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

by Emma Cooper

  ‘Right then.’ The policeman claps his hands. ‘Looks to me like you need to be blue-lighted to the hospital, then!’ His partner groans.

  ‘Can I drive?’ the other officer asks.

  ‘No! You’re still training.’

  ‘I’ve been your partner for five years, are you ever going to let me drive?’ he moans as he follows his partner towards the door.

  I try my winning smile. ‘Can I drive?’ I ask. They laugh good-naturedly.

  ‘No,’ answers Charlie. ‘You’re blind.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I reply and any worries about Sophie’s relationship with Charlie dissipate. I have nothing to worry about here. Sophie would have laughed at my joke.

  ‘I’ll follow,’ Charlie says, his voice wavering a little. I think about how he had kissed Sophie’s bump, how intense their relationship had looked.

  ‘He can fit in the car, can’t he, officer?’ I interrupt.

  ‘The more the merrier!’ his voice booms as we leave the house and climb into the police car.

  Week Thirty-Five

  Sophie

  ‘Five pounds eight,’ Wendy announces as she looks over her shoulder at me, Bean’s scrawny, wrinkled legs kicking and quivering behind her. ‘That’s a great weight and he’s breathing perfectly. We’ll need to keep a close eye on him, but for now, there is no need to be incubated. Tough little cookie, this one. OK, Bean, you can go back to Mummy now.’ A timid cry fills the room, like the baa of a lamb; it shakes and shivers, then slows as – bundled up in the outfit with a rabbit poking out of the pocket – my son is passed to me. There’s a gentle knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’ Wendy says as she scribbles things in her notes. I stare down at Bean; his eyes are looking directly at mine: Where is he? Is he coming? I begin humming, ‘One, two, three, four five, once I caught a fish alive.’ I’ll find him Bean, I promise. His gaze is pulled away as slow steps advance towards us, but I don’t turn to see who it is; I’m too busy looking at every part of my son, the long golden eyelashes, the point of his chin. I lean forward and kiss the softness of his fontanelle, still yielding beneath my lips, and breathe in his smell; it’s like nothing I’ve ever breathed in before.

  Week Thirty-Five

  Samuel

  ‘There he is,’ I say to Charlie who takes my elbow, steering me away from a drinks machine that is hidden in the shadows. ‘Da!’ The corridor in the hospital is bright; my leg knocks a stray chair out of the way and it skitters and clatters, but at the end of it I can see him. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this far away to be able to see him, all of him, and I commit it to memory, the way he turns as he hears me shout his name, the look of relief that passes across his face, the slow look downwards at my half-mast trousers and the huge smile that lights up his face.

  His arms close around me and he holds me tightly, clapping me on the back and kissing the patch of hair just above my ear. He pulls back from me and stretches an arm towards Charlie.

  ‘Charlie, I take it?’ His voice smiles. ‘Thank you, lad, for taking care of my boy.’ His voice rises and falls as he pumps Charlie’s hand up and down.

  ‘No thanks needed,’ Charlie replies just before Da’s hand flicks out of the tunnel wall as he clips me around the back of the head.

  ‘You great big fecking eejit! You’ve gone and missed it and nearly got yourself killed by the looks of you. Would it have killed you to wait for the next flight?’

  ‘Is Sophie OK?’ Charlie interrupts. ‘Are they OK?’ I can hear the worry in his voice and I’m glad that Sophie has had him with her.

  ‘They’re grand, Charlie boy, just grand.’

  ‘Missed it?’ I ask. Da’s eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Yep, gone and missed the birth of your . . .’ he hesitates, then slaps me on the back, ‘first-born child.’ He nods towards a door. I turn towards it and scan it until I see a few letters that make up ‘labour room’. ‘They’re in there,’ he says quietly, pride edging in.

  The door stands in front of me, but my feet won’t move. My life will never be as it was if I open that door. I will never be able to leave her; I will never be able to save her from this new person I have become if I take another step. What if she doesn’t want me and my new life, the life that will come with Michael and a guide dog and a person who needs to be guided across a busy road? I will never be able to recover from that. If she doesn’t want me, how will I live? My thoughts stop: they disintegrate like sand through my fingers, because a noise, which resembles a goat, is leaking out from behind the door.

