Page 78 of The First Time I Saw You
Sarah came to visit me when she was seven months pregnant with William. I remember that she was seven months because I’d laughed at her wobbling through the airport gate and asked her if she was sure she had her dates right, and teased that she couldn’t get any bigger surely? She’d burst into tears and said she had another two months to go yet and what kind of greeting was that? To tell her she looked like a whale? Sarah crying was a very strange phenomenon. If only I’d known that the secret to getting her to cry was calling her fat, I’d have had her under my thumb throughout our childhood rather than the other way around. Sophie was nowhere near that size. Even if she was that big, I still would have known, deep down, that she’s not carrying my child. It was in her face; it was the way she looked as she stood there holding them both; the pure joy that she was feeling is something that I’m sure could only come if you have everything you have ever wanted, and in that moment, she had it. Sophie lives her life with her ‘i’s’ dotted and ‘t’s’ crossed; if there was any chance that child was mine, she wouldn’t have just not told me; she would want everything in order, everything correct and accounted for.
‘You’re sure?’ Sarah asked.
‘I am.’
‘Well, I guess that’s that then.’ She rubbed my knee.
‘Sarah . . . when we were kids, were you always picking on me because deep down you know you were a bit, well, on the fat side? Did you do it to make yourself feel better?’
‘What?’
‘Fat. When you were younger.’ I tried my hardest to keep my face straight as Sarah stood up.
‘I was not fat. I’ll give you a fat lip if you carry on talking like that, broken heart or not.’
I shrugged my shoulders but could see that I’d hit a nerve. My ten-year-old self jumped up and down like Rocky.
‘Fat indeed,’ she scoffed from the end of the tunnel as she left the room. I chuckled to myself. ‘If you could see the size of your own arse, Mule, you’d not be saying that! Too much time sitting around stuffing your face with biscuits!’
I reach for the treadmill controls and push the incline to seven percent. I’ll give her fat arse.
My legs begin to burn and my breath is hot. I can’t hold back the door that I have closed against the images of Sophie and her baby and her new life. The door flies open, and whether I want to see the images or not, they play out in front of me. My legs continue to pump harder and faster, through the way she had smiled when her eyes were closed, the light reflecting on the pendant of her necklace as she leant forward, the curve of her neck and the peace on his face as he kissed her bump. The images come thick and fast. I lose my footing, the tunnel tilts on its side and I crash into the walls. Pain courses through my legs and shoulder as I slam against the treadmill base.
People scurry to my side, like ants erupting from a colony, their hands touching me, their voices asking stupid questions: Are you OK? Are you all right?
No. I’m not. I’m not OK. I’m not all right.
The end of the tunnel has become blurred and smudged; tears are obscuring my view, like heavy rain against a window pane.
I’m fine, I tell them, but the ants are everywhere; they are surrounding me. My hand taps around the floor as the ants pull me up: I can’t find Michael. Panic fills me. The ants swarm, and as I try to stand, they cover me entirely, dragging me away from Michael and the man I used to be.
Week Thirty
Sophie
Charlie is home. Charlie is alive. Kind of.
He has managed to convince the hospital that his attempted suicide was because he is obviously grieving and that it had all got too much for him. He had drunk too much, that’s all. Just a drunken mistake. No. He doesn’t want to die. Yes, he is relieved that his neighbour found him. Honestly. He’ll be fine. They’ll be in touch, here are some leaflets, phone numbers, you must go to your counselling sessions. Please contact us anytime.
‘Charlie?’ I call, trying hard to keep the fear from my voice every time I walk into this house. The cardboard against the window is taped awkwardly as though it’s ashamed to be there, and I ignore it the same way some people would when they walk past a homeless person if they haven’t got any change, almost as if they haven’t seen them, but I feel its eyes on me as I concentrate on looking the other way.
‘I’m in here,’ he replies as if nothing has changed, as if I haven’t spent the last God knows how many nights without sleep, fearing the sound of the letter box which may deliver another envelope.
Since that night I feel like I’m spending my time worrying about what I can say, what I can’t. Should I ask him if he’s OK? Should I pretend everything is OK when it’s not? Every action, even making a drink, is calculated. Should I offer him one? Is that what he wants, for me to be here asking him if he wants a drink, or should I just leave him alone? Maybe I should stay away, but then, should I be here in case he needs me? I can’t go after Samuel yet; I can’t leave Charlie alone.
The whole evening was planned, right down to the conversation we had had earlier that day when he mentioned that his paperwork was in the room that he had cleared out, but what is more worrying is the will. That you could plan your own demise in a day is one thing – we’ve all had days when life gets too much – but he had to have seen a solicitor days before.
The note was written before I arrived that night. The handwriting was clear; there was nothing to suggest that it had been written after he had been drinking. If I had slept through that night, he would be gone. And what’s to say he won’t make that decision again? What if he decides he was right in the first place and that he does want to die?
In the lounge, he is hanging a picture of Olivia and Jack on the wall. A week ago, I would have thought that this was a good sign, but the thing with living around someone who has thought about their suicide so methodically, is that you cannot trust anything they do afterwards. I watch him humming to himself and seeming to get on with his life, but I am filled with fear that he is doing this for my benefit, so I will believe him, leave him alone with the pills, or a knife in the kitchen drawer or the gas from the cooker or the rope that is in his cupboard from when he replaced the tattered one on the gate outside. These are the things that tease and worry my thoughts when I’m away from him, and I don’t know when that feeling will stop, if it ever will.
‘That looks nice,’ I say instead, as if this is all normal.
‘I thought I should stop hiding the photos away. I’ve spent enough of the last few months avoiding them.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ I smile. ‘I’m about to make some lunch, if you want some?’
‘No thanks. I’ve just had some soup.’
