Page 30 of The First Time I Saw You
‘How the feck do you think I am?’ I look at him, my eyes tracking the easy fluidity of his movements, the way he strides across the room and then slumps back into the chair opposite the bed. I need a drink. I hate the idea of having him help me sip through a straw, but the brace around my neck makes it difficult to drink out of a cup.
‘Can you get me a drink, please?’
‘Sure thing, buddy!’
I close my eyes. The painkillers are wearing off; the heat inside seems to rise, the itching writhing around: rats in a sewer.
‘Here you go, mate.’ I hate that it hurts to turn my head towards him, that I can’t see where the straw is.
‘How the hell am I supposed to drink it from here when I can’t even see it?’ I snap.
‘Sorry, mate, I thought you could reach it.’ He moves forward and passes me the straw. The water is warm; more heat inside my body.
‘Thanks.’
He chuckles. ‘Man, I love your accent – “tanks”.’ He laughs again. I close my eyes. Everything about him today is irritating me. ‘Sammy Boy, take a look at this.’ I open my eyes again but can’t see where he is standing. The exasperation grates on my insides, igniting the pain, and stoking the burns until I almost cry out.
‘Jesus! I can’t sodding well see it until you bring it in front of the brace!’ The door opens and closes behind me and I can sense the arrival of yet another doctor.
‘All right, keep your hair on, mate. It is in front of your brace, look.’ He moves further in front of me and I can see the mobile phone screen with the baseball scores on. ‘I’d be on your guard today, doc,’ Bret says over his shoulder. ‘He’s not in a great mood.’
‘Of course I’m not in a great mood! You keep doing things behind my back!’
I close my eyes again as Bret laughs and jokes with the doctor. I gather by the sounds of Bret’s phone that he is showing him something on YouTube. I open my eyes, but they are behind me. Again. ‘For the love of God, can you not keep standing behind me! I can’t turn my fecking neck!’
‘Samuel? Can you see the screen of this phone?’ There is something different about the tone of the doctor’s voice as he asks me. The inside of my skin feels like it is crawling, like my veins are filled with ants scurrying around my body.
‘I’m not behind you, mate.’ Bret’s voice has lost its booming certainty, its wise-cracking lilt, and is replaced with a voice that is edged with anxiety. ‘I’m here, look.’
I can see the tips of his fingers in the top left corner of my vision, but I can’t see the rest of his hand. He takes a few strides forward, concern on his face. The doctor follows his path and begins barking orders at me, shining a light in my eyes and asking me to look up, to look down, to look left, to look right. Bret stands at the bottom of the bed avoiding my gaze until he excuses himself.
The tests come thick and fast. The specialists are called; I’m wheeled into darkened rooms; I’m lifted on to beds and pushed into a scanner. Words zigzag around these rooms like the old computer games that would consist of a small ball bouncing from one side of the screen to another. Boing. Retinal damage. Boing. Peripheral vision loss. Boing. Deterioration. Boing. Tunnel vision. Boing. Beyond treatment. Boing. Eventually blind. Boing. Boing. Boing. I stop listening to Sarah’s questions. I stop listening to explanations. I stop listening.
It could have been worse . . . I have a year of sight . . . if I’m lucky.
Week Eleven
Sophie
I’m meeting Helen in town. The Welsh rain batters the windscreen relentlessly, and as I turn up the blowers, I notice that my nails are different shapes and sizes; they have become brittle. My reflection in the rear-view mirror stares forlornly back at me. The smudge of mascara under my eyes, my wet hair clinging to my scalp, the roots looking even worse in the dim light. My jeans are digging into my stomach and I undo the top button, the flesh beneath the denim exhaling. I picture the English woman with the green umbrella and begin to cry. Where is she now?
A fist knocks on the window, and I wipe my tears away as Helen waves, runs around the bonnet and climbs into the passenger seat.
‘Good to know that Wales is as pleased to see me as I am to see it.’ She turns to look at me, rain dripping from her fringe and on to her glasses, then she takes them off and wipes the lenses with the cuff of her jacket. ‘Jesus, are you OK?’
‘Yeah, just morning sickness again.’ I smile and reach for her as we try to give each other an awkward hug over the seat-belt buckles. ‘Are you hungry? The Rose and Crown has been renovated, we can go there.’
‘OK, if you feel up to it?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine in a bit.’ I blow my nose. ‘Bean likes to keep me on my toes, don’t you, Bean?’ I tap my stomach.
‘Ooh, you’re getting chubby!’ she exclaims, seeing my open button. I nod and smile . . . who knew that someone telling you you’re getting fat could cause so much pride?
The rain has finished throwing a tantrum, the slaps and crashes turning into sniffs and snivels. I blow my nose and open the window a fraction. Rain on dry earth mixes with the sounds of the seaside and damp tourists as they shake off the downpour. I begin the steep climb, my foot pushing down on the accelerator, the engine protesting at my low gear.
‘How are the girls?’ I ask. Mismatched houses stand watchfully as I leave the main part of the town, each one stepping further back from view, as the houses gradually become grander and more hidden.
‘Oh, they’re good. Never give me a second, though. I swear if I make one more playdough My Little Pony I think I’ll go mad.’ I notice that Helen is avoiding the landscape as the grand houses peter out and give way to the old council estates, the corner shops, the pubs with bouncy castles in the beer garden.