  My feet move, my hand forms a fist and the fist knocks on the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  The fist opens, my fingers spreading wide and pushing open the door.

  My legs are shaking beneath me as I limp into the room; for a horrid moment I think I might pass out. The room is low-lit, and it takes me a second to scan the interior, to put together the small glimpses that the tunnel is gifting me. A midwife is sitting at the foot of the bed, her back to me. From the arch of her shoulders I conclude she must be writing something down. There is a bed in the middle of the room, and at the end of the bed I can make out the bump of feet. I can hear the snuffle of a baby and then the melody of a nursery rhyme from a voice that reaches out to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. The notes break down the bricks at the end of the tunnel; they smash them down, and for a split second I can see: I can see my whole life ahead of me. I open my eyes and follow the tiny light, the tiny images that are as precious to me as every breath that I’m taking. I stand still; without Michael, I don’t know what is in front of me. I bend my head and try to check the floor, but I’m petrified I might fall.

  ‘Sophie?’ I ask, her name falling from my lips, the same way the leaf fell from the tree all those months ago. My voice stretches towards the bed, turning the head of the midwife. From out of the darkness comes a hand; it reaches towards me, it links its fingers in mine and brings me forward until Sophie is there. I can only see part of her eye at first, but it is filled with love. I lean forward, her hand holding mine tightly, and rest my head against hers.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I try to say but the words are lost in a gulp, in a sob caught somewhere inside my chest, as I look down. I see a tiny mouth, the lips pouting and parting into a perfect ‘O’ as it shakes with a yawn. Fingers tipped with pale, minuscule fingernails, the colour of sea-shells, bat in front of the mouth and I reach for them, sliding my finger inside the palm. The tiny hand grips my finger. There you are, it says. I wipe the tears away from my face – they’re blurring the end of the tunnel – but I blink and drink in every part of the puzzle pieces in front of me. I look into the baby’s eyes and smile when I see parts of hair – the same colour as my sister’s – pushing their way into my sight. I feel Sophie’s breath in my ear. ‘It’s a boy, Samuel,’ she says. I reach for his head and stroke his skin. My son. I can see my son. I turn to Sophie, my hand shaking as it follows the curve of his head.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘What took you so long?’ she asks.

  ‘I got lost.’

  Week Thirty-Six

  Sophie

  ‘Hot Irish Samuel, we meet at last!’ Helen stands on her tip-toes and throws her arms around his neck. ‘Mmm, you smell good.’ She takes a deep sniff.

  ‘Hello? I’m standing right behind you,’ Greg grumbles as Helen releases Samuel.

  ‘I smell like baby-puke,’ I add, as I reach for Helen, giving her a squeeze. I pull away as she looks past me into the cottage. Bean shouts from his play-gym that he wants some attention and her feet follow the sound, a deep breath exhaled and a smile on her lips.

  ‘Good to see you again.’ Greg slaps Samuel on the back, then realises what he has said and does a weird ‘sorry’ expression at me.

  ‘You too,’ Samuel replies and steps forward to shake his hand but stands on Greg’s toes instead. ‘Shite, sorry, mate.’

  ‘Oh! He’s ginger!’ Helen laughs from the lounge as we fo
llow her. ‘He didn’t look that ginger on the photo, he’s properly orange, like he’s . . .’ but she’s grinning and reaching down for him.

  ‘Strawberry blond,’ I say with a yawn.

  ‘Ginger,’ Samuel insists as Helen sways back and forth, looking around the lounge, tapping Bean’s back.

  ‘Greg, give them the present,’ Helen commands. I carry a tray and put it on the sideboard, noticing, not for the first time, how different my body feels without Bean’s bump. Greg passes a blue gift-wrapped parcel to Samuel, who continues to sit in the same position; he hasn’t noticed that the present has been passed to him and a lump rises in my throat.

  ‘Samuel, can you open it while I sort out the drinks?’

  He jumps slightly and reaches out to where Greg places it into his palm. He unwraps it carefully and I can see in the set of his mouth that he is worried he is going to do something wrong. Samuel drops the paper and gift tag to the floor and lifts the lid off the box.

  ‘Sophie, it might be best if you—’

  ‘It’s more for you, Samuel, to be honest. Go on, take it out.’

