The Reunion

Joe unfolded the letter in his hand and re-read the address contained midway down the page. Number 45, number 45 he repeats to himself in his mind before looking up at the glass pane with the large number 45 etched into it. He looks back down at the letter, the words Crown Street, Crown Street now echoing in his mind. He already knew that he was on Crown Street, largely because he’d checked the road sign at the end of the row of houses four times already in the last ten minutes. Self-doubt is a terrible affliction to carry the burden of when it strikes, all sense of reason and logic go sailing off into the wind. You’re left feeling like the small child who inexplicably let go of their balloon despite having been warned a dozen times or more not to let it go. Really though if he’s being honest with himself, it's not self-doubt that’s troubling him, he’s stalling for time, looking to give himself an out in this moment.

Joe counts the steps in front of him, one through seven, atop of which is a big black front door which is adorned with a large brass letterbox above which is a curved knocker with what appears to be a lion’s paw at the end. At least that’s what Joe assumes it to be as he can’t quite be sure as he stands unable to move on the path in front of the large three floored Georgian town house that towers above in front of him. If the door itself wasn’t fancy enough it’s flanked either side by large white pillars upon which sat a triangular top, something akin to what you might find in a fancy museum in London. Joe's cultural references maybe still needed a bit of work it’s fair to suggest.

There might have been only 7 steps, but to Joe it felt more like he was stood on one of the basecamps of Everest facing one of the toughest physical challenges any man could ever hope to overcome during their lifetime. Lord knows he could do with an oxygen tank right now. He could feel his heart pounding, trying to force its way free from under his rib cage. Something else kept forcing its way up his throat like he was a labrador who’d swallowed a small rubber ball and was trying to barf it up as the survival instincts kicked in. Whatever it is he manages to swallow it back down for the umpteenth time. He inhales deeply through his nose and slowly back out from his mouth trying to get his nerves under control. It doesn’t work. 

Finally summing up some courage from where he knew not, Joe puts his right foot on the first step albeit with a level of assurity that you’d normally only find in a child stepping onto an ice-skating rink for the first time. Moments like these in a person’s life are the wet dream of every author of a self-help book. These are what those nonsensical quotes plastered over ever corner of social media about the importance of taking that first step are written for. As fast as Joe had put his right foot down on the step, he took it back again, afraid he was about to fall flat on his backside on the metaphorical ice. He turns his body left and walks to the end of the row of the terrace, looks up at the sign adorning the wall and says to himself aloud “Crown Street. Come on Joe we know we’re on the right road. We’ve read the number of the house. Stop stalling. We can do this. Weeee … can do this.” You’d think trying to convince yourself of something would be a lot easier than it really is. This time his intake of breath is sharper and puffed back out much quicker as if his body is busy installing an internal upgrade of self-belief. He starts to march back down to number 45 but his feet quickly find themselves moving in invisible treacle slowing him down. Finally after longer than he would have liked when he'd suddenly felt that sudden rise in faux confidence, he’s back stood in front of number 45 again. You have to imagine if any of the neighbours had been curtain twitching and spotted him that they’d have been on the phone to the police by now to report the sight of a 20 something year old casing their neighbours property.

Joe counts the steps of the grand house again, although he couldn’t have told you why. Seven steps, seven steps he says to himself in his mind. Who exactly needs seven steps other than maybe a chemical dependency group on the path to change and salvation?

Joe moves his head from side to side trying to crack the tension out of his neck. He’s midway through taking another deep breath when the door he’s staring at opens and he’s instantly struck with that internal question of fight or flight? If he’d chosen flight in his mind, his feet weren’t exactly playing ball and helping him out, they were glued to the spot on which he stood. Neither was his body showing signs of fight which was probably a good thing under the circumstances. His eyes fixed on the stranger now looking down at him who went to say something, maybe a hello or more likely to ask can I help you at all? Her mouth which had opened to let the words flow kept on falling until her jaw could open no further. Joe watched as her right hand raised itself quickly to cover the shock that was fast escaping from the new portal open on the woman’s face. As if magically plucked out of thin air tears began to well in her eyes and with nowhere to go but downwards they began to cascade down both of her cheeks.

Joe has envisaged this moment hundreds of times in his head before today. In this very moment, in the here and now, he can say hand on his heart that not once had it involved this woman of whom he knew nothing and moreover her current reaction to his presence in front of her namely one of shock and tears. 

At this juncture you’d have been forgiven for thinking that time had stopped altogether. The only proof that it hadn’t were the tears that continued to flow down her face. Every second now passing felt more like ten in total. Here they were two strangers staring at each other stood completely motionless, neither sure what to say or do or as to who should make the first move. 

Is this real? Diane asks herself. Am I seeing things? She couldn’t contain the emotions that had welled up inside of her. Is… is that a ghost? Don’t be so stupid woman someone would have to be dead to be a ghost. What do they call it when you’re looking at the past but not in the past? Like a time traveller? Jesus woman get a grip. Is it him? It has to be him. I wouldn’t be crying like this if it wasn’t him. It could only be him. He’s the spitting image of Ben but twenty years younger.  

After what felt like ten minutes but was probably only more like twenty seconds a male voice from behind the front door could be heard. “Darling is everything OK?” 

A few seconds later and Ben has appeared and looks at his wife stood in the doorway in a state of shock. “Diane whatever is the matter?” His gaze turns from his wife and down the flight of stairs where Joe is now staring at an image of his future self. The resemblance between the two of them really is uncanny; two peas in a pod, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree – throw in whatever cliché you like, it’s sure to fit. You’d have no trouble picking the two out of a crowded room as being father and son. Joes’ older doppelganger’s mouth drops open in the same manner his wife’s had not a minute before. Clearly being that high off the ground meant your jaw had issues when it came to dealing with gravity or in this case the gravity of who was now stood before them, namely Ben’s son who had been taken abroad by his mother 19 years previously without word of where they had gone and with no contact ever since.

Ben begins to quickly descend the seven steps towards his son, no longer the little chubby, blonde floppy haired toddler who would giggle incessantly at anything and everything. He’d hoped this moment would happen one day. Somehow through all the dark times he’d never given up that hope. All those hours spent wondering what Joe would have looked like at that point and it transpired all he’d had to do was look at an old photo album of himself at the same age. The only thing that would have been different was their choice of clothes. It was one of the reasons Diane had known exactly who it was without having ever laid eyes on her husbands’ son. They’d been married now for going on five years, had dated for the best part of six years before that. Ben had finally popped the question out of the blue on the coast of Cornwall. Something to do with the sea air he would later claim to anyone who asked but in reality he’d known he was going to ask her for a number of years but was always fearful that she’d up and leave him in the same way Joe’s mother had done taking their only son with her. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone else he loves, the fear of abandonment always at the forefront of his mind no matter how hard he tried not to think about it. Always that little nagging voice in his ear with the what ifs. Now by some minor miracle here was his little boy stood in front of him as if it was the best dream a man could ever hope to have and he extends his arms wide open as he reaches the bottom step…