by Emma Cooper
He couldn’t bear the thought of another father losing his son and so Billy senior cashed in his life savings and spent months hammering steel into rocks. But when he was almost finished, when he had sold everything he could to pay for the tools he needed, his money ran out. Billy senior begged and pleaded with the community to help pay for the last few rungs of the ladder. And after many cake sales and sponsored walks, he did it. The metal he used to complete the ladder was not as strong as the metal he had used before. But even so, eventually, his ladder was complete.
Jennifer’s feet climb, her toes curling against the metal rungs beneath. Around her, the green hills roll and turn their backs, the seagulls call her name in warning, but the sea beyond whispers its encouragement. On she climbs: white knuckles, thumping heart, glistening lip. Jennifer is almost at the top, her foot stepping onto the final parts of the ladder that Billy senior had struggled to build . . . the ladder that years of wind and age had been testing the strength of. As the woman’s foot presses down, the rust breaks off, orange dust falling onto the green of her swimsuit as the rung finally pulls away. She watches her fingers holding on to the metal bar, which frees itself. She’s free, falling: no longer waiting for the kiss of life.
‘Jen!’ Ed’s voice brings me back as he calls from behind me. ‘Hurry up!’
I blink.
I pull myself to the top and walk towards the edge of Lovers’ Leap. Beneath me, the pool shimmers with temptation. The sun is beating down and beads of sweat are running along my spine, from the sun as well as the climb up the ladder. The ground scrapes the bottom of my foot as I step back, the jagged edges of the rocks splitting and fracturing, age revealing their scars.
‘We have to kiss first,’ he says before taking a step forward and peering over the edge. ‘It’s quite a long way down.’ He cranes his neck. Excited voices come from behind us and we move aside to let a pair of teenagers kiss. Laughing and standing on opposite sides of the ledge, they count: ‘One, two, three!’ Their nimble bodies leap into the air, and their squeals are received by the pool with a splash, just a split second later. Ed takes my hand and we step towards the edge, where the teenagers are swimming towards each other, grinning and smoothing their hair back. They meet, arms around each other’s necks; another kiss before swimming to the edge of the pool.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he asks, his eyebrows meeting as he scans the distance below us.
‘Yep. You don’t have to if you don’t want to do it,’ I say, taking in the pallor of his skin and the worry crossing his features.
‘What, and let you have all the fun? Not likely.’ He grins, with uncertainty resting in the corners of his lips.
We kiss. I taste the salt in our sweat, and the tang of strawberries as we pull apart and stand in our respective positions.
‘One, two, three!’ I shout. The air around me stills, my ears filled only with the sound of my heart beating as my feet step forward. How easy it is to just step into air. It takes no effort, the same movement that you use when you get out of bed to go to the toilet. I do thousands of these steps every day, and yet none of them have ever made me feel this way. My stomach feels as though it’s rising faster than my body is descending, the sensation deliciously different while my eyes glimpse the greens and the blues surrounding me. I am free. Nothing is holding me, keeping me trapped; I can’t decide to stop: my action cannot be reclaimed. All too soon, my freedom is taken away from me. I have to tell myself to hold my breath as my body plummets into the water; I have to acknowledge the sensation of feeling cold as the water wraps itself around me; I have to concentrate on kicking my legs hard to bring me back to the surface: I have to choose to live.
I break the surface with a loud gasp, my eyes blinking away the water as Ed swims towards me, laughing. His hands find my waist and he pulls me towards him. I link my arms around his neck as he spins us around.
‘That. Was. Amazing!’ He laughs again, his forehead meeting mine, our feet treading water, the teenagers sitting on the sides of the pool giving us a round of applause: the old couple behaving like adolescents.
We take the Lovers’ Leap jump three more times before we decide to return to our towels. Ed is dozing next to me, his head turned to the side, dark blond hair resting in damp curls across his forehead. I curve my body against his like a comma and try to slow my breathing so that it matches his. This has been fun for him, his shouts and whoops becoming more excited each time we jumped, his legs kicking out like scissors, and I’m glad. But with each jump, my own enjoyment has diminished. With each jump, my enjoyment has been snatched away by the water too soon.
