by Emma Cooper
‘I detest the word “nice”.’
Colourful.
‘Hmmm, better . . . how about resplended?’
Resplended isn’t even a word, it’s resplendent.
My phone alarm begins to chime a tune that verges on an Argentine tango. ‘Pants!’ I gather my trowel and plastic bag filled with weeds. This is the third time this week that I’ve not noticed the time and almost been late for picking up the kids.
I make it to the playground just as Oscar’s class is being released. His face lights up as he spots me, navy-blue book bag swinging in his hand as he storms across the tarmac and into my open arms. Within moments, my arms are full of him, his smell erupting from beneath the faint trace of the inside of the classroom. Before I have untangled the PE bag from Oscar’s shoulder, his mouth is releasing a flurry of information about the new class pet – a stick insect imaginatively called ‘Sticky’ – and how he got nine out of ten in his spelling test, which is OK because the only word he got wrong was ‘spaghetti’ and Daddy says that it isn’t even an English word and Daddy says my teacher is stupid. Time will soon steal these runaway sentences; it will replace them with grunts and shrugging shoulders.
Oscar continues talking, and I make the appropriate noises of congratulatory praise, while extracting the half-folded newsletter from the handles of his bookbag, the residual smell of cheap soap clinging to the material, but I’m distracted. As Oscar continues with his stream of information about the school day, I’m looking at the woman standing towards the back of the playground.
She’s thinner, her hair is longer, but it’s her. Nessa: Kerry’s Nessa.
They were such an unusual couple.
Kerry’s looks turned heads no matter where she went, but you could pass Nessa in the street without a second glance; you could sit opposite her on a train every day and not notice that she was the woman who’d been sitting in the same place the day before. She is opposite to Kerry in every way: dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin, quiet voice, unassuming stature . . . alive. But when they were together, Nessa became someone different. You would notice the couple sitting opposite you on the train; you would notice the chemistry between them; it fizzed and flowed and ignited the light behind her eyes.
Her daughter, Erica, is slipping her hand inside hers. Erica is a tiny little thing, her long, brown hair is plaited neatly and rests on the back of the army-green coat that is a size too big for her, and they are walking away.
‘Nessa!’ I shout. She reacts by slowing her pace just a fraction, but then continues walking. My heart is pounding and my breath catches. Hailey is skipping towards me. Her shoes are on the wrong feet and her hair has escaped the clutches of one of her pigtail bobbles.
‘Mummy?’ She sticks her finger up her nose – a trait she has inherited from her father.
‘Hello, lovely,’ I reply, landing a hasty kiss on the top of her head. I crane my neck to avoid the heads and umbrellas that are blooming up into the drizzle.
‘She doesn’t want to talk to you,’ Kerry whispers, unwrapping a fruit salad sweet from its wrapper, just as she had when we actually had this conversation last year. I had arrived unannounced at their flat and Nessa had been working late. ‘Ness is in one of her moods, look, she’s scratching the back of her head. She always scratches the back of her head when she is in a grump.’ I can smell the artificially sweetened candy, even though I haven’t had any for months.
‘Mummy?’ Hailey asks as I try to hurry them along. Erica has let go of Nessa’s hand and is running ahead of her.
‘Hmmm?’
‘Why are we walking so fast?’
‘I thought I saw your Aunty Kerry’s friend, Nessa. Oscar, has Erica come back to school?’
‘Yes, and she lost golden time because she didn’t finish her work. Mummy?’ Oscar asks, his feet skipping along to keep up with my strides.
‘Yes, poppet?’ I ask as Nessa disappears through the gates.
‘Did you know your skirt is stuck in your knickers? They are blue and spotty.’
I release the hem of my skirt, walk through the gates, and scan the street, looking over my shoulder. Kerry is in between the school gates, dancing and ‘Singing in the Rain’, twirling her ladybug-style umbrella while exclaiming how wonderful a feeling it is to be happy again. She jumps up and kicks her heels together. ‘She’ll talk to you when she’s ready!’
