by Emma Cooper
Kerry rolls her eyes, then grins at me as she makes her way into the kitchen.
‘I love it when you say things like that to me.’
‘Focus, Jen! Where is Nessa now? Shouldn’t she be picking her up and taking her to school?’
‘I said I’d take Erica and look . . .’ We both peer around the doorframe and then go back to our original positions. ‘Look at how well Oscar is getting on with her now. It’s good for him.’
‘Are you forgetting the mark she left on his arm?’
‘No, but . . .’ I think of the gin bottle but push the image to one side, screwing the top back on and popping it away in a kitchen cupboard. ‘She was just so . . . alone. What else could I do?’
He kisses the top of my head. ‘You should have woken me up. You promised, Jen,’ he says quietly into my hair.
‘I know, but I left you a note and I took the spray you gave me when I went to London with Kerry. I couldn’t just leave her on her own, Erica had a nightmare and Ness was sleeping it off.’
‘Then Nessa should have got up and made herself a bloody coffee!’ Ed’s voice rises.
‘Shush! Look, I’m fine, and she’s clean and fed and Oscar is happy and—’
‘Jen?’ He steps back and puts his hands on my shoulders, his face concerned and serious. ‘Don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment without . . .’ He sighs. ‘This?’
‘What would you have had me do, Ed? Tell a five-year-old sorry, no I’m not free? Explain to my dead sister’s widow—’
‘Wouldn’t she be a widower?’
‘I don’t know, Ed! What would I say to her? Sorry I didn’t come and help you with your daughter while you were passed out because I’m too busy sleeping in my Egyptian cotton sheets next to my husband – who is a Viking in the sack by the way—’ Ed smirks slightly at this even though his brow remains furrowed, ‘so no I can’t go around to your house and comfort a five-year-old who is petrified.’
‘Fine.’ Ed straightens his face. ‘But you still should have woken me up.’
‘If it happens again I will.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
‘So . . .’ Ed starts to grin. ‘Ragnar Lothbrok, eh?’
‘Huh?’
‘The Viking?’
‘Oooh, he’d make a good Ragnar.’ Kerry steps back into our hallway just as the tumble dryer beeps the ending of its cycle.
‘I’ll get the clothes out,’ Ed says, passing me into the kitchen.
‘He’ll figure it out, you know,’ she says, examining the last bit of crust before putting it into her mouth.
Figure out what?
‘That my sister can see dead people.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Jennifer
Erica and Oscar are singing ‘Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar’ in the back of the car, while Hailey has slipped on her headphones and is tapping away on her tablet. Oscar and Erica have both been to a birthday party and I offered to stay and bring them back.
‘Who are you trying to kid? You offered so you could keep an eye on Nessa.’
I ignore my subconscious and plaster a smile on my face as I pull up outside the house and see that Nessa is half-way through mowing the lawn. Her hair is tied back and she has the beginnings of a tan. Just outside her gate is a couple in their mid-forties who have their faces attached to each other.
‘Ugh,’ Hailey groans from the back seat. Oscar is giggling. I look into my rear-view mirror and catch Erica’s eye.
‘I never see my mummy and daddy doing that!’ Erica says, giggling.
‘My mummy and daddy do that,’ Hailey confirms. ‘Daddy does it to Mummy in the cupboard under the stairs.’
‘No, he doesn’t. He tickles Mummy in the cupboard under the stairs because I heard her laughing and then she ate some chocolate.’
‘What do you mean, Oscar?’ I ask. I know that I should shove this conversation onto another track, but curiosity is getting the better of me.
‘Because you went mmmmmmm, like you do when you eat chocolate.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I was, um, eating chocolate under the stairs with Daddy.’
‘Why were you under the stairs?’ asks Erica.
‘Erm—’
‘They were playing hide and seek,’ Hailey butts in, and I’m grateful for her no-nonsense tone.
‘And then Daddy hurt his-self cuz he went ugh-ah-ah!’
I swallow down my discomfort. We had thought they were busy watching a film in Hailey’s room. I make a mental note to make sure we are more careful.
