‘Yes, I paid her, Sonya – Mrs O’Malley. She said she’d look out for the boy.’

I bite down on my fat, slippery tongue now that my father is being honest. There’s a tone to his voice I haven’t heard before, stripped of its usual self-regard.

‘You were doing ok, as far as she could tell, up until a few months ago, when your drinking escalated to the point that you nearly burned the house down the other night. Think about it, Sonya. What could have happened.’

‘Christ, it was only a few burnt fish fingers.’

My father turns his back on me, staring at our reflections in the window and the darkness beyond, his fingers feeling for a spot on the back of his neck that is red and raised. He speaks without turning around.

‘Did something happen a few months back? Something to tip you over?’

Did something ‘happen’? I don’t think so. My ‘tipping point’ was just an inevitable destination on the journey I had embarked on. My flirtation had turned into a full-blown affair. There wasn’t an ‘aha’ moment; the relationship was going along nicely, smoothly – a buffer – and then I woke up to find my every thought consumed. This is my story with alcohol, as with all the men in my life up to now.

Who am I if I’m not acting or fucking?

He turns to face me. ‘Is there something funny, Sonya?’

My mouth must be doing its twisted thing. ‘I can’t believe you paid that auld bitch to “keep an eye”.’

‘What are we going to do?’

I surprise myself by saying, ‘I’ll have some tea, for starters.’

My father looks relieved, busies himself with the task at hand, concentration intense.

‘Thank you.’ I sip the bitter liquid, tongue scalded, my penance.

7

The two of us sit in silence, my father’s shoulders and fingers hunched in a way I’ve never seen before. I want to unbend his fingers, straighten his back. I tentatively swallow the peat-brown liquid, now tepid but still uncomforting, and crave the smack that sits patiently waiting for me in the fridge. Am I fooling myself? Do I ever really ‘taste’ it at all? It’s the sensation I’m chasing: the emptying and stilling and the nothingness of it. Blankety-blank. Fuck, Dad, I missed you. Bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.

‘I’d like to take the boy.’

‘I’ll go to AA.’

‘You need more than that, Sonya, at this stage. A stint.’

‘I’m not leaving my boys.’

‘Just for a while. You’ll be a better mother the other side.’

The other side.

‘He should be in preschool by now. Why isn’t he?’

I think of my GP’s concern the last time I visited with Tommy, when he had a high fever. The doctor seemed much more concerned about plans for Tommy’s schooling than his sore throat.

‘He doesn’t want to go. I asked him.’

My father stares at me, scratching that spot on the back of his neck.