If I Could Say Goodbye

by Emma Cooper

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Nowhere? Well next time your children ask where you are at bedtime, I’ll tell them that Mummy isn’t here because she had to go . . . nowhere.’

  I drain the glass and refill it; Ed paces the room. ‘I just needed some space, I needed to get out of—’

  ‘What, Jen? You needed to get out of what? Out of here? Out of our home?’ He throws his hands up into the air, exasperated.

  ‘Yes. No. I—’

  ‘Or is it that you wanted to get away from me?’

  ‘No, of course not . . . Ed—’

  He stands up and walks towards me, taking the glass and sliding it onto the dining table before taking my hands again and holding them. ‘Tell me what is going on.’

  ‘Nothing is—’

  ‘Don’t tell me that nothing is going on!’ he yells. I flinch. He takes a breath and repeats, with his voice level, ‘Don’t tell me nothing is going on. I deserve more credit than that.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  How can I tell him what I now know? That I should be dead. That Kerry’s death was my fault.

  ‘I see.’ He drops my hands and leaves the room, hesitating with his hand on the door handle. ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. Give you some . . . space.’

  I find myself nodding. Why am I nodding? I don’t want space from Ed, I need Ed. He makes me feel alive.

  ‘Ed, wait!’ I head out of the room and look up to where he has stopped on the stairs, his one hand holding on to the banister. ‘I need you, I don’t want you to sleep in the spare room, I—’

  ‘This marriage isn’t always about what you need, Jen. I think we both need a bit of space.’ He gives me a sad smile. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Night.’

  He takes his hand off the banister as I stand and watch his retreating back.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper.

  Kerry sits on the bottom stair and takes off her shoes.

  ‘Doesn’t love mean you shouldn’t have to say you’re sorry?’ she asks.

  I don’t know why my subconscious is thinking about Love Story right now, when, right now, my life couldn’t be further away from one.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ed

  I bet everything looks OK to everyone else here. Look at me . . . my arms are swinging by my side, both hands clutching my children’s as we make our way to the park. I look like the dad that I always wanted to be. The dad that you think about when you find out that you’re going to have a kid. Jen was all about the tiny shoes and the soft blankets, but me? I wanted to be Park Dad, Kids-on-my-shoulders Dad, and I bet that is just what I look like. What I bet I don’t look like is Wife-is-having-a-nervous-breakdown Dad.

  Oscar pulls his hand from my grip and runs towards the open gate. Hailey stops walking and looks up at me. ‘Where is Mummy?’ The question doesn’t bother me, the look in her eyes does.

  ‘She’s in bed, having a lie in.’

  Obviously, I don’t tell my daughter that Jen barely sleeps during the night and that I often hear her mumbling to herself in the early hours of the mornings.

  ‘Will that make her better?’

  I turn my back and close the gate behind us. She sucks the end of her plait as we sit down on the bench and Hailey repeats her question.

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘Mummy just misses Aunty Kerry very, very much.’ I pull her under my arm and kiss the top of her head, both of us laughing as Oscar hangs upside down from the monkey bars, his ribcage exposed from beneath his red T-shirt, his pale ribs swinging back and forth.

  ‘Is that why she keeps doing weird stuff?’

  My breath catches in the back of my throat. I turn to face her and brush her hair out of her eyes. ‘Sometimes when we lose someone close to us, it can make us do silly things. Mummy just needs a bit of time to fix her broken heart.’

  ‘Will it fix mine?’

  ‘No, tickling fixes yours.’ I pull her towards me and begin tickling her under her armpits. Just as I knew she would, she squirms and laughs until no noise is coming out. ‘There . . . better?’

  ‘A bit.’ Hailey scrunches up her nose and pushes her glasses up. ‘What about when she is late to pick me up from school. What should I do then?’

  ‘Mummy is late picking you up from school?’

  She begins sucking her plait again, avoiding my gaze and focusing on Oscar. ‘Sometimes.’

  I reach out and wiggle her knee to get her attention back. ‘How often is sometimes?’

  ‘Not many, only once, maybe twice?’ She frowns and the purple frame of her glasses moves up with the action.