The sounds from day trippers are lessening, the pack of teenagers have long since departed and the pool is becoming deserted. I trace the edges of the rocks, the grooves and ridges, the jagged edges of the smaller ledges that erupt like crystals, until my eyes rest on the edge of a ledge just out of sight. I roll away from Ed, who lets out a small snore, and walk towards the cliff face. The ledge is more visible from beneath Lovers’ Leap. It’s about another three metres, I’d guess.
‘You’re not going to do what I think you are . . . are you?’ Kerry asks from beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.
It’ll be a longer drop.
‘If you want a bigger jump, go somewhere else tomorrow, somewhere safe.’
I won’t get a chance tomorrow, I’ll have the kids.
I throw a cursory glance at Ed, who is deep in sleep, and then begin climbing the ladder. Once on Lovers’ Leap, I follow the ledge around to the right. I hold on to the rock and stretch my leg out, digging my fingers into the grooves of the rock face. It scrapes my hands and knees, but I push myself forward, finding safe footing. Above me hangs the higher ledge. The rock here is strong and there are plenty of footholds for me to be able to scale upwards without much trouble. My throat is dry, my legs are bleeding a little, but the adrenaline is pushing me forward; the need to feel that freedom – even for a few more seconds – is tempting me, calling out my name. I heave myself onto the ledge and roll onto my back. My breath is coming out in short sharp gasps and I lie here for a few minutes, listening to the silence. But the silence is cracked open by Ed’s voice and I sit up, frustrated that he has interrupted my moment. I stand up and walk towards the edge; it is higher than I first thought. Ed’s hands are waving at either side.
‘Come on, Jen . . . enough is enough.’ I turn my head and watch as Kerry reaches her hand forward towards me, beckoning me away from the brink.
‘You’re not here,’ I say and turn away from her, my feet stepping into air, giving me my freedom back.
Chapter Eighteen
Ed
I can’t believe what I am seeing. She is standing on the edge of the cliff; her head is tilted back and she is smiling. Even from here I can see that she is at peace. I’m trying to decide on a course of action. I know I haven’t got time to get to her but that doesn’t stop me from looking at the ladder; I know I can’t catch her but it doesn’t stop me from thinking that I can, and it doesn’t stop me from calling her name, even though I know she is going to jump.
My eyes scour the water to where she will land. Sickness rises in my throat as I notice that the blue of the water holds a hidden shadow beneath the surface; the image of the iceberg from Titanic pushes into my thoughts. ‘Jen!’ I shout, but I know it’s too late; she is stepping forward. I jump into the water. It’s the same action that just an hour ago had felt exhilarating, but this time the water feels heavy and I battle against it, forcing my muscles to work against the gravity and pushing myself to the surface in time to see her body crash into the pool. I don’t hear a thud, or a scream, but as my arms begin to slice through the water, I see the blood. And I see Jen floating, arms outstretched, face down.
Her name is caught in my throat as I pound through the water, my fingers grasping at her arm; she begins to kick, her legs sinking below the surface, her head erupting from the water with a huge gasp of air. I pull her into my arms, cu
pping her legs in my arms the way I hold Hailey when she has fallen asleep and needs to be carried to bed. Jen’s arms encircle my neck. I pull her body as close to mine as I can, our chests rising and falling quickly as we each catch our breath.
‘Where are you hurt?’ I ask frantically, scanning her face, expecting her skin to be pale, expecting to see the fear of death mirroring my own, but instead . . . she has never looked more alive.
‘I’m fine,’ she answers, smoothing her wet hair back from her head.
‘You’re bleeding. You’re not fine.’ I don’t mean it to come out the way it does, and I realise that I’m angry with her. I drop her legs and pull away.
‘Am I?’ And then she laughs, like it’s all a joke. But it’s not. My anger dissipates as I noticed the red stain running over her shoulder and onto her chest. I run my thumb over the blood and show it to her. She shrugs and turns her head over her shoulder to see the damage. I take her gently by the shoulders and turn her around. Trailing from the top of her shoulder and down to her spine is a cut. It’s not deep but it’s bleeding profusely. I swallow down the lump in my throat, lean in, move her hair aside and gently kiss the base of her neck. She turns back to me, the vitality of her face changing as our eyes meet.
