Page 83 of The First Time I Saw You
‘It’s not that, if we can just talk about your results for a minute. There is no other way of saying this. I’m sorry, but your vision has decreased even further.’
‘I know. That’s why I need to get a dog.’
‘I mean, a lot more, Samuel, and a lot faster than last time we checked. I suspect, if it continues to deteriorate at its current rate, your vision will have completely gone within the next two months.’
His words sound dramatic, and if that man with the other life had heard them, I’m sure he would have been devastated, but this man, the one with the shadow that follows him around, is already prepared for this news.
‘So, I’ll get a dog then, though?’
‘Did you hear me, Samuel? You will lose all your sight. Very soon.’
His words demand reverence, but I don’t feel like I can bow to them. ‘So, about this dog?’
He laughs as I grin. ‘You have to do at least four weeks’ training with a guide dog. It’s not as easy as just picking one up; they will match you with a dog who responds well to you.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, I better get going. No offence, Doc, but I don’t want to waste my last bit of time looking at you. Not that you’re not a handsome chap – I’m sure your wife is very pleased with herself, very pleased.’
‘Now and then, Samuel, when I remember to put the seat down, that is. Have you been in touch with your social worker?’ he asks as I reach the door.
‘Not yet, but I will.’
We make our way home: the green man flashes, the cars wait, Michael taps and swishes in front of me. Smells of grass and sun filter through as I follow the winding path through the trees, past dog walkers and pushchair pushers, past the sounds of kids playing football . . . then I stop. A leaf, tinged with orange and stained blood-red, floats past the tunnel. I reach out and it crunches in my palm. Autumn is on its way; I didn’t miss it.
The leaf stays between my thumb and forefinger until I get home, where I transfer it inside my passport. It will stay safe until I’m ready to let it go.
Week Thirty-Two
Sophie
Steam rises from the hot water, as I rub soap suds over the heavy plates. Bean feels huge today and is creating a barrier between my body and the sink. The plate slides into the groove of the draining board slowly; I’m distracted by the tightening across my stomach, thousands of little ripples locking together like a closing fist. They’ve been happening a lot lately . . . the midwife says it’s normal, that they are Braxton Hicks: practice contractions. I dry my hands and take a quick glance at the clock to make sure that there is no rhythm to their timings. Bean is about four pounds now, but not ready for the world yet.
‘You just stay there for a few weeks, Bean, it’s not time yet.’ But as I say these words, the inevitability of Bean’s arrival shakes me. Any time from thirty-seven weeks is normal, they say, and that is only five weeks away. I need to find Samuel before then.
I climb the stairs – my legs finding the whole process cumbersome – and into my bedroom, where I slump on to the bed and stare at the case I will take into hospital which is sitting beneath the window. It only contains my things so far: a grey dressing gown, some magazines, some lip balm and a loose black nightie which, I’m told, may get messy. I haven’t really bought anything for Bean yet, just a few impossibly tiny vests and a fleecy blanket with a Winnie the Pooh motif in the corner. I haven’t felt like I could leave the house for long enough, the constant worries of leaving Charlie alone keeping me close. I make my way into my old bedroom. The bare walls and the new carpet smile brightly, welcoming like a teacher on the first day of term. Bean stretches and kicks hard against my ribcage, telling me what I already know. I need to get this room ready. I need to acknowledge that Bean will be coming soon, an unstoppable force, no matter what is happening to Charlie, or how desperate my search for Samuel is, Bean won’t wait for the world to be perfect.
I return to the kitchen, opening and closing my fingers to ease the ache that is surrounding my knuckles as I sit back down in front of the laptop. I smooth the paper listing the many churches I have found, the edges curling at the corners, my handwriting slanting towards the right. I’ve managed to narrow it down to churches with bells, but even so, finding Samuel amongst the names of these churches is a long shot. And even if I land on the right one, what am I going to do? Start walking up and down the streets, knocking on doors like Hugh Grant inLove Actually? I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t sit here any more waiting for a reply from Bret.
His number told me he’s not to be disturbed, as it has for the last week. I scribble down another street name, but the pen falls as the fist squeezes the muscles inside my stomach. I look at the clock again; there is still no pattern with the timings of these pains yet, but the intensity scares me, and for the first time since I’ve been pregnant, the fear of labour hangs around my neck.
The images of Derry churches shrink to the bottom of the screen as I minimize the page and bring up my email account. The mouse slides towards the new mail icon and I type in Bret’s address, but this time I feel different: this time I know I’m going to send it.
I begin to write the email, but every time I do, I sound too formal. I delete the sentences several times until my fingers begin to fly across the letters; with each punch of the keyboard, with each letter that appears on the screen, emotions that I have never put into words order themselves into sentences. My fingers are typing so fast that it’s as if they are in control of me and not the other way around. I tell him all the things I love about Samuel, and as I start to picture the things I’m describing, it’s as though I have him back with me. My email to Bret becomes my release. I’m not bothered that if he shows it to anyone over there I will be a laughing stock; I don’t care if he reads it and thinks I’m crazy . . . I just write. When I have finished, the email is pages and pages long and it is riddled with typos, but I don’t care. I need this man who, right now, has my happiness in his hands, to know just how much I love Samuel.
My shoulders ache and I rotate them a few times to release the tension, then hit send. I have been sitting at the computer all afternoon. I push back my chair and decide to go for a shower.
Bean is asleep, and the pains have stopped. I watch the droplets of water glide over my body, over my enlarged belly button; my tummy bigger than I ever thought possible. The words of the email cascade over me just as the soft drops of Welsh water do. I think about the morning I had dressed in my armour, trying to rid myself of my mother’s image, and the memories of Ian. I think about how much I have changed since that day, how amazing it is that those words could be written by a woman who had the most important thing to her ripped away in the most violent and darkest way imaginable. I close my eyes, the water tumbling over my eyelids as I picture Ian’s hands around Mum’s neck and think about the way he had squeezed, the way his hands would have been contracting around her throat. The same action that will help me bring life was the action that took it away. He took from both of us; he killed two people that night, destroying the woman and the girl. That girl died, the awkward girl who wanted to be accepted by everyone, to be liked, to be everybody’s friend; that girl was reborn into a woman who locked herself away from the world, and instead, lived on a threshold, with one foot grinding her heel on the past, and the other striding into a future that was as cold and barren as the place she was trying to escape. Until one day, her foot got stuck. Until one day, a tall Irishman held out his hand and tried to help her step over the threshold into a new world that shone and glittered and beckoned her. But he couldn’t hold her tight enough, couldn’t keep her in the world with its light and joy, and she tumbled backwards, back into the world in black and white.
I think of the words of the email fluttering above me, flying over my cottage like a flock of starlings flying over hills and mountains, fluttering across the oceans, over forests and lakes, over towns and cities; the words written by a woman who now stands eagerly peeking around the doorway, desperate to take his hands, so he can lead her into the light.
Week Thirty-Two
Samuel
It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all . . . Isn’t that what they say? I take the leaf from inside my passport. I turn it over and the symbolism of this action makes me smile: I’m turning over a new leaf.
My life is going to carry on without Sophie.
I want her to keep her happiness, keep her freedom and to have a life that isn’t locked into a world with canes and guide dogs and darkness.
