The First Time I Saw You: the most heartwarming and emotional love story of the year

by Emma Cooper

  ‘Say “now” when you see it, Samuel.’

  ‘I will. How do your other patients do it? You know, the ones that are completely blind?’

  ‘Um,’ he sounds distracted, ‘let’s do that again. Say “now” when you see my finger.’

  ‘How do they do it?’

  ‘Well . . . I have one patient that has the store assistant cut a shape out of the label. Can you see my finger yet, Samuel?’

  ‘No, a shape?’

  ‘Yes, like a triangle for blue, a square for red . . . anything?’

  ‘Not yet, oh – now. That’s a good idea.’

  The wheels on his chair whir as he pushes himself back.

  ‘Where do I go to get a guide dog? Can I just go and pick one up? You know, if I take my certificate?’

  He ignores my question. ‘Samuel, it’s not good news, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What? I don’t qualify for a dog?’

  ‘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 in Love 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.

  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 and beautiful. I have always felt broken. I’ve always been broken; 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.’

  ‘Lovely way with words, she has Sammy, lovely way,’ Mam gushes.

  Bret continues: ‘I want to tell you how much I love him, but love isn’t a big enough word. Love is only four letters: it isn’t enough to describe the feeling that bubbles up inside me when I listen to him talking about his family; love isn’t big enough to describe the way I feel when I recognise his traits as well as my own, like how I know he never nods just once, but always in threes—’