‘You should play Monopoly instead,’ Erica interjects, ‘and then your daddy wouldn’t hurt himself.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I announce as I look back to where the couple have unlocked their faces and are continuing along the street.
‘Or Just Dance, you and Daddy like to play Just Dance on the Wii, don’t you?’
‘Just Dance?’ I ask, as a vague memory of a caravan holiday springs to mind.
‘Yes, when we went in the caravan in Wales and it rained the whole time, I woke up because the caravan was rocking and you said it was because you and Daddy were playing Just Dance.’
‘Just Dance, yes. Um. Kids, stay in the car while I take Erica in.’
Erica’s hand holds tightly to mine as we make our way through the front lawn, which is patchy and yellow, but I’m pleased that Nessa seems to be making some changes. She bends down and hugs Erica, avoiding my gaze, as I stand back and try to hide the concerned expression from my face, hoping that it is buried deep within the contours of my skin, that it isn’t there for her to see.
‘Daddy’s inside,’ she announces to Erica, who does an overstated ‘Yes!’ and runs towards the doorway.
‘Pumpkin!’ Daniel exclaims, stepping over the threshold: blond hair, long legs, wearing a look of confusion that never seems to go. He is lifting Erica up beneath her armpits and swinging her around as Erica giggles in delight; Nessa rolls her eyes but there is no malice behind them. Daniel and Nessa married when they were young, realised they had made a mistake early on, and split up in a very Gwyneth and Chris kind of way. They are the most abnormally normal exes I’ve ever met.
‘Look, Jen . . . I’m sorry, about the other night,’ Nessa says quietly.
‘You’ve already apologised.’ Nessa had rung the following morning, her voice cracked, her words broken. ‘I’m just glad I could help. How are you?’
‘OK.’ She smiles. ‘You?’
I don’t look over to where Kerry is currently cartwheeling across the lawn, her blue summer dress tucked into her knickers. I think back to the beach last year; for any other twenty-five-year-old woman to be cartwheeling would have seemed childlike, but for Kerry, it seemed normal. She just had that way: effortlessly cool, Ed always said.
‘I’m fine.’ I return her smile with my own. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Good.’ The lies surround us, the ‘OK’s and ‘fine’s itching our skin and making us shift our bodies uncomfortably.
‘Muuuuuummmmy!!!’ Hailey yells from the open car window. ‘Hurry up! Oscar has farted and it stinks!’
‘Trumped!’ I correct. ‘I’d better go.’ I lean and give Nessa a hug; she holds her breath, her body tense as my arms fold around her. She responds by giving me a gentle pat on the back. As we release each other, the breeze blows her hair in her eyes, blows the hem of my skirt upwards, and I don’t look over to where Kerry is giving out a wolf-whistle.
‘It’s not funny, Ed!’ I reply, but I’m trying not to laugh. ‘They thought we were playing hide and seek.’
‘Well we were, in a manner of speaking.’
I throw the tea towel at him and return to the business of onion-chopping. I’m trying to ignore Kerry sitting on top of the kitchen counter, watching me while I cook.
I continue to ignore her. ‘Ed, pass me the garlic press, please.’
He opens the drawer, fishes it out and begins opening and shutting the pr
ess with a puzzled look on his face. ‘Who do you think invented this thing? I mean, what made this person stop and think, “I know! I’ll make something specifically for squashing garlic”?’
‘Someone who was sick of having their hands stink, I suppose.’ I glance up at the space Kerry had sat in and for a split second, instead of seeing my sister alive and sitting on the kitchen counter, I see her body in the air: red coat, red boots, silver nails, emerald ring.
I catch the tears forming with the back of my hand and continue chopping.
‘Are you OK?’ Ed asks.
‘Mmmmhmmm, the onion is strong. That’s all.’
I look up at Kerry. She is wearing an off-the-shoulder black top that we used to call her Flashdance top. That top had shrunk in the wash before I even met Ed.
‘Jen?’ I can hear Ed’s voice, but I can’t stop looking at Kerry.
