‘Sister, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

Sister Anne nibbles on the corner of her biscuit. ‘We have strict guidelines we have to adhere to, Sonya. You know this.’

Seems pretty unlikely that no one else in here has lost it on occasion. Sister Anne gets up and moves to the window. She looks out, seeking something in the patterns of the rain, some guidance from the Man Above. Her lips are moving, muttering a silent prayer.

‘Sonya, some part of me believes in you, your capacity for change.’

I’m flooded by relief and a desire to go and hug the nun’s small, compact body. These urges – they’re not normal, are they? I resolve to question every impulse before I act, to never pay heed to the strong inner prompts.

‘Thank you, Sister. I won’t let you down.’

‘Can you promise me something, Sonya?’

‘Yes, Sister?’

‘That you try to be more gentle. Eat more, breathe more, soften yourself. Loosen and soften. It’s the only way the spirit can get in.’

Loosen, soften: such strange words for a nun.

‘And Sonya?’

‘Yes, Sister?’

‘Try simple prayer. Start with a “Please help”.’

I look at her, willing her to provide more guidance.

‘This is an official warning.’

‘Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister.’

That feels like a prayer: Thank you.

‘You may go, Sonya…’

Please help, please help, I incant over and over as I walk down the dimly lit yellow-stained corridor, where the lingering smell of traces of smoke transports me: a woman with high colouring, fine blonde hair like mine, cigarette dangling between her lips, ‘Dance, sweetheart, dance,’ her eyes narrowed into slits, her lipstick bleeding, make-up flaked and peeling. Mother Mary, Mother of God… Mary, Mary, quite contrary. My father’s voice: ‘Christ. Leave the girl alone, can’t you? Let her sleep.’ A sensation of spinning, of being held high and jiggled, stardust falling, off-pitch singing in my ear.

24

Sipping my tea in the cafe, I’m relieved to see the boy isn’t there today. ‘Has he left already?’ I ask the girl who serves me. ‘That fella? Gone. Just walked, thank fuck.’ I stare at the mildewed, splotched windows, trying to divine a sequence and meaning that isn’t there. What will happen when I finish here? Do I get a certificate of completion, a licence to be a sober, fully functioning mother? The marks on the window start to swirl.

The tea is scalding and I swallow, barely registering the burning sensation on my tongue. I clamp my hands tight around the thin enamel mug, feel mild pleasure. I wonder if they’ll blister.

‘Hello, Sonya.’ David Smythe’s voice registers in my left ear. ‘Looking very serene, sitting there in contemplation.’

Did he just say ‘serene’? Amazing that gap between how someone looks and what’s really going on, something I’ve learned so much about since coming here.

‘Not too long to go now,’ he says.

‘Ten days.’

‘Congratulations. That’s quite a feat.’

‘Thanks for agreeing to see me again.’