I swallow hard. ‘You’ve cut your back.’
‘Really?’ She looks surprised. ‘Huh.’
‘Huh?’ I repeat, my eyebrows rising, my anger returning. She lowers her eyes and sinks beneath the surface, rising with her mouth full of water, which she spits out at me as though we are young lovers splashing at each other in a pool in Ibiza. What does she expect me to do? Splash her playfully? I wipe away the water from my face as her focus goes to something beyond the pool and over my shoulder. I turn but there is nothing there. Blood is creeping back over Jen’s shoulder as I return my focus to her.
‘We need to stop that bleeding.’ My tone is flat.
‘It doesn’t hurt, stop worrying, it’s just a scratch.’ Her answer is dismissive and distracted as she scans the rocks again. ‘Do you want to have a go?’ She’s smiling as if I haven’t just seen her face down and bleeding.
‘No.’
And then I turn and swim to the water’s edge, dry off with the towel and watch my wife floating on her back, kicking her legs like she’s on the holiday of a lifetime.
I don’t often Google stuff about health. I once searched the symptoms of my dodgy knee and ended up being convinced I had a rare type of bone cancer, but I can’t help it. The sun is starting to come up; I can’t believe I’ve been on here most of the night. I rub my eyes: they’re stinging from sitting here like a dick, scrolling through pages and pages on the internet, trying to work out why my wife is acting all weird.
My hand cups the mouse and hovers over the title which reads: ‘What to Do if you Think your Spouse Is Suicidal’. I don’t know how my research has led me to this. I started by looking at grief, that led me to mental illness, and then . . . well, this. I left-click and read another piece telling me of the warning signs: loss of interest in daily activities (nope); hopelessness (nope); substance abuse(?). I’m about to exit the screen when a different sentence grabs my attention. Is your loved one making risky decisions, or can you see a dramatic change in their personality? I reach for my cup and drain the last of the cold coffee. My wife isn’t suicidal. My wife is just, my wife is just . . . Jen is—
I turn off the screen and head for the bathroom.
The shower is cold and the jets of water are stinging my skin but it’s what I need. I need to wake up. My eyes close against the spray but I open them again quickly; the image of Jen lying face down in the pool won’t stop. I wrap the towel around my waist, make two cups of coffee and sit down gently on the edge of the bed. Jen always sleeps on her stomach, same position: head to the side, one arm beneath the pillow, the other at a right angle, her dark hair often covering her face, shielding her from the rising sun. I hook my finger beneath her hair, carefully revealing her face. Her features scrunch up and I can’t help but smile: she hates to be disturbed in sleep; her instant reaction is to pout and pull her muscles together. I continue to stroke her hair and her features relax again, just as I knew they would. I let my eyes trail along the edge of the gauze covering the scratch. Old blood has congealed around the edges, marking Jen’s pale skin. I blink back the image of the pool again and lean forward to kiss her forehead. The pout returns fleetingly, but then a smile replaces it.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s early,’ I reply. Her eyes open a fraction and she smiles at me, tapping the empty space beside her. I discard the damp towel and climb beneath the sheets as she rolls towards me, entwining her legs with mine.
‘We need to talk.’ My voice betrays me: it’s unsteady.
‘I know.’ Her eyes are sincere; tears threaten behind them.
I touch her nose with mine.
Sex used to be fun. Sex used to be something that I wanted more of. Sex used to be . . . not this. Not an excuse to silence all the things that need to be said.
Our breathing slows. Jen’s head is on my chest as I run my fingers up and down her arm.
‘You scared me yesterday.’
‘I know.’
‘You said you wouldn’t do it again.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
I want to believe her.
I don’t.
Chapter Nineteen
Jennifer
I sit down at my parents’ kitchen table, while Dad cuts his homemade flapjacks into neat squares for the kids.
Ed is trying to untangle his watch from Hailey’s hair.
‘Ouch!’ she shouts, fixing him with a vicious glare.
‘Sorry,’ Ed replies.
‘Vladi-vos-tok,’ Hailey murmurs under her breath.
