Page 94 of The First Time I Saw You
‘How should I know?’ I imagine him throwing his hands up in the air. ‘I suppose he was good-looking if, you know, you like that kind of thing?’ Greg sounds uncomfortable.
‘Helen, hang up the phone. I’m sending you a picture, I’ll call you back on my landline.’
I bring up a photo of Samuel from Dropbox, one that I had taken when he wasn’t looking: a beer bottle just meeting his lips, his mouth grinning at a Charlie Chaplin film I had made him watch, his hair thick and sticking up on one side. My fingers are trembling as I try to forward it to Helen. I hit send as Samuel leaves my room and lands inside Helen’s kitchen. Slow down, Bean tells me with a stretch as I pick up the phone by the side of the bed and call Helen back. Could it be him?
‘It’s him, Sophie. Samuel was here.’
‘Let me speak to Greg.’
‘I’m here,’ he says.
‘Tell me everything, tell me everything about him.’
I smile as Greg tells me that he had been funny, my hand resting on Bean who has begun to doze. He tells me about how Samuel had fallen, and then he hesitates.
‘Sophie . . . the thing is. Well, the thing is, he was . . . well, he was blind.’
‘Blind?’ I whisper.
‘Yep. White cane and everything . . . he said he’d been in an accident.’
‘An explosion,’ my voice says. I want to put into words this strange sensation that I’m feeling, that makes my skin cold, and steals the saliva from my mouth. My stomach twists and turns as it tries to escape the reality that I’m facing. I think of the way he always noticed small things: a piece of fluff on my shoulder; a drop of mustard that had escaped from the corner of my mouth; the colour of my eyes. He had a way of describing things, almost poetically sometimes. He had laughed when I said that to him:Don’t let my da hear you say that, he had said as he leant over me, kissing me gently. I close my eyes and concentrate on the darkness that fills the room and it scares me. Images of our time together in Washington pass by like flashes of lightning, splitting the darkness in two: his hand as he took the umbrella from me; the picnic; the cinema; the leaf; the meeting; his expression as he closed the door behind him the day I left him . . . and the taxi ride to the airport without him by my side.
I open my eyes and wipe the tears away: he’s going through this without me.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t mention that Hot Irish Samuel was here!’ Helen shouts in the background.
‘I’m sorry, Sophie, I had no idea,’ Greg apologises, his voice muffled by the rub of his beard.
‘You weren’t to know,’ I say, but wishing that he had said something. I wish that he had, because Samuel could have been here, could have shared this pregnancy with me.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to email his friend in DC and I’m going to tell him that I know that Samuel is blind and that if he doesn’t give me his address then I’ll fly over to Washington and get it from him myself.’
‘But Sophie, you’re thirty-four weeks pregnant – maybe you should wait?’
‘Thirty-five, and I’ve waited long enough. I’ll call you.’
‘Wait, Sophie!’ But I have put the phone down.
Bret’s email drops into my inbox almost immediately, giving me an address in Derry.
I ignore Bean’s protests as I find myself on all fours again, reaching for the case that hides beneath my bed and lifting it on to the mattress.
The room is filled with action, with leggings and loose tops, with face cream and deodorant, with make-up and hairspray, with giant knickers and socks and shoes and The Book. It takes moments to pack, moments to book a flight, moments that pass without me noticing the cramps in my stomach have begun to find a rhythm.
I call for a taxi, but the storm has caused flooding. It’ll be another hour, the woman says. I glance at my watch: I still have time; I’ll still get to the airport in time. Just. I pack my pregnancy notes inside my handbag and tidy around the cottage, picturing his face when I show him my home. My new knowledge of Samuel takes a little time to catch up with me, reminding me that Samuel won’t be able to see my new home. This thought distracts me, it stops my hand from wiping down the kitchen counter, it stops me from moving. How will he cope without being able to see? How will he be able to do his job? The new knowledge kicks me into action. I fold up the dishcloth. He will be OK. Billions of people lose their sight; we just have to find a new way of living, that’s all.
I smile to myself, pick up my case and reach for the door. But the case is suddenly too heavy in my hand; the room is filled with a sound from my mouth – not my voice, just a breath, a breath that is struggling to find a pitch. The walls sway; the room is off balance; clear lines smudge as my leg muscles surrender, losing their strength. The doorway leans on to its side, the carpet rushes up towards me and everything that surrounds me is swallowed into darkness.
Week Thirty-Five
Samuel
‘What in God’s name were you thinking, Samuel?’ Mam shrieks down the phone. I can almost hear her crossing herself in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
‘I had to get here as soon as I could and—’