Is this what I’m still here for? Is this what you saved me for? To cook dinner and live in this perfect house?
I return my focus to the onions.
‘Jen?’ Ed’s hand is covering mine, pulling the knife from my hand. He turns me around and runs his thumb under my eyes, wiping away the tears.
I give Ed a watery smile and return to my onions.
But the memory won’t go. It takes the breath from my lungs: I feel like I’m suffocating.
‘I need to go,’ I say to Ed, untying my apron.
‘What? Now? What’s the matter?’
My fingers are fumbling over the knot, it feels like I’m being trapped, I need to get it off, I need to get this apron off before I’m stuck in it for ever. Ed takes my shaking hands gently away and undoes the strings. I try not to let him see the panic that is tearing away inside me. The strings drop to my sides and I yank the apron over my head, dropping it to the floor.
My fingers grab the car keys from the bowl in the hall. I walk past Ed’s concerned face, walk past Hailey as she comes out of the lounge, slam the door behind me, open the car door and reverse out of the drive.
‘Where are we going?’ Kerry slots her seat belt into the socket.
‘Nowhere.’
I put my foot on the accelerator and open the windows so that the car fills with air. ‘I can’t breathe.’
‘Snap!’ Kerry laughs and puts a chewing gum into her mouth.
I follow the road until I join the motorway. The sun is setting and I force myself to appreciate the colours, but it’s not enough. I indicate and move into the right-hand lane, applying more pressure to the accelerator. The road is fairly quiet; it’s after rush hour and a weekday so there are hardly any day trippers.
The needle of the speedometer extends its finger ambitiously, pointing to the numbers saved for emergencies. Normally I hate driving fast; I’m a fifty-mile-an-hour driver, never seeing the point of going beyond that. I sometimes think about the people on the roads who drive over the speed limit, endangering their lives and the lives of others, and what for? If they drive at eighty miles an hour instead of forty, what do they do with that oh-so-important extra time that they have created? Find a cure for cancer? Or do they just turn on the TV, and watch EastEnders?
But today is different. As the needle fills with excitement, daring to hit numbers that have previously been forbidden, I feel like I can breathe; the car is filled with air, my heart beating hard inside my ribcage, the suffocation I felt earlier lifting, and I feel the same kind of joy that I had when I stepped off Lovers’ Leap . . . but it’s not quite there yet. The speedometer continues to rise; with every notch on the dial I feel more alive.
‘That’s enough, Jen.’
‘No . . . it’s not. You want me to feel alive, don’t you? You want me to live? Well this is living!’
I reach forward and turn on the stereo. Aretha sings out telling me to have a little respect. I risk a glance in Kerry’s direction, but she isn’t singing along; her eyes are fixed ahead at the road in front, her expression taut.
The playlist continues as the needle ventures forward, my body drinking in this feeling.
I’m alive.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ed
I don’t know what has just happened. One minute we were laughing about our quickie in the cupboard, and the next? The next minute it was like someone had possessed her. Her hands were gripping the knife, the blade was going up and down, up and down, but she wasn’t looking at it, chop bloody chop while she was staring into space.
If I hadn’t been there, do you know what? If I hadn’t been there, I’m not sure that the blade would have stopped moving. I don’t even think she would have noticed if the ends of her fingers had been caught by the steel.
And then. Then it was like she was being trapped by her apron strings. I know, right? The connotations of that little episode are not lost on me, I can tell you. I was trying to help her get out, but my fingers were fumbling over the knot, I felt so useless, I mean, I couldn’t even undo the damn knot and then, before I knew it, she was gone. Grabbed the car keys, slammed the door and left.
And do you know what is more upsetting? Hailey saw the whole thing. Saw her mum losing the plot and walking out of the house and me standing there, helpless. I mean What. The. Hell. Is going on with my wife? Why can’t I help her?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jennifer
My foot wants to push harder on the pedal, my eyes want to see the needle on the speedometer increase, but I know I need to slow down. As the slip road comes into view, the car reduces its speed and the weight of life pushes down on me. I continue to slow as I approach a roundabout; Aretha’s words, that had felt so euphoric moments ago, are now becoming too loud, too intrusive; I reach for the dial – turning it off.