My memory replaces ‘he’s ready’ with ‘she’s ready’ because in reality the day Kerry was dancing in the rain was after Ed and I had our first fight. ‘He’ll talk to you when he’s ready,’ she’d said . . . and he did.
‘Mummy?’ Oscar’s voice is becoming more urgent. ‘You’re hurting my arm!’ I look down to where my hand is gripping my son, pulling him along.
I blink.
Mascara is stinging my eyes. ‘Sorry, I—’ Taking my hand away from him, I glance towards the road, where I can see Nessa looking in the opposite direction. ‘Nessa!’ I shout again, spotting her about to cross the road. She turns to glance at me over her shoulder, but the moment my voice leaves my mouth I try to pull it back, retrieve it like an excited dog on a lead, because behind her, Erica is running into the road.
Air holds tight in my lungs; the sound of the car horn and the squeal of brakes taking me away to the day that Kerry died. Kerry stops singing and instead, I see her as I do so often in my dreams, flying backwards, feet and arms in front, blue eyes, red coat, red boots and the scream of horns.
A sob is clutched in my throat; I bite down on my lip and force myself to swallow it; inside my ears I can hear the rhythmic beat of my heart, becoming louder as it quickens its pace, forcing the blood around my body, battling to get oxygen to my organs so I stay standing, stay breathing, stay alive.
Brakes are applied, expletives are launched out of the driver’s window; Nessa catches them and slings them back.
‘Can we go now?’ Hailey’s voice claps, waking me from my thoughts.
I look down at my children. They have gone from dry to saturated in what feels like seconds.
‘Mummy? Can we go now?’ Hailey repeats. Her voice is questioning, unsure and wary.
‘Yes.’ I clear my throat. ‘Let’s go.’
The kitchen is warm, clean and the task of making a simple cup of coffee should be reassuring, but I’ve just sent my cup flying off the counter.
In a flurry of activity, Ed and I begin grabbing dishcloths and pulling kitchen cleaning products away from their uniformed line inside the cupboard; tea towels are shaken free of the neat creases applied on a Sunday afternoon.
‘Shit!’ I shout as I crouch down, spraying the tiles with something that claims it smells of lemons but instead smells of something clinical and toxic.
Ed flinches as the word is expelled from my mouth.
‘What?’ I ask him; it’s not as if I’ve never sworn before.
‘Mummy?’ Hailey interrupts from the kitchen, where Oscar has folded into a fit of giggles. ‘That language is unacceptable.’
I didn’t even realise they were in the room.
I stand, throw the dishcloth into the sink and put my hands on my hips. ‘Why?’ I question.
Oscar’s shoulders sink into his tiny torso as he looks at me and then back at Hailey, like he is watching something on TV from behind a cushion.
Hailey’s eyebrows pull together and her nose wrinkles. ‘Because that’s what you’ve always said,’ she complains. ‘“Bad language is unacceptable because there are so many other beautiful words in the English language that could be used.”’
Oscar joins in and they both mimic me: ‘Swearing is lazy.’
‘Well . . . I’ve changed my mind.’
Ed raises his eyebrows and turns his head away from me in the same way as he does when I snap at him irrationally when I have PMT.
‘Swearing does serve a purpose . . . it feels good. The words feel sharp in your mouth, like when you eat something spicy or sour. Try it.’
Ed’s head turns towards me, a
look of guarded amusement crossing his face as he leans his body against the kitchen counter.
Oscar giggles, covers his mouth with his hand and squeaks out the word: ‘Poo-head.’
Hailey chews the inside of her mouth.
‘Go on, Hailey,’ I reassure; she looks towards her dad for permission.
He shrugs his consent, exhaling through his lips with a ‘pfft’.
Her lips press together as she takes a deep breath. ‘Shit,’ she says quietly, her eyes widening with shock.
Ed sniggers from behind his hand.
‘Butt-hole!’ explodes from Oscar’s mouth, who has now taken himself off the chair and is rolling around on the floor laughing.
‘Crap!’ shouts Hailey, ‘Crap! Crap! Crap! Your turn, Mummy.’
