at me. The fourth stands proudly, defiantly, chest puffed – a dare. I smash it against the inside enamel of the sink; it splinters into shards and cuts into the centre of my palm. Turn on the tap and stick my hand under it, watch the water running pink. I try to sip a glass of water, hoping to rehydrate my scratchy eyes and extinguish the fire in my gut. Most of it comes back up. This is just perfect. A beautiful homecoming.
The rest of the day is spent in ‘recovery’ mode, resting and attempting to swallow mouthfuls of food. Somehow I manage to short-circuit the cow’s milk thing and eat two of the yogurts my father left for me. Both my head and my cut hand are throbbing. I periodically open the back door for Marmie, terrified for her. I don’t remember feeling this level of panic around Herbie, or even Tommy, as a baby. There was always the sense that both of them could look out for themselves, and to an extent for me.
By day two after my ‘slip’ – a sly word, a liar of a word – I’m right-minded enough to attempt to make some calls. Find the number my father gave me.
‘We were expecting you to ring two days ago. We were worried.’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t feeling too well.’
‘Are you better now?’
I can hear the edge in the woman’s voice. She’ll have heard all the excuses, and then some. I decide against further explanation; it’ll only dig me in deeper.
‘Yes. Thanks. When can I see Tommy?’
‘My diary is full up until Friday. When I didn’t hear from you…’
No arguing with that. Probably for the best. If I keep flushing out my system, I should be totally alcohol-free by Friday. Two more days. My commitment was to never get drunk around my child again. I haven’t broken that vow. And I won’t.
My phone is hot in my hands. I dial David Smythe’s number. He doesn’t sound surprised to hear from me. We arrange to meet later for a walk in the park.
29
The day is cool enough for a coat and hat, a crisp November day. I strap Marmie to me, inside my good camel overcoat, a throwback to my former glory years. He’s sitting on the bench by the bandstand when I arrive, two cups from Insomnia in his hands, a layer of froth above his upper lip. What is it about the shape of his mouth?
‘Still drinking tea?’ he asks, extending the cup towards me.
‘Thanks. Properly addicted now.’ I sit myself beside him, Marmie squirming and purring.
‘I see you brought the kitten.’
‘Don’t know what to do with her. She cries if I’m even in the next room. Such a needy little thing.’
‘You sure this is what you need right now?’
‘She’s for Tommy. I promised.’
We sit in silence as I reach in to release Marmie and lay her on my lap. He scratches her tummy. ‘Cute.’ I’d like to lean my body against his, rest my head on his shoulder, and crazy as the impulse is, I’m scared of how vulnerable I feel. I move a little closer. ‘Cold.’ He nods, his body softening, legs splaying, thigh touching mine. I wonder why he agreed to meet but don’t want to ask.
‘This is the bench I was sitting on the last time,’ I say instead, ‘when I noticed Tommy running up and down by the edge of the pond, remember I told you?’