Oscar eats a bogey that he has recently examined and then grabs a large piece of flapjack from the plate. Oats sprinkle onto his white school polo shirt.
‘Why did Aunty Kerry die?’ Oscar asks out of the blue. ‘Was she a really bad person?’
‘No, she—’
‘Did she go to hell because she was naughty?’
‘No, Aunty Kerry wasn’t naughty,’ I explain.
‘She was, she let me have sweets before bed when she was the babysitter and I didn’t have to brush my teeth.’
‘Did she?’
Flapjack-filled faces nod with wide, knowing eyes.
‘What else did she do that was naughty?’ I ask, glancing over Oscar’s shoulder to where Kerry is telling Oscar that he had better not break their pinky promise.
‘She let us watch—’
‘Oscar!’ Hailey warns. My children’s eyes meet and hold a silent conversation, Hailey replying to Oscar with a little shake of the head. He reaches for a glass of milk and takes a large slurp, even though his mouth is still full of flapjack. Kerry ruffles Oscar’s hair, pinches a piece of flapjack, jumps up and sits on the kitchen worktop. She begins dissecting her food, fishing out all of the hidden dried apricots that Dad sneaks in because ‘they’re full of iron’. Oscar’s hair remains tidy despite my sister’s gesture.
Ed takes a moment, his eyebrows raising with sudden clarity. ‘Did she let you watch scary movies?’ Oscar begins shaking his head vehemently, causing him to cough flapjack and milk over the kitchen table. Hailey’s eyes widen even further and she focuses her attention towards a knot in the wood of the table.
‘Uh-oh . . .’ Kerry smirks. ‘Busted.’
‘Did she?’ My head swivels away from Kerry towards where Hailey is turning an astonishing shade of red. ‘Hailey? Did she let you watch grown-up movies?’
‘It was only once.’
‘Twice,’ Oscar butts in, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Twice?’ Ed folds his arms, his body taking on a ‘Strict Dad’ pose.
‘OK, it was four, but Aunty Kerry said that we were old enough.’
‘What movies did you watch?’
‘There was the one with the willy . .
.’
‘Willy?’ Dad’s face goes pale and Mum has begun to maniacally squirt the draining board with disinfectant.
‘Yep . . . it had an eye,’ Hailey says quietly.
‘Just one,’ Oscar adds. ‘It was gross.’
‘And he was all stiff.’
‘But Aunty Kerry said that was normal,’ Hailey clarifies.
‘Normal?’ I squeak.
‘Yes. She said that dead people go stiff and that One-Eyed Willy had been dead for a long time.’
‘Oi . . . You guys!’ Kerry admonishes.
‘The Goonies?’ I ask with relief. ‘She let you watch The Goonies.’ My voice is explanatory as I meet Ed’s relieved face, while Mum returns the disinfectant to the cupboard under the sink with an audible breath of relief.
Dad joins us at the table.
‘So, will she?’ Oscar asks again. ‘Go to hell?’
‘No, love.’ Mum puts her hands on Dad’s shoulders and kisses his bald spot. ‘Your Aunt Kerry will be dancing with the angels in heaven.’
‘Aunty Kerry said that there is no heaven and hell and that is what grown-ups say so we behave.’ Hailey dips her flapjack into her milk. ‘I think Aunty Kerry is a tooth fairy.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Aunty Kerry was clever and the tooth fairy is way better than an angel.’
‘Why?’ Oscar asks, his mouth full, the contents exposed.
‘Because they’re rich, silly.’
I follow insomnia into the kitchen like an awkward friend. Kerry is sitting at the kitchen table, blowing the rim of her cup of Horlicks.
Why are you drinking that? I ask, turning my back on her and filling up the kettle. You hate Horlicks.
‘I hate to break it to you, Jen, but I’m not actually here. Maybe it’s you who wants some Horlicks?’ I pause and consider this. Is that what’s happening? Are my memories of Kerry mingling with what I want to see and hear? I shake my head. Insomnia laughs at me . . . Do you really think cutting out caffeine is going to stop me? My hand reaches for the tub and spoons some into my cup. My legs take me to the table where I try to sit, quietly massaging my temples.