by Emma Cooper
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jennifer
Ed turns off the Hoover as I walk through the door, trying not to smirk because he is wearing my cleaning apron. My cleaning apron is a great source of amusement to my family.
‘What. Is. That?’ Kerry had asked as I opened the door to her, the year I made it. It was when I tried – and failed – to find a new hobby when the kids were small. I didn’t last long at the textiles class, but the fruits of my labour did result in one of my most favourite possessions: my cleaning apron. It has the right-sized pockets to hold: three micro-fibre cloths at the right breast; duster on the left; elastic holsters at the hips (polish at the right, antibacterial spray on the other); bin bags at the tummy, and tealights and a lighter to replenish the wax burners at the belly button. The material was bought from Cath Kidston and is a flurry of flowers on a pink background.
All Ed needs are some hair rollers, a hairnet, and he would fit comfortably in the ‘I Want to Break Free’ music video by Queen.
‘You look . . . busy,’ I smile.
‘Where have you been?’ he asks. I notice his tone has a clipped edge with a hint of annoyance as he gives me a hasty kiss on the cheek; he smells like a mixture of Ed and Pledge.
My shoulders are sunburnt from the June sun while I was picking up Kerry’s things and I have the beginnings of a migraine.
‘Jesus, Ed, could you let me get in through the door before you give me the Spanish Inquisition?’
‘Sorry, I was worried, we’re out of Rice Krispies and there is washing in the machine and I—’
‘What?’ I ask. Kerry is standing behind him, shaking the empty plastic cereal container. ‘You were worried because we’re out of cereal? You know, Ed, you could go to the shop yourself. You’re a big boy, I’m sure you could manage it, and as for the washing machine—’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘There’s a silver button, you press it and then the door opens, it’s like magic.’
I hate the way I’m speaking to him, but I hate the worried look on his face more. I know this isn’t about Rice Krispies – Ed has never been the type of man to expect his dinner on the table, and he always helps around the house even though he knows that I will probably tease him when he doesn’t do things right – but the words spew from my mouth regardless. I barge past Kerry, shooting her an angry look; I throw open the door to the garage, where I find a boxful of Rice Krispies sitting neatly in the spare cereal cupboard. I storm into the kitchen, where Ed is gripping on to the draining board and staring out of the window to where the kids are arguing.
‘Here are the goddamn Rice Krispies! Did you even bother to look?’
‘Jen, calm down.’ He turns, and places his hands on my shoulders; they sting and I shrug him off, instead tearing the box open and trying to pull apart the plastic bag inside. ‘I just noticed you hadn’t been shopping and I didn’t know where you were, I—’
‘You want Rice Krispies, Ed? Well, here . . .’ I pull the bag out of the box as I wrestle with it, ‘they . . .’ I pinch the top of the bag between my fingers and try to prise it open, ‘are—’
The bag rips apart, an explosion of puffed rice hitting almost every surface, every appliance, the hair on Ed’s head. Oscar and Hailey run in from the garden, Oscar brandishing a Nerf gun; they both halt in their tracks, a little skidding sound coming from beneath Hailey’s jelly sandals; both of their mouths open into an ‘o’.
I look at Ed, whose startled expression is being showered with stray puffs of rice, which are being blinked from his eyelashes. The kids look at Ed, they look at each other, they look at me, they look at the Rice Krispies. A giggle rises from my tummy; it clambers through my chest, bubbling up my throat and escaping into the kitchen. Ed catches it, bites his lip and tilts his head; the bubble of laughter floats towards him, his eyes meeting mine, the sound of my laughter popping the tension that had filled the air just moments before. Rice crunches beneath his flip-flops as he makes his way to me. I point at the sound beneath his feet, the bubble of laughter hovering above me as I take in a strangled breath. I jump into the air, my feet exploding the pile of little puffed-rice-shaped bombs, dust flying from my steps. Hailey and Oscar copy my actions, jumping up and down, sending dusty cereal up in puffs of air. Ed slips his hand in mine and pulls me into a waltzing position; I shake my head, releasing a fresh shower of cereal; we begin dancing, Ed twirling me around. The kids’ giggles are like background percussion to my laughter, which is achingly relentless. Soon Ed has to release me, because I’m gasping for breath.
