I regard the table of six women, all of whom must be struggling with similar stuff. This doesn’t bring any relief, or feeling of solidarity, as it should. If anything, it just intensifies the already harsh critical voices. Such failures, such abject failures. Can’t be as bad as any of these women, with their broken veins and yellow eyes. I should just get up and walk away from here.

Chew on the inside of my cheek, survey the room. My father’s voice inside my head: ‘Pathetic, weak-willed creatures.’ Yes siree, Pops! I look at the gloop in my bowl, drop my spoon, close my eyes and feel the heat of a spotlight trained on me, the hushed crowds, the sound of the blood rushing in my ears, words, transporting words, the power of those words that make me, and everyone watching, believe I am someone else. I should never have stopped stepping into that imaginary realm; it was the only thing that made sense of who I am. I open my eyes: some of the women are staring at me. Can’t imagine any of them being impressed by my glittering past. Get down off your pedestal and get real. I’m sure I can hear these thoughts broadcast on the airwaves, and they belong to the woman who had gristle in her mouth.

11

Post-dinner, we’re ushered into a cold hall, which reeks of a stale gymnasium, old sweat and a squirt of polish mingling in the air. My sense of smell is heightened and I’m constantly nauseous, like when I was pregnant. Orange plastic chairs are laid out in rows, facing a podium, presided over by a looming effigy of the Virgin Mary. Tommy would love this giant statue. Feel faint from the longing to hold him. I pinch myself on the back of my hand and settle myself in the far corner. The old nun leading the round of prayer (ten Hail Marys, one Lord’s Prayer) reminds me of the four decrepit sisters that taught in our school: Sister Rachel, Joan, Maria and… I can’t remember the last one’s name, the mean one, the one who had a knuckle ring that she’d grind into the back of your hand if caught daydreaming, which in my case was often. I haven’t heard the rosary since those days when we’d be made to recite it in assembly. Haven’t forgotten, though: an incantatory, mesmeric repetition of hazy words from another era. It’s almost soothing, were it not so troubling. Folk around me mumble, drift, snooze, snore their way through, bobbing their heads at the appropriate moments, bodies swaying, eyes closed. Somnambulists. The words have no resonance, yet the effect of sitting in a room such as this with only one sound echoing is strangely soothing. People look vulnerable, on their knees, chanting words they probably don’t even understand. They are like oversized children. A tenderness settles in my body, lifting me out of myself for one blessed moment.