  His eyebrows dip in a V shape as he tries to use the last of his sight to help him. Helen smiles at me and shifts Bean further up her shoulder.

  Samuel’s fingers flutter over a square-shaped piece of plastic. I raise my eyebrows at Helen as Samuel begins to smile.

  ‘It’s a 3D print of Bean’s scan, so Samuel can see what it looked like. We wanted to give him back a bit of what he missed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, grinning. His fingers slowly run over each contour, eyebrows creasing in concentration, as he gets back part of the time we lost.

  ‘So, have we decided on a name yet?’ Samuel strokes the picture. I watch as his hand follows the edge of the sofa, trailing along the arm until he finds the table next to it, carefully placing the photo down. I shake my head, trying to keep control of the emotion lodged in my chest. Samuel stares at the floor for a moment and then nods.

  ‘What are you nodding at, Samuel? There isn’t one name that we both agree on . . .’

  He reaches down, runs his fingers against the carpet until he grabs the wrapping paper and the tag with Helen’s handwriting on. ‘Bean’ is written across the front but the card is folded in the middle, the ‘a’ hidden from view, lurking deep within the crease.

  ‘Ben,’ he reads.

  ‘Ben?’ I repeat. ‘It’s perfect!’

  ‘Did you just fist-bump each other?’ Helen interrupts. I slide myself under his arm.

  ‘We did . . . it’s taken us a while to perfect that and no mistake.’ Samuel kisses the top of my head.

  I watch Samuel as he sleeps. I watch every movement beneath the paper-thin eyelids with their map of tiny veins. I watch as the crease by the side of his mouth deepens when he turns towards me, his arm throwing itself around my waist, pulling me towards him.

  ‘I will be blind soon,’ he had said, kissing my shoulder as I fed Ben, his tiny, wrinkled fingers clenching and unclenching the duvet as his chin worked up and down, little notes of contentment escaping between gulps.

  ‘How soon?’ I’d asked, even though I knew it wouldn’t be long. I’d already noticed the things Samuel was missing: a corner of a wall; the handle of a cup; the edge of the sofa as he stands up; a step up to the lawn.

  ‘Soon.’ He reached for Ben’s head and stroked his flame-red hair.

  ‘I love you,’ were the only words that I could think of to say.

  ‘Thank you.’ He laughed.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Ben loves you too.’

  Samuel pulls me closer, bringing me back to the here and now. ‘It’s considered rude to watch people while they sleep, you know,’ he murmurs into my hair. ‘It’s punishable by flogging in some countries.’

  ‘Stop talking nonsense,’ I reply, but I’m smiling as I lie in his arms, listening as his breathing becomes slower.

  My life is unrecognisable from the one that I used to have.

  When Ben was passed into my arms, the love I felt for him scared me: to love something this much, must surely be impossible. But then Samuel had walked in. And for a split second, I worried that my heart wouldn’t be able to contain any more love, but then love found new places to explore, places that I didn’t even know existed: new places to hide, new places to fill and grow. It exploded into every part of me: every cell, every drop of blood, every tear, every moment of laughter and every moment of sadness. It consumed me.

  How do our bodies contain it? How does it stay wrapped up inside us? It should glow; it should radiate from the tips of our fingers, from our skin; with every breath it should leave our mouths in tiny golden whispers. I think of Mum and how she must have been filled with this too, this light, and I wonder if her last breath was touched with gold. Did it bounce around this house, waiting for me to come home and catch it?

  Think of all the good in the world. Imagine if we could see it glimmering, this golden mist: the helping hand that reaches out to steady an elderly lady as she tries to stand on the bus, the warm drink that we pass to the homeless, the kind words we say to someone who is having a bad day.

  Love surrounds us.

  Just because we can’t see . . . it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

  Week Thirty-Six

  Samuel

  I’m lucky. I know this because I’m sharing my life with a woman who I know loves me as much as I love her. I’m lucky because we are alive and are able to hold our son. I’m lucky because I have been given this gift, this gift of sight for another day.

  I’m trying to remember that I’m lucky as I spill boiling water on to my hand, attempting to make Sophie a cup of coffee: it’s half-four in the morning.

