Page 29 of The First Time I Saw You
‘Glad to hear it.’
Rain is sliding down the windows wearily, as though it can’t really be bothered to put the effort in. I run my finger around my waistband and shift on the sofa as I write ‘Things I like to do’ in the centre of the paper and then chew the top of the biro, trying to ignore the banging coming from the kitchen. I know that this exercise would be a lot more effective if I was job-searching on the internet, but I can’t quite bring myself to open my laptop just yet, so instead, I’m brainstorming on an old lined A4pad that I found whilst emptying the kitchen drawers. I circle the ‘Things I like to do’ a few times and draw a spider leg from it. I scribble out the word ‘like’ and replace it with the word ‘can’: ‘Things I can do’. Next to the leg I write ‘Have to work from home’. Beneath that I begin bullet-pointing; next to the first point I write ‘Accounting’. I draw another spider leg. ‘Needs to be good pay and flexible.’ I draw over the ‘A’ of accounting a few times. ‘Needs to be something I can do on my own.’ I draw over the ‘c’ a few times and then rip the paper from its gluey spine, yawning as I do. I glance at my watch, yawning again. Why am I so tired? I must have slept over ten hours last night. In the middle of the fresh page, I write the word ‘Accounting’. I don’t really know why I was trying to think of another career path; accounting has always been my fall-back, my constant.
I look out of the window as the sun pierces through the clouds, pulling them apart with its brilliance and sending them sliding away, inferiority heavy in their grey faces. The radio is turned up and Ed Sheeran begins singing about playing a fiddle and one of the kitchen fitters sings along in a key or so out of tune. I sigh and undo the top button of my jeans. My stomach feels bloated and uncomfortable, like I’ve eaten too much food. I feel fat, not pregnant.
‘’Scuse me, love, I don’t mean to interrupt, but we’ve found this down the back of one of the cupboards.’ He walks over and passes me a parcel wrapped in fading pink paper; it’s covered in dust and cobwebs. I accept it with thanks as he leaves the room. My fingers reach for the tag; I’d recognise the handiwork anywhere. Helen has made it, the tag in the shape of a pocket watch:
Happy Birthday Sophie! Don’t be late, we’ve got a very important date! Love Mum and Helen xxx
The paper is brittle and tears easily, revealing a very old copy of a very familiar book. The cover itself is a dark blue, with Alice’s image embossed in gold.
‘What is the use of a book, without pictures or conversations?’ Mum’s voice asks me.
My mouth is dry as I turn it over in my hands and wonder why Helen has never mentioned this book to me.
Week Ten
Samuel
Sarah is asleep in the chair next to my bed. I’m glad about that. She looks awful. Her clothes are creased and the remains of what could be yesterday’s mascara is smudged around the bottom of her eyes. There is no sign of Da and Mam. They have been by my side for days, making this room feel even smaller than it already is.
The last few weeks have been hard on them. I would hate to be stuck in this room when you have the choice to leave it.
I have no choice; I can’t move much. It could have been considerably worse, they have told me – the nurses, the doctors, the people who come into this room and then leave it. I covet their freedom. Here is what could have been worse:
1. I could have been burnt to death. This, I agree, is a much worse fate than the second-degree burns that I have across the right side of my face, arms and torso. My neighbour, Eric, apparently pulled me from my house and called the fire brigade and ambulance. Without him, I’d be dead because my house is apparently now just a carcass.
2. I am not paralysed. My right leg is broken and currently in a cast hanging from some weird pulley machine.
3. I am still not paralysed. I have cracked ribs, and torn ligaments in my back and neck, for which I have to wear a neck brace which looks like I’m wearing half a stormtrooper helmet. So yeah, it could have been worse. I was lucky. But lucky is not how I’m feeling right now. I am trapped. My arms and face are screaming to be itched: they are sore, they are blistered, they are hot, they are painful. I’m desperate to get something to stick down the inside of my plaster cast and scratch like hell, but I can’t, because right now I can barely move. I’m a prisoner. In fact, it’s worse than being in prison because I can’t escape it. I have been incarcerated in my own body. The painkillers are the only good thing about my life right now. They ease me in and out of consciousness; I long for the oblivion of sleep.
‘Sarah?’ My voice is hoarse and I have to repeat her name until she wakes.
‘Mule? Are you OK? Do you need something?’ She rubs her eyes and leans forward.
‘I need you to check my emails.’
‘Your emails?’
‘I have to find Sophie.’
‘Mule, you need to rest.’
‘I will. Once . . .’ I swallow. ‘You’ve checked my emails.’
My eyes close for a moment.
When I wake, I hear an over-enthusiastic talk-show host babbling away on the television.
‘For the love of God, will you please turn that down?’ My voice sounds scratchy as I automatically try to turn my head towards the person sitting by my bed.
Sarah has been replaced by Bret, who stands up and retrieves the remote control, turning down the sound.
‘You’re awake.’
‘Well, I bloody am now.’
‘How are you?’
