Page 74 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Because if she looks at you with the same dopey expression, then she won’t give a flying fuck about Mr Cane here.’
Sometimes there isn’t a word to describe how you feel about your parents either.
‘Oh, here we go. Looks like this is the place.’
He slows down the car as I scan the view in front of me. There is an old gate closing the road, leaving a small T-shaped piece of land, just big enough to be able to turn a car around.
The engine ticks as the ignition is turned off. I can see Sophie’s building from here, it’s far enough away to let me see it whole. It’s a low building made of old stones and a slate roof. It has a red door to the right and a black one further over on the left; two cars are parked next to each other and the light is on in one of the bottom rooms on the right-hand side of the building.
‘Stay here while I have a look.’
‘I can see the building, Da. I’ll be OK, I think.’
‘Right, well, the first thing you need to watch is that the ground is going to be really uneven. Let Mikey take his time, don’t rush. It looks like the land beyond the gate has been overgrown for a while, so there are bound to be things in your path. I think it may have been cut recently, so maybe let Mikey do that swishing thing rather than letting him rock and roll; he’ll get tangled up otherwise.’
‘I’ll be fine, Da. I’ll take my time, it’s not like we’re on a cliff face or anything.’
‘Just . . . be careful.’
‘I will.’
‘Well. Good luck then.’
The seat belt unbuckles, and Michael and I leave the car, closing the door softly behind us. The ground beneath my feet is spongy and uneven and with each step I take, I can hear the squelch of the mud sucking under my walking boots. I pull the zip up on my waterproof coat as the rain pounds down from the sky, the warmth of the fat raindrops the only hint that it is still officially summer. I look downwards and focus on the end of the tunnel, to the top of the gate. I follow it with my hand until I reach the rope that holds it in place; I slip the rope off and open the gate wide enough for me to walk through, securing the rope back around its neck.
Michael swings about in front of me as I try to keep my eyes focused on the ground and not towards where the warm light shines from within the house. It takes me some time before my feet feel a smoother surface, and as I look down, I can see the remains of an old pathway that has recently been cleared. I lift my chin and look at the house. I know I should be going towards the door, but the light draws me in. Michael swishes in front of me as I make my way towards that side of the house; the ground has a slight incline that I make a mental note to be aware of when I walk back down, but then I stop, because I can see her. The tunnel is trying to swallow Sophie, but she hasn’t been taken from me just yet. Her face is fuller, and her hair is longer, hanging loosely over her shoulders, but there she is. I thought I would never get to see her again. I make myself take notice of everything about her: the tilt of her head as she leans forward and takes her food off her fork; how she is wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb; the way she shuffles her position on the chair. I try to commit it all to memory. The relief and joy I feel is clouded by the other component to this scene in front of me; it’s probably just a split second that I have spent watching Sophie, a split second where I felt happy before I noticed she was sitting opposite a man.
I stand still, the rain easing off as though it knows I need a moment of time without anything else to contend with. I look at him; he’s got that kind of rock-star thing going on, like he’s been out partying all night but still somehow manages to look the part the next day. I, on the other hand, tend to spend the next day with the shits and the shakes. They are talking about something important; this isn’t a conversation about the weather or when to book a holiday. Sophie looks upset by something he is saying. From where I am, I can’t take in the two of them together and so my head switches from one to the other like I’m watching tennis. Sophie is trying to explain something and then she flinches. She doesn’t jump back or anything, but it’s there in the sharp breath she takes; it looks as though she’s trying to apologise for something. My head switches back to the man. He is watching everything she does, responding to everything she says, but then he looks away as though he doesn’t want to hear any more. I return my focus to Sophie, but she is moving. She stands, and I track her face, taking a moment to adjust to her movement. I stay focused on her face as she arrives at his side; she goes to move away, but he has done something to stop her. She looks upset; her teeth are holding her bottom lip. I track downwards to where I can see she has tried to take his plate away, but he has hold of her hand; this gesture is so intimate I feel breathless. I’m trying to keep up with the different components that are making up the whole: they’re eating a meal together, her make-up and hair looks natural, so this is someone she feels comfortable with. I can’t describe the pain that I’m feeling as I watch her hands begin to stroke his hair, but that is nothing to how I feel as I notice how much has changed for Sophie since we last saw each other.