‘Hmmm . . .’ I grin at Ed, whose eyebrows have shot up into his hairline. ‘OK.’ I nod to myself. ‘But it is such a bad word that I will have to whisper it.’
Ed’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down; his face takes on a look of panic. ‘Er . . . Jen?’
I ignore his concerns, the kids becoming still before I beckon them over. I crouch down so I am at their eye-level. ‘OK. If I tell you this word, you must absolutely promise not to use it.’
Their heads bob up and down, eyes wide, mouths agape, teeth – white and pure – visible in anticipation.
Glancing over at Ed’s worried face, I lick my top lip and look back at my beautiful kids. ‘Promise?’ They nod again. ‘Cross your hearts and hope to die?’ They nod again, Oscar’s brown curls bouncing up and down.
‘OK, the word is . . .’ I pause for dramatic effect, the house holds its breath in anticipation, the boiler finishes its cycle, the kettle emits a quiet final puff of steam. ‘Vladivostok.’
Hailey nods knowingly at the word she is sure she has heard through the closed lounge door amidst gun fire and action heroes. Behind me, Ed chokes back a laugh. ‘Now, off you go. You can watch one more episode of Tom and Jerry then it’s bath time.’ They scurry out of the kitchen into the hall, whispering and giggling to each other.
Ed takes my hand, pulling me up. I loop my arms around his neck and grin.
‘Vladivostok?’ He questions, tucking his hands into the waistband of my jeans.
‘I think it’s a small town in Russia.’
He leans his forehead against mine, amusement folding into something else. ‘Jen . . . is everything OK?’
I kiss his nose. ‘Yes, why?’
‘It’s just that you seem a bit—’
‘What?’
‘Distracted.’
‘I’m fine.’ I pause. ‘I saw Nessa yesterday. She’s back, it seems. Erica was at school.’
‘How was she?’
‘I don’t know . . . she avoided us.’
‘I wonder how long she’s been back. Shall we give her a call?’
I shake my head, remembering Kerry’s words. ‘Let’s give her time. It will be hard for her.’
‘Dad! Oscar won’t give me the controller!’
Ed smiles. ‘You’re right.’ He kisses me. ‘I’m coming!’ he replies, giving me a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and then follows the sounds of battle coming from the lounge.
Chapter Five
Ed
Can I just take a minute to say my wife is incredible? I mean it. I’ve always pretty much thought that she’s perfect anyway – see my earlier confessions about The Woman I’m Going to Marry story, but to lose your sister the way that she did and then come out the other side the way she has . . . well. It’s pretty incredible, right? I mean, she’s really starting to come back to us, she even let the kids swear! She wouldn’t even let me say fart in front of them before.
And then there is the sex thing. I love the sex thing. It’s a bit out of character for her to want it quite so much, but I’m not complaining about the sex thing . . . not really, but. No. I’m not complaining about it, that would just be stupid.
I’ll shut up now, I think.
Chapter Six
Jennifer
I roll onto my front and reach for my cup of tea, blowing over the rim.
‘What time are your parents picking up the kids?’ Ed whispers. It is one of those rare occasions when I have been able to make a cup of tea without the kids being up.
‘Nine.’ I blow steam from the top of my cup and take a sip.
‘Shall we go to the garden centre?’
‘Mmmm,’ I answer noncommittally.
‘We can have a teacake in the café,’ he encourages.
I roll my eyes.
‘What? Teacake is my favourite.’
‘It’s just that—’
‘What?’
‘Well it’s hardly making the most of our free time, is it? A teacake at the garden centre.’
‘OK. So where do you want to go? Next?’
‘Not Next.’ I put my tea onto the bedside table and roll over.
‘Let’s go to a theme park,’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Sure.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘And after that we can go skiing in the Alps?’
‘Why do you always do that? Take my suggestions and make them sound stupid.’
‘It is stupid. You’re thirty, not thirteen.’
‘Neither am I ninety.’ I shuffle up the bed. ‘Come on . . . when do we ever do anything spontaneous?’
‘Well, there was shagging in the cupboard under the stairs last week.’