Kerry watches the scene in front of her with a smirk; she sits on the kitchen chair, rolling her eyes at me but chuckling to herself. I have a stitch and step towards her, placing my hands on her shoulders as I try to calm the hiccups that have started to take hold.
Ed and I clear away the dusty remains of cereal, the air between us cleared by the gentle way he danced with me, by the humour of the afternoon, by the kids as we watched them jumping up and down as though they were wearing wellies and jumping in muddy puddles: our two beautiful children, our beautiful home, our beautiful life.
‘So . . .’ Ed scrapes the dust from the pan into the bin, ‘what did you get up to this afternoon?’ He has his back to me, he is trying to be nonchalant, but I can see by the set of his shoulders that he is tense.
‘Nessa’s. She’s, she’s not doing so well, Ed. She was upset, so I went round.’
‘I was worried, you said—’
‘I know what I said, Ed,’ I say quietly, ‘but you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m OK. Honestly.’
He straightens and turns to me, a forced smile on his face. ‘I’m not sure you are, Jen.’
I sigh loudly. ‘Can we not do this now? I’ve had a hell of an afternoon at Nessa’s, she’d thrown all of Kerry’s stuff out of her window.’
‘Thrown it out?’ Ed questions, putting the dustpan and brush away and pulling me towards him. I rest my head against his chest, breathing in his smell, a smell that is unique to him, that I can’t imagine ever living without.
‘She thought she was ready to handle it, going through Kerry’s things, but it was too much for her,’ I want to tell him, but he’s already becoming so . . . suspicious. ‘I’ve spent the afternoon picking up my dead sister’s things.’
‘I’m sorry. It must have been difficult for you.’
I think about the euphoria I had felt as I picked up every piece of Kerry’s clothing, how I was compiling memories like photos in a photograph album, attaching them carefully with cardboard-corner memory holders. I had a wonderful afternoon, but I know I can’t tell him that.
Here is what I do know: I can’t share these feelings with anyone; I can’t tell anyone that my dead sister is currently making herself a cup of tea, yawning and saying goodnight to me. I can’t tell anyone that the only time I feel alive is when I put myself in danger.
I can’t tell anyone . . . because then they’ll know: they’ll know that really, I’m falling apart.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jennifer
My eyes are hot beneath my eyelids, as I blink; my eyelids strain with the effort; there is no moisture there. Guilt and insomnia are currently best friends and they have ganged up on me, bullying me. Guilt fills my eyes with tears, a cup forever full and cascading over the edge like a waterfall, but then, just when I feel like I have found some relief, insomnia yawns and stretches. It drinks in all of the liquid, all of the fluidity and emotional release, and replaces it with stark, barren inertia.
The kids run into the lounge, filling my arms with sun-creamed skin and artificial, strawberry-sweet breath. I breathe in their smell, gulping it down.
Ed throws down his backpack and slumps onto the sofa, in dramatic fashion. ‘We have raised monsters! Monsters! I tell you!’
Oscar lets go of my neck and dive-bombs on top of Ed, who winces but lifts a delighted Oscar above his head.
‘Daddy let us eat as many sweets as we wanted at th
e park, because we both jumped in the deep end at the swimming pool,’ Hailey says, shifting her weight on my lap: wide, innocent eyes peering over her purple-framed glasses and a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
She lowers her voice into a whisper. ‘And I had real Coke. Not the diet kind.’
This is demonstrated by her climbing off my knee and jumping up and down on the space beside me. I look over to Ed. The sun has caught his face, red patches of tender skin cover the end of his nose and cheeks. He puts Oscar down onto the floor, throwing up his hands in a ‘not my fault’ gesture.
‘Daddy? Can we go on our tablets now? You promised if we stopped singing “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar” in the car that we could have a whole hour on them.’