  ‘Maybe Mummy was stuck in traffic. That happens sometimes.’

  She nods. ‘It hasn’t happened since Mrs Woodley talked to her after school.’

  My mouth has gone dry. ‘Mrs Woodley spoke to Mummy about being late to pick you up?’

  She nods. ‘Mrs Woodley and Mr Newton.’

  ‘Mr Newton . . . Oscar’s teacher?’

  She nods again. ‘Don’t tell Mummy I told you, OK? I didn’t mean to break the promise.’

  ‘It’s not really breaking a promise if you tell your daddy, we’re a promise-free zone,’ I say, plastering a fake smile on my face. ‘Now, go and see if you can get Oscar to pull himself the right way up, he’s starting to look like a blueberry.’

  She begins to run off but stops, turns and runs back to me, throwing her arms around my neck. ‘Thank you, Daddy, my heart feels a bit less broken now.’

  I swallow the lump in my throat as she kisses my cheek, her skinny legs poking out of her denim shorts, ears sticking out and pigtails swinging unevenly.

  What I didn’t think I would be is Haven’t-a-clue-what-is-going-on-with my-kids Dad.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jennifer

  Ed has taken the kids out for the day; the house feels empty and cold despite the sun blazing through the windows.

  Kerry is pointing the controller at the TV and flicking through the channels. Friends appears. ‘Ooh, it’s “The One Where Jen Sees Ghosts”.’

  I blink.

  The screen returns to black, the red stand-by lights glinting in the bottom right corner. Nessa’s number flashes on my phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  She sniffs. ‘It’s me. Can you, can you come round? I’ve done something stupid.’

  ‘What kind of stupid?’ My voice sounds urgent and abrupt.

  ‘It’s her things, Kerry’s things, they’re just everywhere! Can you just, I can’t—’ She is crying as I grab my keys.

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll be there in a minute, just sit tight, I’m coming.’

  I turn off the engine and look towards the house where strewn across the front lawn are clothes – Kerry’s clothes. As I step out of the car, I avoid one of Kerry’s boots, a handbag and a black belt with silver studs on which I remember being part of her eighties fancy-dress outfit. It looks like a tornado has hit.

  ‘Doesn’t look like we’re in Kansas no more.’ Kerry is holding up the black dress she wore to one of the film premieres they went to last year. It was off-the-shoulder with a long split up the thigh.

  The gnome, who continues to peek at me from over the fence, is looking undecided about his feelings towards the pink bra that hangs limply from his fishing rod. Kerry’s red dressing gown is hunched in the middle of the lawn. The curtain next door twitches, quickly followed by an anxious-looking lady – the gnome collector, I presume.

  Nessa’s body is crouching down against the front door, her body wracked with sobs.

  ‘Oh, Nessa,’ I say. ‘Come on, up we get.’

  I hold on to her elbow tightly and guide her towards the house, where the front door hangs open.

  ‘One step after the other, that’s it,’ I say under my breath, ignoring the footsteps along the path behind where I can hear the gossip being launched behind mouths covered with appalled hands.

  My sister’s widow follows me into the kitchen and folds herself into a chair, bringing h
er knees up and wrapping her arms around them as I make a coffee. Ed is ringing my phone; I ignore it, turning the phone to silent. The coffee swirls as I add the sugar and pass it towards Nessa’s shaking hands.

  ‘I thought I could handle it, sorting out her things. I can’t afford to keep them in storage, so . . .’ Nessa looks into her cup as she talks. ‘But when I started going through her stuff, I just felt so angry with her. She shouldn’t be dead.’

  ‘I should be,’ I say.

  ‘God, Jen, no, I didn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s OK. It feels good to be able to say it. I should have died, Ness, it should have been me.’

  I should have died.

  Every time this phrase enters my head, it seems to get stronger. At first it was just a flutter, the words a faint, soft, slate-grey pencil mark, looping handwriting that I could barely see, almost transparent: a blur; a thought that could be missed, written on a scrap of paper that could be discarded without a second glance. But that faint grey pencil has been sharpened, and these words are finding more definition.