  ‘Feck!’ I say quietly as I fumble my way towards the tap and blast the cold water on to my hand. Ben hasn’t settled all night, and no matter how many times Sophie has tried to feed him, he has cried and fought against her. A creak of a floorboard upstairs draws my attention as I dry my hand on a tea towel: third drawer down, directly beneath the toaster.

  I’m beginning to learn the sounds of this house that is now my home – for the time being at least. Sophie and I have decided that we will ‘survive’ the next six months. We know we need to make plans about our future, about my life and family in Ireland, the guide dog that I will need, the career I will begin, but we have decided it can all wait.

  The McLaughlins are all coming back over in a couple of weeks to see us, even though Mr and Mrs McLaughlin’s faces seem to permanently fill Sophie’s screen, Mam giving feeding advice, Da telling her to let us find it out for ourselves, Sarah telling Sophie the best way to tame the wild hair that my son has inherited. I’m not sure why they need to visit at all, but it will be good to see them in the flesh, so to speak.

  The floorboard creaks to the rhythm of Sophie’s sways; Ben is quiet. I reach for the coffee, my fingers gripping the cup, the tiny block of light guiding my way: two steps past the door, turn left, thirteen stairs to the top, the eleventh slightly higher than the others. I reach the top and Ben begins to whimper, a sound that brings his knees tight into his chest and turns his cheeks red, makes his fists clench and his back arch away from whoever is trying to comfort him.

  I place the cup on the changing table – two steps forward, three steps to the left – and then follow Sophie’s hushes. My hands reach for her, for the warmth of Ben, and she responds by guiding my hands around his back. My body seems to know where to position my other hand; I see a flash of red hair, a flash of white clothing, the red palate of his mouth. I take over the shushes as Sophie gulps her coffee and sits down in the feeding chair. I re-position him on to my shoulder and rub his back. Who teaches us these things? How do we know to do this? How do I know – a man who cannot see, who knows nothing about babies – how do I know to rock on my heels, to stroke his hair, to kiss his head?

  I know every crease of his face, every arc of his eyelashes. Each puzzle piece I know by heart: the meandering
line of his hairline, hair that sticks up in a blaze of shock, the arch of his eyelids, the splattering of tiny veins that hide just beneath the surface. I know the exact shade of the deep pink of his lips – lips that are full and that quiver and shake before they stretch and explode in a frustrated cry. I can tell you the shapes of the tracks and grooves of his ears, ears that are pointed at the top, like an elf. I can tell you that his nose is exactly the same length as the top section of my little finger and how the curve of his cheeks almost meets the puffy bags beneath his eyes which are a deep blue, the same shade as Mam’s. I can put each piece of this puzzle in its correct place; I can build a perfect picture of my son.

  ‘Maybe he needs some fresh air? Do you think your mam is awake? I could ask her?’

  ‘Mam used to send Da out in the car with me. She said she was convinced I’d end up being a racing driver.’

  ‘Shall we try it?’

  Ben arches his back again and lets out a cry that rattles and shakes his body.

  ‘It’s worth a shot. Probably best if you drive, though,’ I grin at her.

  Sophie drives through her yawns, opening the window a fraction to let the cool October air in; to keep her senses alert. I turn my head, the pinprick of vision rewarding me with a glimpse of Ben’s sleeping head. The car takes us through the sleeping town and further into the hills before rising over a crest of road, flanked by the sea stretching out towards home on the left and the roll of the sleeping green giants to our right.

  ‘Mum used to bring us here when town got too busy.’ She begins to describe the small town of Borth as we approach it. The roads are quiet, and the shops that line the narrow street are closed: the ice-cream parlour that boasts fig and honey flavours; the crooked art gallery; the vintage clothes shop. The people in the houses that stand sentry are fast asleep inside, duvets pulled up to chins, soft night-lights wading off nightmares as children sleep. The movement of the car is too fast for me to track one thing along the small street, but soon the road stretches forward towards a beach. High sand dunes extend towards the sea, the dune grass waving in the morning breeze. The car slows as the tyre tracks sink into the brine-kissed sand. Sophie rolls us forward, then brings the car to a stop. She leaves the engine running as Ben sleeps, taking my hand and pointing to where, across the glittering bank of water, the sun is beginning to rise. The gentle waves of the estuary reach out towards the sunrise, towards the beginning of another day.