‘I did, didn’t I?’ Ed catches my eye and gives me a wink. ‘Hmmm.’ He pretends to give this serious consideration; the one side of his mouth curves upwards, with the spark of mischief behind his eyes. The love I feel for him flutters heavily inside my chest, as though it’s actually there in physical form: hundreds of moments of our life together hidden in tiny molecules pumping around the inside of my heart; but I can’t reach them, can’t touch them: they’re trapped. ‘OK then . . . off you go.’
‘Yes!’ Oscar punches his fist into the air; Hailey bounces her legs even more enthusiastically, my body riding the aftershocks on the sofa cushion next to her.
‘Thanks, Daddy.’ She vaults from the sofa, runs over to Ed and gives him a fist bump, following her brother out of the room and up the stairs.
The guilt I feel for being allowed these moments with my family reignites my insides. Kerry will never have one of these moments again . . . because I took her life away from her.
My shoulders sag and fold forward like my lungs have been punctured; I’m left with nothing to extinguish my scorched insides. Ed rushes to me, kneeling in front of my body as I try to breathe, concern stealing the mischief that was there just moments ago and etching worry around his eyes. His hands rub the tops of my legs rhythmically; I grab hold of them, stilling their motion and gripping on to them: holding on to him before I fall somewhere that I may never return from.
‘Did I ever tell you about when Kerry tried to help me buy your birthday present?’ His voice is calm, a voice trying to anchor me.
I shake my head, even though the smallest of movements steals more of the air from the room.
‘I wanted to get you theatre tickets: The Lion King. But she talked me out of it, in that way she had of getting her own way.’
Kerry crouches down next to Ed, looking at him with that look of adoration that others often thought was more than sisterly-in-law love. But they didn’t understand. She loved him like that because of how much he loves me.
‘Jen doesn’t want theatre tickets, Ed.’
‘Jen doesn’t want theatre tickets, Ed.’
The words are spoken at the same time: reality mixing with the unreal.
Ed continues. ‘I’d thrown up loads of suggestions – a necklace, earrings, flowers? A picture? But she’d rolled her eyes. I’d started to lose my patience. “Well, you tell me what she wants then!” I’d said . . . and do you know what she replied?’
Kerry tilts her head and smiles at him: ‘She wants you, Ed. Always you.’
‘She wants you, Ed. Always you.’ Ed repeats Kerry’s words. ‘And then I knew what to get you.’
My breathing is slowing, the rise and fall of my chest calming until I can find the air to speak.
‘You took me on the walk,’ I say, a smile ironing out the tightness that is pulling around my mouth.
‘I took you on the walk,’ he confirms. I close my eyes and feel the heat from his body shift next to me, his arm encircling me. ‘We walked to the train station and sat in the seat opposite the door where I first saw you. I gave you a blackcurrant throat sweet because that’s what I had in my mouth.’
‘We went to the florist’s, but I didn’t hit you with the door that time.’
The memory is filled with calm, and I feel the light surrounding it, forcing away some of the red-hot vacuum. I picture us walking hand in hand as he led me towards his old address: I’d been wearing a blue-flowered summer dress and he had put his cap on my head backwards because the back of my neck was burning in the midday sun. ‘You sat me on the front doorstep of your first house . . .’ I lean my head against his shoulder, ‘because that’s where you’d sat after our first date when you’d got locked out. But it wasn’t raining like that day so you squirted water at me from a water bottle.’
‘And I took you to the old stone wall by the bus stop because that was where we had our first proper row and that was the moment that I knew I was in love with you but I didn’t have chance to tell you because you’d stormed off, jumped on the bus and left me on there.’
‘I cried all the way home. I stayed on the bus . . . did the whole round trip but you’d gone when I got back to the wall.’
‘I never knew that.’ He kisses me gently on the lips. ‘Let me help, Jen. Let me help.’
‘I don’t know how you can. It was my fault, Ed . . . it was my fault that she died.’
‘Oh, Jen . . . listen to me. What happened was an accident. A horrible, cruel accident. You are not to blame for Kerry’s death.’ He pulls away from me and grips me by the shoulders. ‘Are you listening to me, Jen?’ My head wobbles as he shakes me gently. ‘Kerry’s death is not your fault.’