  ‘I know it should have been me, it was me that rang her and suggested we go to the jeweller’s that day, it was my decision to stop and look at my phone screen. I should be dead.’ The words are like chocolates in my mouth: they melt and soothe; each one has a different taste. I devour them, pass them to Nessa to try. ‘Do you picture me dying? Pretend that it was me, not her?’

  She hesitates, then nods.

  ‘How do I die?’ I ask her, these words exploding like popping candy.

  ‘You get hit, not her.’

  I lean forward, eager for more. ‘I think about death all the time. I picture how I’m going to die.’

  ‘Me too.’ Nessa drains her coffee.

  ‘What am I wearing? When I picture dying, I’m always wearing green.’

  She puts the cup on the kitchen table in front of her and turns to meet my eyes. ‘You’re wearing jeans, your leather jacket and those grey Converse that you’re always wearing. I see one of them lying beside the road.’

  I grin at this, at this little detail. I’m not going mad. Everyone pictures death one way or another.

  ‘And?’ I ask, eager for more.

  ‘Kerry and I come and see you in the chapel of rest and she tells you we’re getting married. She looks beautiful when she’s in mourning. She wears dark blue, not black, and the sapphire earrings you bought her for Christmas.’ Her face collapses inwards when she says this. ‘I threw them out of the window!’ Her chair scrapes back and she rushes outside.

  Nessa shields her eyes from the sun, stepping uncertainly into the garden, muttering ‘Jesus Christ’ as she bends down and picks up a pair of Kerry’s sunglasses.

  ‘They were my bloody favourite, Ness!’ Kerry stands next to Nessa with her hands on her hips.

  ‘They were her favourite,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I always thought they covered up too much of her face,’ Nessa replies.

  ‘Uh-oh.’ Kerry pulls her heel backwards, as though she’s stretching before a race.

  ‘I’ll clear this up.’ I ignore Kerry. ‘Why don’t you get some rest?’

  Nessa looks like it’s taking all her concentration to keep upright. She gives me a grateful nod and goes back inside.

  I begin to retrieve the items of clothing that hang from the bushes and trees like fairy lights at Christmas, apologising to the gnome for his disappointing catch.

  ‘You don’t have to look so pleased about picking up my undies, you know.’ Kerry is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the lawn, peeling grass into strips. I reach down at the sapphire glinting in the summer sun. I picture Kerry wearing them, wearing blue, telling my coffin that she is about to get married, and smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ed

  Jen isn’t here.

  ‘Mummy! We’re home.’

  Even as Oscar shouts the words, I know that Jen isn’t here. I throw down my backpack and carry the shopping into the kitchen as the kids put their shoes in the correct shoe boxes, put their sun hats on the pegs in the porch. They’re tidy kids, much tidier than I was as a child. I suppose that’s Jen’s influence on them.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ Hailey asks quietly. ‘There isn’t any apple juice and something smells in the fridge.’

  ‘I bought orange juice,’ I reply, pulling it out of the bag.

  ‘But I don’t like orange juice.’ Her eyebrows furrow.

  ‘She’s probably gone to the shop to get more apple juice.’ I smile. My lies are becoming easier; I don’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I have no idea where Jen is. ‘How about blackcurrant squash instead?’

  ‘OK. Can we have fizzy water in it? Mummy lets us have fizzy water in it.’

  ‘Sure.’ I smile and go into the kitchen and open the cupboard which holds the mineral water. Even as I reach for the bottle, I know it’s almost empty. This cupboard is never empty of water: Jen always drinks mineral water, always makes the kids drink mineral water. I shake the bottle, as if by doing that it will suddenly become full, but of course it doesn’t. Why didn’t I buy mineral water? Hailey is staring at the bottle, frowning above her glasses. I bop her on the head with the empty bottle and she giggles. ‘Sorry, poppet, no fizzy water, but I’ll put some ice in it for you.’

  ‘Can I have a straw?’

  ‘You can. And then I’ll make some lunch.’

  The kids go out into the garden and I breathe out. The muscles in my neck are tight and I roll it to relieve the tension. OK. This isn’t a big deal. I open the cupboards and start putting the shopping away, trying not to stare at the empty spaces where ‘things’ should be. Where they have always been. Jen is a bulk buyer. We don’t run out of things, because she is always one bottle of fabric softener ahead; cereal boxes sit in tidy rows in the garage, waiting to refill the plastic containers. I reach for one and do the shaking thing again. It’s still empty, all but for a few dusty Rice Krispies.

