Page 44 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard the rhyme before.’
‘The same thing happened with Olivia.’ My embarrassment slides away and the room fills with the weight behind his words. ‘She would let rip all day long when she was pregnant with Jack.’
‘Oh, you have a son?’ I look at him and watch as he almost winces at the pain which flashes across his face.
‘Did.’ He stands up and begins scraping his plate into the sink.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to his back as he puts on my oversized yellow washing-up gloves.
‘It’s not your fault. You weren’t the one driving. My wife Olivia was.’
How do you answer a sentence like that? I pause, appropriate responses pushing their way forward only to be swallowed down by their ineptness.
‘Did they both die in the crash?’
‘Jack did. Olivia died three days later from internal bleeding.’ I remember Olivia, his girlfriend at school. She was a tiny little thing with long dark hair that almost reached her bottom; I always thought it looked too heavy for her to carry. I get up and gently place my hand on his shoulder. His body is warm, the kind of warmth that would stay even in the depths of winter; I can feel his muscles and bones moving beneath his skin: how can so much hurt be contained inside so thin a layer? He stops washing up and we both look at our reflections as the rain slides down our cheeks; our faces look like they’re drowning.
‘She had been drinking,’ he tells me in barely a whisper. ‘Not much, but enough. She’d been to her friends for a play date and they had opened a bottle of prosecco.’
‘When did they die?’ I ask.
‘Six months ago. Jack would have been four next month.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Two words that can mean both everything and nothing.
Did he blame her? How do you grieve for somebody you loved but who killed your child?
We stay like that for some time, the rain continuing to slide sad tears down our reflections.
Week Seventeen
Samuel
I’m not an idiot. I know that I’m going to need help soon, that my sight will be gone, and I will have to learn to cope with life as a blind person, but I’m just not ready yet. I don’t want to listen as Mam talks about guide dogs and how lovely it will be to have a dog around the house, one that’s trained, not like Dotty, our last dog, who ate all Da’s slippers.
Mam came into my room yesterday all excited because she had found me a watch on eBay that I’ll be able to tell the time on. Isn’t that clever, Sammy, you’ll be able to feel where the numbers go by little bumps. Isn’t it clever? I know she’s only trying to help, but I hadn’t even thought about that, hadn’t considered that I wouldn’t be able to see the time. Do you think you’ll have a cane, Sammy? Ooh, look at this, it folds up all nice and tidy, you’ll be able to fit it in your pocket. I know that eventually, yes, I will need all of these, but I’m sick of hearing these questions, these scenarios and images of myself holding a cane, bumping into things, linking arms with my mother so I can cross the road. I try to push the thought away that I won’t be able to cook for myself. I say this to Sarah.
‘Will you pull yourself together! I’m sick of hearing you giving up on life just because you’re losing your sight. You could have died! You could be paralysed! You’ll still be able to cook, Mule, you’ll just have to learn to cook as a blind person.’
I ignore her and instead speak into my phone, asking Google to search for Sophie Williams Wales. Google looks for Sophie Williams Way. I repeat the statement, slowing my words down so it can be deciphered better. This brings up the same list that I have been ploughing through for the past week.
‘Why are you still using your phone? I’ve shown you how to change the setting on the computer so that it will narrate the words for you.’
‘I just prefer using my phone.’
‘But you—’
‘Can you just leave it!’ I shout.
‘Fine. But you’re acting like a child. The computer is easier for you to see and hear, but if you want to waste your time trying to find Sophie on that, be my guest.’ She storms off into the kitchen. The TV is on as always but from where I am sitting, from where my brace stops me from lifting my head, I can only see the top left corner of it. There is no talking, just high-speed background music; I don’t know what is happening on the screen: I haven’t a clue. My throat is filled with a lump full of fear and I don’t know how I will ever swallow it. I feel the tears on my face before I even know I’m crying.
Mam walks in; I can tell by the sound of her wiping her still-damp hands from the washing-up on her jeans.
‘Sarah! You get in here this instant! You’ve made your brother cry!’
I laugh through my tears as Sarah stomps into my view. She rolls her eyes at me.
‘Some things never change,’ she grumbles, passing me a tissue. ‘He was mean to me first,’ she says.