He pulls me back into his chest and kisses me on the head. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
But it was.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ed
Is this what they call an existential crisis? I’m sure that’s what this is. I close the toilet seat and tap ‘existential crisis’ into the search bar of my phone as Oscar brushes his teeth.
People can suffer from an existential crisis for a number of reas—
‘Is that two minutes?’ Oscar interrupts.
‘No, buddy . . . another, um, forty seconds.’
—ons: guilt over losing a loved one . . .
Ha! Jackpot!
Right. I type in ‘how to fix an existential crisis’ as Oscar spits. I’ll have this sorted in no time . . . I’ve already diagnosed the problem; I’ll have Jen back to her old self by the end of the week.
There is no quick fix to an existential crisis, but there are a number of things you can do to help. 1. Identify your triggers.
‘What’s an egg, eggsiss—’ Oscar leans over and peers at the screen.
I close the tab and stand. ‘Right, what story do you want?’
I distract my son and guide him into his bedroom, ignoring the sounds of Jen crying from behind the bedroom door. I can fix this.
I lean in and kiss Oscar’s forehead, closing the door quietly behind me.
‘Daddy?’ Hailey’s voice calls out. I glance at my watch.
‘Hey, poppet, what’s up?’ I smooth down the unicorn’s face on her duvet and pinch the end of her nose.
‘I can hear Mummy crying.’ I turn my head towards the door where Jen’s soft sobs can still be heard. ‘Is she alright? Is she cross that I drank proper Coke?’
I smile. ‘No, no . . . we haven’t done anything wrong. Remember how I said that Mummy’s heart is a bit broken?’
She nods, her blonde hair bouncing with the action. I tuck it behind her ears and follow the outline of her birthmark with my finger.
‘Well, sometimes, to fix it, you need to cry. Just like you did when Chester the hamster died. Do you remember?’
She rubs her eyes, red-rimmed from the chlorine in the swimming pool and the pull of sleep.
‘Shall we make her some flapjacks tomorrow?’ Her mouth opens wide as she yawns through her words. ‘Mummy made me flapjacks when Chester died and then I was OK.’
Hailey’s eyes close.
‘Sure. Get some sleep now though, OK?’
‘Night, Daddy. Love you millions.’
‘Love you zillions.’
I sit at the end
of the bed and watch Jen sleep. I’ve read all the hints and tips that WikiHow has to offer: spend time outside, talk to people, imagine one of your idols is giving you advice . . . that one is tricky. Kerry was her idol.
Jen is fitful; the duvet has been kicked and punched and twisted. Sweat is clinging to the hair at the back of her neck and she’s muttering to herself. Nonsense words, nothing she says makes sense except for when she calls my name.
‘I’m here,’ I say, but no matter how many times I say it, whatever horrors that are happening behind my wife’s closed eyes, my being here isn’t enough.
I’ve got to do more.
Chapter Thirty
Jennifer
I wake with a jolt again: Kerry’s body hurtling backwards, feet and arms in front of her, ice-blue eyes staring at a fixed point in the distance: red coat, red boots and the primal scream of brakes; painted silver nails; emerald ring.
I blink.
Ed is asleep next to me; his arm is lying heavily around my waist, securing me to him. My eyes are sore and my throat dry. I ease myself from beneath Ed’s arm, dropping a kiss on the top of his hand, and pull on my shorts and vest.
The kids are snoring gently in their rooms: Hailey is lying neatly on her side in a foetal position, her hair wrapped around her index finger, a habit that has stayed with her since her early years. Oscar, in contrast to his sister lying in the next room, is spread out on top of his covers: arms and legs open wide, brown curls sticking up at all angles. I bend down and kiss his forehead and pull the duvet over him.
Outside the kitchen window, the sky is sherbet: pinks, oranges and yellows powder the sky with dawn. I down a glass of water.
Why am I here? I ask Kerry again.
‘Because you have so much.’
I know.
‘I don’t think you do,’ she replies and re-plaits her hair. ‘Come on, Jen, tell me what you have.’
I was adopted by a wonderful family?