She’s pregnant.
My mouth begins to water as though I could be sick at any minute. I watch their faces as they look into each other’s eyes, a look filled with raw emotion, one that you could only show to someone who you care for deeply. His hand reaches for her stomach and he smiles. As he wraps his arms around her, I can feel part of me falling away. The part of me that thought I could be happy without her is the first to go. As he leans his head against her bump, I can feel my hopes peel away from my insides, but what strips me bare is the look of pure happiness as she closes her eyes.
Her life has started again. Her world is expanding, her life filling with new things: a new man, a new home, a new life.
I watch her for as long as I can, even though with every second that I stand there I can feel each part of me that made living inside of this tunnel bearable begin to crumble into dust.
I study every aspect of this scene, putting myself beside her, leaning my head against our child as we stand in our new home. As much as watching this is killing me, I drink it in. I store away every detail: the tear of happiness rolling down her cheek that she leaves unchecked, the rhythm that her fingers follow as they flow through his hair, the way her bump must feel to him as he rests his head against it, the joy that is written on his face as he gently kisses it. I keep every detail because I know that for the rest of my life . . . this will be what I want; this will be what I am missing.
The rain picks up its pace again, telling me to move on, that this is enough for one man to bear. Da’s feet tread quietly behind me and I try to straighten my shoulders, but I can’t; they are slumped, the weight of the scene in front of me too heavy for me to brush off.
‘Come on, lad . . . time to go home,’ he says, the pain I’m feeling cracking his deep voice as though he’s feeling it too. I nod and take a final look at the life I will never have. The gate slams behind us as Da leads me back to the car and to my new life: a life in darkness.
Week Twenty-Nine
Sophie
Charlie is starting to look better. I wave through the window as he walks past, his gait giving the impression of a man in a rush, the rise and fall of his steps reminding me of the horses on a carousel. He’s eating more. I rub my large stomach: I’m eating more, too. I’ve tentatively suggested that Charlie think about starting up a new restaurant; I received a blunt ‘no’ in response, but I’ve noticed this week that his house is clean, the bags beneath his eyes are less bruised and our meals have become more extravagant.
I look up at the minute hand as it ticks time away with a nonchalant smile. It doesn’t care that with every click of its tongue, more time is passing since I’ve heard from Samuel. The envelope icon sleeps at the bottom of the screen, and I click my finger, waking it. Samuel hasn’t been in touch. This is a fact that pulls at my centre. It toys with my balance as though I have no anchor to keep me tethered, to keep me in the place where I know my message has been passed on. He would have been in touch if Bret had told him I was looking for him. I replay the way that Bret had spoken to me – would he have even told Samuel I was trying to find him? I was stupid not to push him for more information. My fingers tap in Bret’s email address, but then I stare at the screen – what do I say that will make him change his mind? Bean shifts and fidgets, my baby’s kicks taking my breath away.
‘I know you want me to tell him,’ I say, looking down, ‘but I want to tell him myself. I don’t want some American man that I barely know telling Your Dad he’s going to be a father.’
Charlie taps on the door then walks in as I close the lid on my laptop. I don’t know why I haven’t told him about Samuel yet. I’m finding it harder with the passing of time, like when you’ve told a white lie and don’t quite know how to get yourself out of the fallout that it causes.
‘I’ve sorted out the spare room.’ He walks over to the sink, fills the kettle and scoops coffee into two mugs.
‘Oh?’ I’m left wondering why he is telling me this information. ‘Have you made it into an office?’ I hazard a guess.