Sense taps me on the shoulder: remember me? I change lanes, sensibly; I check my mirrors, sensibly; I begin to return home along the dual carriageway with tears polluting my vision. Indicators tock as I pull into the hard shoulder and turn off the engine. My whole body racks with pain, my sobbing loud, my muscles contorting, my bones grinding as I try to expel this feeling of worthlessness that has started to take over. Behind my bruised eyelids, words begin to flutter.
I should have died.
The words are swirling around like fog, their meaning running a finger up my spine in a gentle caress. I shake my head, and open my eyes; the words aren’t real, just like my sister who is sitting on the bonnet of my car smoking a cigarette isn’t real.
I gather myself and step out of the car. The night is drawing in, side lights are being turned on and cats’ eyes begin to blink. I sit next to Kerry and watch the cars pass, listen to the sounds of their speed and the wind as they fly by. Their passengers are unaware of me, unaware of the turmoil inside my body.
‘Why did you do it?’ I ask, turning towards Kerry, but she has gone, and the pain of her loss punches me. I sit still, I don’t know how long for, but there is a pause in the flow of traffic. The road has become empty.
Kerry is tightrope-walking along the feline lights, as they reach forward. I check the empty road and follow her into the centre of the two lanes. This small act of rebellion, of stepping into a place which doesn’t normally entertain the pedestrian, ignites inside my body; it tingles beneath the soles of my feet, radiates up through my calves, spreads into my pelvis, warms my stomach and brightens my eyes. My arms stretch outwards; what would it feel like to stand here with the sound of the cars passing? With the knowledge that if my balance was lost, if my balance shifted just a fraction, I could be killed? I close my eyes and picture it: the brush of death passing me by, the nearness of the bumpers, the exhausts, the absolute power of speed.
The image is blocked, like someone has pulled down a projector screen. A picture of my family stares back at me, the beam of the projector displaying them on the screen, dust motes trapped in the tube of light, the three of them, Ed in the middle, my children flanking him: tired eyes, forced smile like they are trying to be a happy family, just the three of them. My eyes flash open. There are the beginnin
gs of car lights, their beam bumping along the slip road joining the carriageway, and I know I have to move. I will. In just another moment. A car from the other side of the barrier lets out a loud horn, the sound colliding against my ear drums, waking me up, smashing sense into me.
‘Oi! I’m walking on here!’ Kerry sort of quotes from Midnight Cowboy, another film I know she has never watched. I look back to where the lights are approaching, my senses heightened, the adrenaline rushing into my veins as they get closer.
I want you to understand that I don’t want to die right now. I’m going to move in a second, I’m not going to put the driver in danger, the car won’t have to swerve or move out of my way, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to know how it felt for her, how it felt for Kerry in those last seconds of her life.
Just one more minute and I’ll move. I promise. Just. One. More. Minute.
Reluctantly, I return to my car. My chest is rising and falling rapidly and as I pull down the visor against the flash from the low-setting sun, my reflection looks alive, but it shouldn’t . . . I should have been the one who died.
I throw the keys into the bowl on the desk in the hall. The blue light from the TV is flashing silently through the crack from the lounge door. I take a deep breath and push it open. Ed is sitting in his chair; he looks like he’s been crying. I glance over to the small table where a bottle of whisky has been opened and an empty glass sits next to Ed.
‘Where have you been?’ He sniffs and wipes his eyes as he rises from the chair, striding over, holding my hands, searching my face. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I went for a drive. I needed to clear my head.’ I let go of his hands, walk over and refill the glass, taking a long sip, the heat burning my insides. I like the feeling but can’t help but grimace at the taste. I take another gulp regardless.
‘Where?’
‘Hmmm?’ I ask, lost in my own thoughts, the heavy feeling that I had felt when I approached the roundabout returning like lead in my stomach.
‘Where? Where did you go?’