  Maybe Jen has gone to the shop. I dial her number again and leave another message.

  ‘Hi Jen, it’s me, Ed, obviously, um again. Just wondering if you’re at the shop? We’ve run out of a few things.’ I scratch the back of my head; I sound like a dick. Like I’m ringing her to tell her off that we’re out of Rice Krispies. ‘Anyway, I’ve picked up some bits and bobs, but I forgot the apple juice and, well give me a quick ring if you get the chance. I can go to the shop if you’re, if you’re . . .’ What? If she’s what exactly? ‘Busy,’ I finish. Christ, when did speaking to Jen become something I had to concentrate on?

  I hang up the phone and drum my fingers on the back of its case. I look at the kitchen again. There are three things that I consider.

  1) Jen hasn’t been shopping. This is strange, because Jen likes to keep to a routine. Friday is shopping day. It has always been grocery shopping day. Always. Today is Saturday.

  2) There is a washing load sitting in the washing machine. It is sunny. There is a light breeze. Jen would know this. She smiles when she puts the washing out on days like this. Instead, Lego Batman pyjamas are staring at me through the washing-machine door; Batman looks pretty depressed about still being inside.

  3) The kitchen is in a mess. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t give a monkey’s that there is spilt milk on the side, that there is mould growing on the tomatoes in the fridge. I give a monkey’s because Jen does. Give a monkey’s, I mean.

  Why am I talking about monkeys? Who decided to coin the phrase couldn’t give a monkey’s arse? And why are they thinking about a monkey’s arse? Why am I thinking about a monkey’s arse? I throw the tomatoes away and wave through the window at the kids, who are drawing chalk faces on the brick barbecue.

  In the lounge, I notice three more things:

  1) The carpet needs hoovering. Jen loves to hoover; she hoovers every day. She polishes her Hoover like a trophy.

  2) There is a distinct lack of cushion-plumping. Not a plump in sight.

  3) Dust. Oscar has eczema,
only mild but enough to wake him in the night, for him to draw blood on occasion. This is aggravated by dust. There is dust. Everywhere. I would have done it if I’d noticed . . . honestly, I would.

  I’m not house-proud, but I am proud of our house, or rather, I’m proud of us in it: of the lines drawn neatly onto the hall wall with the kids’ heights, dates, ages written neatly beside them in Jen’s handwriting; of the leaf that Hailey had pressed into clay at school and made into a plate that we throw our keys into when we come home; the hat stand that I insisted on buying even though Jen hated it, because it didn’t match. I run my hand over it and can feel the grooves that she made as she sanded it down, feel the faint tracks of the paint brush that she had used. Jen loved it when it was finished, it matched the greys and silvers of the hall; I love it because of what it represents, a piece of both of us. I’m proud of the photos of us that gleam from behind glass picture frames that scale the wall along the banister; I love that with every step, I get to see a piece of our lives together. Pieces of our lives that were captured mostly by Kerry: me wiping squirty cream from Jen’s lip in a coffee shop; Jen picking a piece of grass from my shoulder; me watching Jen as she threw her head back laughing; me kissing her bump with Hailey hidden inside; the back of us as we walked out of the hospital, both of us with a hand on the car seat. As I carry on up the steps there are the more recent pictures, the number of faces increasing from two, to three, to four, and with the invention of the selfie, five. Kerry always shining brighter than the rest of us.

  I stop at the second-to-top stair and lean in at the photo of Jen and Kerry. It’s a photo I had taken. Jen had got the giggles; she’d said ‘clogged archery’ instead of ‘clogged artery’ and was at the mercy of the type of laughter that you can’t stop, no matter how hard you try. When I’d taken the photo, she had already been laughing for a good five minutes and was at the stage where no sound was coming out of her except the occasional gasp for air. Her hands are gripping Kerry’s shoulders, and Kerry is laughing back at her. I had taken the photo . . . but it was Kerry that she had been holding on to for help.