Page 71 of The First Time I Saw You
Sophie
I’m waiting. I’m waiting for the minute hand to pass the numbers on the clock-face, so another hour has passed. I’m waiting for my tea to cool so I can drink it. I’m waiting for the sun to set so it’s the beginning of another day: the day when he gets in touch.
My waiting is disturbed by a knock on the door.
Charlie is standing at the threshold. I haven’t seen him since I walked out of his house that day, and his appearance triggers an emotion far harder than the slap across the face I had given him.
His clothes hang from his body; his hair hangs limply from his head; his skin hangs from his face: he is hanging on to life. I take a tentative step forward and he collapses into my arms. The noises he makes are primal and it’s like I’ve just stepped into a storm. Charlie’s body convulses as he tries to let go of me but then he clings on a second later.
I guide him into the lounge, to the sofa; where he curls up into a ball and continues to gasp and battle for air. I sit next to him and begin to stroke his hair. I tell him he’ll be OK; I tell him he will be OK; I tell him he will be OK.
August screams outside, the clouds smashing tears against the windows as my fingers weave their way through his hair, untangling it, smoothing it down. I watch the storm outside throwing leaves across the garden, the branches bending in submission as Charlie’s sobs turn into gentle snores. I stroke his hair while he sleeps, and I wait.
My back begins to hurt, Bean fidgets, and so I shift myself and quietly step away towards the window.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice is hoarse and brittle. I turn around. He is still in the same position, curled up, just as Bean must be, I suppose.
‘You’ve nothing to apologise for,’ I say.
‘I . . . I—’ He begins to pull himself up from the sofa, but I return to his side and crouch down as best as I can with Bean in the way.
‘Shush . . .’ I answer. ‘Let me make you a drink, OK? Then we can talk.’
I pass him his tea and he drains the cup, even though it must be scalding.
‘Let me help you, Charlie.’ The time for small talk has long since gone; it left the building the minute he stepped into my house.
‘I don’t know if you can,’ he says. ‘I don’t know if anyone can.’
‘So, let’s find out.’ But he just stares at me blankly. ‘I’m not sure being here on your own is what you need.’
‘I don’t want to be anywhere else.’
‘OK . . . so let’s see what we can do from here to help you.’ I don’t know how this new relationship works, so I take my first step towards being the person who tells him the things he needs to hear, even if he doesn’t want to hear them. ‘You need to eat, Charlie. When was the last time you ate something?’
He shrugs his shoulders, but the way he has just drunk his tea makes me think that maybe he hasn’t been drinking either.
‘OK, well I think our first step is to at least get you eating and drinking.’
‘I should go,’ he says, looking away from me. I begin to panic; everything in me thinks that letting him out of my sight right now is a bad thing, so I use an old tactic.
‘Good idea.’ He looks up at me, his eyes still haunted and hurting. ‘You go and have a shower and a shave, and then I’ll cook us dinner.’
‘I—’
‘Is an hour long enough? For you to get cleaned up, or shall I do dinner a little later?’
He digests my words, he takes in my plans, but as I watch him, I’m not sure if I’ve pushed him too much.
‘An hour is plenty.’ Charlie starts to get up, his back stretching out from the broken curve that his spine had formed, but his shoulders remain stooped, his head still balancing on top of his neck, still hanging on even though his chin is almost sunken into his chest.
Charlie returns with a gently closed front door and an air of reluctant defeat. We sit and eat; I put on some classical music in the background and I fiddle with the tear-drop pendant hanging from my silver necklace. His mouthfuls are small, and he eats as though he has tonsillitis, like every mouthful that is swallowed hurts.
‘Are you waiting for a call?’ he asks, sipping a glass of water to help dislodge the mouthful of pasta that he is struggling with. Now is not the time to tell him about Samuel. He is barely surfacing above the grief that is wrapping around his body and squeezing the life out of him – how can I tell him that not only have I found Samuel, but that he is alive after I’d thought he was dead? How can I tell him that I have everything that he has lost? Instead I push my phone away from me, the constant refresh of the screen an addiction that I need to break.
‘Oh, I was waiting for a call back from a gas company. I’m thinking of changing supplier.’
He places his knife and fork together across the plate. He hasn’t eaten much, but he has drunk two glasses of water. It’s a start at least.
