Page 84 of The First Time I Saw You
My fingers find the catch on the window. The breeze holds the promise of bonfires, even if the sun is still hanging on to the frayed edges of summer. I hold myself still, listening to the sounds of my family below me, and bring the leaf to my lips. I kiss it, say goodbye to Sophie and my old life and let it escape from my fingers, letting it find freedom.
‘I said keep your eyes closed!’ Sarah laughs as she guides me down the stairs.
‘You know I can hardly see anyway, right?’
‘Oh shush, careful, there’s a stray plastic soldier. Bloody child, I keep telling him to stop leaving things where you might step on them.’
‘Ah, he’s just a kid.’ The air is thick with the smells of a Sunday roast and something else that takes me a moment to place. Realisation dawns as I hear Noddy Holder’s declarations about it being Christmas.
Sarah pushes open the lounge door where an eruption of voices shout, ‘Merry Christmas!’ A cold glass is shoved into my hand; I bring it to my nose and smell Bailey’s and Cointreau, our Christmas morning family drink.
I’m overwhelmed for a second by the kindness of my family. They all knew I would miss the sights of Christmas this year . . . so they have made sure that I don’t.
Fairy lights blink at the end of the darkness and as I piece together the fragments of sight, it is filled with metallic baubles and plastic bells, cuddly snowmen and alarmed-looking Santas. The air is filled with the dusty smell of tinsel and the syrupy tang of the peaches Mam warms in the same pan she has always used; adding chilli flakes, cinnamon and nutmeg just as Granny used to. The peaches are one of those traditions that belong to us, that I would have liked to pass on to my own family. I remember my teacher, Mrs Chidlow, asking me what my favourite part of Christmas dinner was, and I had said Mam’s peaches. My face had pinked with the sniggers of my peers as Jessy Gold made gagging sounds. Mrs Chidlow had frowned at them but patiently explained she didn’t mean pudding. I had tried to tell her that the peaches were for tea; it was important that she understood this because it was the first year I had been allowed them. Mam had always batted me away whenever I asked for them before: ‘Not for you, Sammy, they’re too spicy; maybe next year when you’ve grown an inch more.’
But that year, I had grown two inches. Mam had ruffled my hair: ‘Go on, Sammy, help yourself to some peaches. They’ll put hair on your chest.’ The spoon had felt both heavy and delicate as I scooped out a golden segment, flecks of chilli and peppercorns glinting at me with forbidden promise. My teeth sank into the flesh, the chilli burning my tongue, making my eyes water. ‘Have it with a piece of that Cheddar,’ Da had winked at me as he loaded a cracker with cheese and crowned it with a small piece of peach. It was like a rite of passage and I had copied Da’s actions, right down to the way he sliced the cheese into four small triangles, facing away from each other like points on a compass. Da had stood up, refilling everyone’s glasses, his paper party crown fluttering and crinkling with every tilt of the bottle, with every lift of a glass. Exhausted kids – cousins, second cousins, third cousins – stared blankly with heavy eyelids at the family Christmas film, their tired, podgy hands still dipping into boxes of chocolates, but I . . . I was eating peaches.
I scan the room until I see Mam and Da standing next to each other, the darkness framing my parents as they stand grinning and laughing. My throat contracts as I try to swallow down the emotion that is hot and dry, that prickles at the back of my eyes and is only satiated once the tears can fall freely; I never thought I would see Christmas again.
Fake Christmas is filled with laughter, too much food and too many drinks. We play charades, which I win due to the extra points I insist on receiving, claiming that I’m at a disadvantage. I don’t let on that I can guess most of the clues even if I can’t see them all, since the more wine that is consumed, the louder and more competitive they become and I’m able to guess the film, the book, the play from the things they shout out.
Mam leaves the decorations up for the whole week, the kitchen cupboards filled with Twiglets and Quality Street, which makes my trips to the gym even more of a necessity. I drink deeply from my bottle of water, throw my gym bag in the corner and follow Michael to Da and Isabella’s voices in the lounge. Bret is laughing loudly from across the Atlantic as Da tells him about our Fake Christmas and Bret tells him about a fat kid who was at the summer camp who looked like a chipmunk.
‘Ah, here’s the lad himself.’ Da claps his hands together. ‘Bloody odd, those Yanks. Sports camp, I ask you! No offence, Bret.’
‘None taken, Mr McLaughlin.’
I hear the rattle of the tea tray as Mam clatters cups on to the table. Sarah is crunching a biscuit behind me; I get a waft of something minty and adjust the image in the shadows to include a mint Club.
My arms fold over themselves as I lean over the back of the sofa and say a quick hello. Sweat continues to cling to my clothes and the wrinkle of Isabella’s nose as she turns her head towards me (and thus, my armpit), lets me know that I need a shower.
‘Can I catch you later, man? I need a shower.’
‘Pfft,’ Da begins, ‘nothing wrong with the smell of a man’s honest sweat. The sweat of the Irish working man is mixed in with the bricks and mortar that makes this city great.’
‘Doesn’t make it smell great, though,’ Isabella interrupts, ‘although I have to say, I always liked the way you smelt after a . . . good . . .’ she gives me one of her looks that tells me her line of thought is anything but innocent, ‘hard workout.’
‘Blood and sweat of the Irishman, I ask you! What about the blood and sweat of the Irish women? Hmmm?’ Ma asks.
‘Exactly, Mam, what makes this city great is the ability of its women to push great fat Irish men’s head out of their—’
‘Sweet Jesus, Sarah love, that’ll do. That’s enough to put a man off his digestives.’ I can almost hear Sarah’s eyes roll as she collapses into the creaking springs of the armchair.
‘Actually, mate, I need to speak to you now if that’s OK?’ Bret interrupts.
‘Oh, um, sure,’ I reply. My hand leads me along the back of the sofa. I know it will take me two steps forward until I’m clear of the arm and then my body follows the feel of the material rubbing against my leg.
‘I’ve had an email. From Sophie,’ he says, leaning forward towards the camera, the screen filling with him.
‘OK. But listen, Bret, I’m . . .’ I drain the last of the water and crinkle the plastic in my hand, ‘I’m letting her go. It’s time to move on, you know?’ The good thing about losing your sight is it becomes easy to ignore the tell-tale glances of your family. I can tell that my da is looking at Isabella, but I can also tell that Bret is wearing a serious expression.
‘You might change your mind when I read you this. It’s quite private, though. Would you rather I read it to you on your own?’
‘Nah, you may as well read it while they’re here, they’ll only listen at the door anyway.’
‘Bloody cheek!’ Da says. The crunch of a piece of paper scratches against the speakers as I lean back and let my head sink into the soft cushions of the sofa. I feel Isabella’s thigh pressing against me and I can smell the tea cooling in Da’s cup.
‘Dear Bret. . .’ he clears his throat, ‘It’s been over a month since I saw you in DC and I can only come to the conclusion that you have decided not to tell Samuel about my visit. I know this, because the man I know and love would never have left things like this between us, because he is a better person than I am. He is just . . . better.’ Isabella’s hand has slipped into mine; it’s cold and small, yet she holds on to mine firmly. ‘I have never had anyone look at me the way that he does, like every gesture I make is miraculous, as though he can see the good inside of me in every movement I make. I never thought it was possible to be looked at that way. He made me feel like I wasn’t made of skin and bone, that I was made of something pure and raw andbeautiful. I have always felt broken. I’ve alwaysbeenbroken; made of fragile things, things that could be trodden on or crushed or thrown away. But he could see something in me that I never knew was there, and the way he saw me changed the person I am.’
