Page 54 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Can’t say as I do.’ Something in his tone makes me think he’s not telling me the truth. I search for a glimpse of his face, but the telescopic image is now occupied by his back. I choose my words carefully, making sure that my tone sounds offhand, like it isn’t important.
‘Oh, well. I’ll go back to the office. I can’t believe I’ve lost the address.’ I start to get up, tilting the telescopic view around the kitchen, trying to catch a glimpse of something that will help me find Sophie, but each gem of sight is filled with clutter.
‘Sorry I couldn’t help you,’ he says as he passes me my cane.
‘Ah, not to worry,’ I reply. ‘Could I use your toilet before I go?’ His hesitation hangs in the air; I hold my breath.
‘Sure, I’ll just show you . . . it’s along the hall there on your right. Do you need me to . . .?’
‘No, no, I’m grand, thanks, if you could just lead the way?’
I follow him and close the door behind me. I take my time scanning the room, careful not to miss anything that may help. There is a cabinet above the sink and I open it carefully. It’s filled with the usual: unopened bars of soap, some razors, a packet of plasters, cheap supermarket paracetamol. If I could see clearly, I would be rummaging through these things, but I’m struggling to see in this dim light, in what is essentially a cupboard under the stairs. I move in closer, listening to the sounds outside the door – a small girl singing badly to an advert about ponies; a response from another child screaming to her dad to get Gemma out of the way – when, just peeking out from the side of my tunnel, I see a prescription sticker hiding behind a box of Tampax. I carefully pull it out of the cupboard and reach for the container. I’m nervous about knocking it over. That man outside the door is lying, I’m sure about it, and if he’s lying, he’s not going to be happy about a nosey Irishman messing with his wife’s tampons. I tap my way back to the toilet, slide my hand along the top of the cistern and press the flush down, then return to the container. I clasp my hand around it and read the label in short bursts of letters: ‘Hel-en Ya-tes.’
I return the container, close the door, thank my host and leave.
For now.
Week Twenty-Two
Sophie
It’s early July and I’m shivering. White ghosts hang from the curtain hooks and they twist and turn as though their task is too arduous to bear.
Shivers slide from my body, the goosebumps ironing out into smooth, glistening skin. I kick off the blanket; Bean kicks too, the gentle bubbles of the last few weeks turning into a determined prod as I disturb its sleep with my tossing and turning.
Samuel is here.
‘Sophie, you need to call a doctor,’ Samuel is saying.
‘I will . . . just five more minutes. Can you rub my back?’ I ask. ‘It hurts.’ I hear the duvet rustle and I wait to feel his hands on my skin, but he doesn’t push hard enough; I can’t feel him. The shivers climb back up my spine and surge across my skin. I reach for the duvet, but the bed feels too large, the duvet too far out of reach, and it takes all my energy to grasp at its slippery corners, its weight cumbersome and stubborn. Samuel helps me with it and it slides on to my body like warm silk. He tucks it around me and I smile.
‘I’ve missed you,’ I tell him.
‘You need to call a doctor, Sophie,’ he replies. I’m desperate to feel his fingers clear my hair from my face, but he’s gone. I’m on my own. Bean kicks me; it’s the strongest I’ve felt it move before, and my eyes fly open. It’s morning. The room is filled with light and for a moment, as I tap the bed, I almost expect to feel his weight sinking down on the mattress.
My hand reaches for the phone and I make an appointment to see the doctor.
I’m scared. Not of whatever is making me ill – I’m fairly sure it’s a urine infection – but I’m scared of how much I wanted Samuel to still be here. I don’t doubt that I can have Bean without him. I’m certain that I can bring the baby up by myself – women all over the world do this. What scares me is that I have made the wrong decision. That I am not fighting for something that I want.
The taxi journey to the doctor’s is uncomfortable. Charlie’s car wasn’t outside and I’m glad that he is getting out and about. The hour it takes between my arrival at the doctor’s, the diagnosis of the infection and being passed the white paper bag filled with my prescription, is leaden with gaps of time. Gaps that I can’t help but fill with my memories of Samuel.
I flick through the channels but my mind won’t settle. I’ve not been able to push Samuel from my thoughts for the last two days. It’s as though that dream of Samuel has woken me up. I pick up my phone and FaceTime Helen. She’ll tell me what I already know, I’m sure: that I should be fighting: for him. It’s ridiculous, but I just need to hear it.
‘Hi, Aunty Soapie!’
‘Hello, sweet girl, I love your hair . . . did you do it yourself?’ I bite my lip and look at Jessica’s hair, which is tangled on top of her head.
‘I did, but Caitlin keeps calling me pineapple head. Dad! Soapie is FaceTiming!’
‘Pineapple Head’ begins to be chanted from somewhere in the background.
‘Is Mummy home?’ I ask as the screen tilts and Caitlin’s face – covered in chocolate and something that could be tomato sauce – pushes into the corner.
‘Mummy’s not here but Dad is,’ she whispers loudly. ‘He’s talking to a blind man at the door . . . look, I’ll show you.’ The image of Helen’s lounge jumps up and down and then is concealed by a door, some carpet, until I see Greg’s feet.
‘Oh. He’s gone. I wanted to show Aunty Soapie the blind man.’
‘Give me your mother’s phone. I’ve told you not to answer it.’
