I throw the phone down and sink into the couch.
‘Oh, Tommy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…’
He climbs on top of me, strokes my hair, which is sparkling with pieces of glitter. The warmth and heft of his little body. The sound of his breath in my ear: a divine whisper.
44
‘Wake up, sleepyhead. Time for school.’
I never thought I’d be saying those words. I lean in to kiss him on his red-rumpled cheek. He stirs, a slight smile on his mouth, and I leave him there as I go into the kitchen to get breakfast ready. Today is a new day, a day filled with the same vulnerability and resolve that follows a spectacular blow-out. I don’t like how I spoke to my father; how I exposed a part of myself that isn’t safe around him. I also don’t like how I made my son feel unsafe around me.
Tommy dresses himself, and I have to admit he’s cute in his little grey slacks and jumper, but oh, those flashing trainers and the fire-engine satchel. Bite down on the inside of my cheek. We eat cornflakes and toast. I bundle the animals in the car – we’ll have a nice walk after the drop-off; isn’t that what a suburban mother is supposed to do? We pull up outside the address Maureen gave me, which is only a twenty-minute drive in thick traffic. She didn’t tell me it was some kind of a religious institution. What is it about this country and its seats of learning? A looming cross above the arched doorway – an instrument of torture, symbol of suffering; prefabs huddled closely around the chapel, hunkered down in its shadow.
Tommy jumps out, waving at us all.
‘Do you have my lunch, Yaya?’
Lunch? Oh shit, I was meant to make a sandwich, put in a drink, an apple.
‘I’ll be back with it, T. What time do you take lunch?’
He shrugs.
‘Leave it with me, ok? Go on, now, and have a lovely time. Remember to give out those party invitations!’
I’m still in the driver’s seat, the car engine idling. He nods, blows kisses to Marmie and Herbie, then hoists his ridiculous bag over his shoulder. I stay watching him until he disappears inside the door, then look down at my phone. Eight missed calls from David. I put my foot flat to the floor.
‘Time for a run, guys.’
Pull up outside the gates of the local park, and even though I’m wearing jeans and boots I hit the ground running. I leave Herbie and Marmie off their leads. Lots of stares. Do my best to ignore them but can’t resist sticking my finger up at a particularly nosy old bag. ‘Those animals should be safely at home or that dog should be on a lead.’ The woman’s words are tracking me down. I run faster. Finally I stop, hold my side, retch a little, attach the leads to the cat and dog and hobble back to the car. My shin splints are pretty acute after smacking the pavement with my boots.
Drive to the Spar, buy a cheese sandwich, should be ok, an apple, Tayto crisps – are they ok? – and speed back to the school. I pull into the grounds this time, take in the small cluster of prefabs, insignificant and flimsy, so like the sanatorium and the drying-out wing in the rehab. How many of these little people will make their way there later in life? Some, but not Tommy, I’ll make sure of that. ‘He’s young enough to bounce back from this’ – Jimmy’s voice rings in my ears.
‘Ok, guys, you hang tight. Won’t be long.’ I speak through the car window, press my nose against it. I’m sure I can see Herbie do his dolphin smile. I’m winning him back.
I press the bell on the door and wait. A disappointed-looking woman with a sunken mouth opens the door. Hear the guys: ‘If life gives you lemons…’ I know I’m smirking.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
‘I’m Tommy Moriarty’s mother. Here’s his lunch.’
The woman takes the bag, holding it a safe distance from her body.
‘What class is he in?’
‘I don’t know… The littlest. He’s four, five next week.’
I’m jabbering, feeling judged. Crap mother with her cheap Spar lunch, late.
‘Oh, is that little Tommy who arrived on his own this morning? We were trying to call you.’
‘No, you must be mistaken. I drove him here myself.’
The woman stares at me, really stares, probing. I look away.
‘What time is he finished?’
‘Do you have any ID?’ the woman asks, looking suspiciously at the bag.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Just something to tell me you are who you say you are.’
The woman continues with her scoping, which is starting to feel invasive. This is exactly the feeling I had in the days after my mother’s death, when the whole school’s eyes were on me, pinning me, a rare and dangerous species. I stick my tongue into the healing welt in my cheek. Breathe, ground, pray.