‘I’m not talking about sex stuff, and don’t remind me about that . . . I’ve still got a bruise from the door handle. We never go anywhere exciting, Ed. Remember when we first got together? We went to Spain without a place to stay, just a cheap ticket that we bought that morning, and by the evening we were eating churros on the beach, drinking cheap wine and talking and making love until the sun rose.’
‘We were young then—’
‘We’re young now!’ I get out of bed and stand nakedly in front of him. ‘Look at me!’ I stretch to the right, to the left; I squat up and down a couple of times while Ed sits up smirking. ‘I’m not old, Ed,’ I say finally, trying not to sound out of breath. I crawl back onto the bed while Ed flops onto his back. ‘Come on. Let’s go ride roller coasters until we feel sick.’
He throws his arm over his face. ‘OK, OK . . .’ is his muffled reply.
I climb on top of him and shower his face with kisses.
I am upside down; the world around me and me in it are fighting the rules of gravity. Momentarily, the sun breaks through the clouds, my hair is hanging from its roots and we – the passengers of this roller coaster – are all holding our breath, waiting for the moment that we know will come in the next few seconds, when we will hurtle almost vertically into the darkness below.
My life is in the hands of a machine and the myriad of people who check the nuts and bolts. I think of the responsibility of those who do the safety checks. I picture a man called . . . Trevor, who after a row with his wife (disgruntled because she has lovingly packed his lunchbox every day that week for a week without a word of thanks), spent the evening trying not to become more and more frustrated by her one word answers. Let’s say the argument with his wife bothered him more than he was letting on and so he didn’t get a wink of sleep. As a result, poor Trevor’s head is pounding while he does the safety checks. Let’s say Trevor stops mid-check to swallow a couple of paracetamol and misses the one bolt that has been working itself loose over the previous day’s joyriding.
The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #2
Death by Roller Coaster
The bolt finally twists its last rotation. It falls with a faint clatter inside the mechanism that holds the over-the-shoulder harness in place while the snake of carriages slithers over the tracks. It enters its final trip, one last systematic stop to enthral its prey as they hang upside down, waiting for the final descent into darkness: passengers with hair falling like wisteria. For Jennifer Jones, time slows down as the rubber-coated arms open, releasing her
body. Her upper torso leaves the constraints of the carriage, legs following, and then she’s flying, her arms opened as if to embrace the ground rushing towards her. For the others still strapped into their seats, the horror they see is but a split second, a flash of limbs, a green top, a black ponytail followed by the scream escaping their mouths.
I blink.
My fear bleeds into the atmosphere and I scream. I can’t stop thinking about the bolt unscrewing as I hurtle at eighty-five miles per hour. Fear grips me: my hands grasp onto their bar so tightly that I can already feel the aching in my knuckles, already feel anxiety creeping through my veins, stealing saliva.
I pull the man called Trevor back into my thoughts. I replay the scene so he doesn’t have that argument with his wife; instead, he gives her an unexpected bunch of flowers to thank her for the little things she does for him every day. He makes cups of tea for himself and his wife, suggesting they open the posh chocolate biscuits, and then they have an early night. So when he wakes up bright and early, smiles as he picks up his lunchbox, kisses his wife and heads to work, he is extra vigilant when checking the nuts and bolts; he knows how important his job is.
I close my eyes, the pressure in the air pushing my hair backwards until the machine stops and I’m suspended – upside down – trapped in that adrenaline-filled static that shoots through our veins before plummeting into the darkness once again. I’m filled with adrenaline; it has awoken every single nerve ending in my body: the thrill of the roller coaster has made me feel alive.
I turn my head against the forces of gravity towards Ed, certain that he will be feeling some of the endorphin-filled high that I am experiencing, but his eyes are screwed tightly shut; his face is pale, not flushed with euphoria. I slow my breathing and watch his head jolting to the left and right, a sheen of sweat along his brow. Amongst the ponchos and images of My Imaginary Death comes a memory – it’s distant, a conversation we had on one of our first dates.
‘What are you most afraid of?’ I’d asked, reaching for a piece of pizza as we sat on plastic seats, Italian music playing, trying to kid our brains into thinking this was genuine Italian fare.