by Emma Cooper
‘You were. Tell me something you love about Ed.’
I love that he makes me laugh, that he works so hard every day to make me smile.
‘How? How does he make you laugh?’
He . . . A smile tugs around my mouth. He makes heart shapes with tomato ketchup on my plate.
‘There you go. How many women would kill for heart-shaped blobs of ketchup?’
The emptiness fills a little but it’s not enough . . . my body leans forward, clicking the catch on the window frame, allowing me to inhale the cool stillness of dawn breaking. It’s intoxicating, this smell: fresh and pure and clean. I lean my head as close as I can to the window and stare at the horizon. The world has its arms out to me. ‘Look at this open space!’ it shouts. ‘Look at what is around you!’ I step back; the confines of my home holding my hands behind my back.
I need to escape, no that’s not right, I need to appreciate what I still have. I’ll be back before they’re even awake.
At first, I’m walking, the air chipping away at the heat inside. Gossamer quietness floats over the housing estate, hushing the ticking of clocks and hum of electricity, but all too soon, my lungs have become accustomed to the cooler air.
I should have died.
But I didn’t.
My feet begin to quicken their pace, the molten heat of those words being pushed back by the dry warmth now filling my lungs. I follow my feet, as they stretch into a run, pounding against the tarmac towards the lanes at the back of the estate which lead to the hills. I’ve walked this route before a hundred times, pushing Hailey in her pushchair, a few years later holding Ed’s hand while she clung her arms around his neck, Oscar’s head nestled next to my chest in the baby sling, but this path is leading me somewhere else today.
My feet continue to urge my body forward, the dry heat in my lungs gasping for more of the cool air that surrounds me, the exertion forcing them to work harder, my breath becoming deeper, the purity around me filling my body as the path leads towards Hayworth Hill. Muscles in my legs groan and complain and my back is aching, but my lungs want more; I need to give them more. And so, I do. I run faster, the back of my throat burning; my body has been starving for this cleanliness and if I go a little bit faster, I will be satiated.
I don’t know how long I have been running, but the sun is rising higher, the last of the sherbet pinks and lemons sinking, the morning blue tearing open the sky. I’m reaching the summit: the houses below turn their backs on me, the sleepers inside kicking off the cover of quiet. The summit arrives too soon. Too soon I see the monument – a tower of decreasing stone circles that children want to climb and parents warn not to.
Reaching the summit of the hill isn’t enough.
My fingers grip the stone edges as I pull my knees onto it. I climb onto the next circle until I’m here: the highest point of the county.
But I’ve got here too soon. Too soon. It’s over . . . too soon. My stomach hurts, stitch threading its needle around my insides. My breath feels hot again now that I’ve stopped.
My head feels light, the view in front of me swaying when it should be still. The burning at the back of my throat tells me I need water, but I have none. My vision blurs, and then my legs buckle beneath me.
The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #5
Death by Head Injury
Jennifer Jones watches the snow falling heavily over the county.
‘I can’t remember the last time we had a white Christmas,’ she says to her husband as he pulls the sled behind him. Her green bobble hat is adjusted and she walks on, her boots digging into the fresh blanket of snow.
‘Come on, Daddy!’ their son, Oscar, shouts. ‘We’re almost at the top!’
‘Are you sure it’s safe to let them slide down this side of the hill?’ Jennifer asks.
Her husband’s cheeks are red and he is out of breath. He stops as they crown the crest of the hill and come to a stop. ‘It’s fine. I did it loads of times when I was a kid. My weight will slow them down and I’ll just dig my feet in and stop if I think we’re going too fast.’
Her eyebrows furrow beneath the hat.
‘What a view eh?’ Jennifer exclaims, looking out.
Her husband plods towards her, leaving the kids organising the position of the sled; his wellies leave deep footprints in the snow. His arms wrap around her shoulders as they look out at the snow-topped, Christmas-cake houses.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Jennifer replies.
‘Come on, Dad!’ their daughter shouts. She is sitting with her legs either side of Oscar, scarlet woollen scarf wrapped around her neck, while Oscar’s blue mittens clutch the reins.
‘I’m coming!’ The husband kisses his wife’s cheek. ‘Make sure you get a good picture!’ he adds over his shoulders, climbing onto the back of the sled.
Jennifer looks up at the monument, straightens the green scarf and steps up, taking out a camera.
‘One, two, three!’ her husband shouts.
‘Wait!’ But they have already started moving. Jennifer Jones climbs up to the next level in haste and aims the screen at their whoops of laughter. She sees them in the shot, the trees surrounding them weighed down with heavy snow, the scarlet scarf of her daughter flying behind them, but then the scene tilts, Jennifer’s foot slips from beneath her. And she falls, the crack of her head against the stone snapping at the same time as the camera: the aperture capturing the white of the snow, the green of her scarf and the river of blood flowing from Jennifer Jones’s temple.
My head hurts when I come to. A dog’s wet nose is sniffing in my face, making me recoil. I try to move but a man smelling of expensive aftershave is talking to me. At first, I can’t separate his words, the endings and beginnings crashing into each other like surf on the crest of a wave.
‘Stay still.’ The world around me is soft, like it is outlined in chalk and the artist’s fingers have smudged it. My mouth is dry, my body soaked in sweat. The dog licks my face again, but is berated by a voice behind it while an arm is fixed around me, sitting me upright, my back leaning against the base of the statue. ‘I think you’ve fainted, what’s your name?’
‘Jennifer,’ my lips say.
‘Right, well, Jennifer, are you hurt anywhere else?’
My head shakes the negative, even though there is a searing pain radiating from my ankle. My cheek is burning too but I’m not sure if that is just because I’m hot.
‘Here.’ I smooth my hair away from my head, take hold of the can of Coke he is offering me, lifting it to my dry lips and gulping it down. The dog licks my face again and I can’t help but smile.
‘Are you lost?’
I laugh at this and then check myself. ‘You could say that, but no, I’m local.’ I pull myself up but take his arm, wincing as I lean on him for a moment.
The man, Richard, helps me home and I chat easily with him. He has an easy-going manner, conversation flows smoothly, my limping is taking us longer to get home than usual and soon I’m talking about Kerry.
‘She sounds like an amazing sister.’
‘She was. That’s why I don’t . . .’ I pause, rolling around the words in my mouth, chewing them before swallowing. ‘I don’t understand why.’
‘Why she died?’ he questions. I nod, looking away. ‘And why you didn’t?’ The words that fall from his lips seem effortless, hinged with an understanding; they pull my gaze back. ‘I lost my twin brother to cancer when I was twelve, so I know something of what you’re going through.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I give his arm a gentle squeeze. ‘How did you . . . cope?’
‘I didn’t. I got into fights, was drinking myself into an early grave by my late twenties . . .’ He pulls the lead with his spare hand and the dog looks up at his owner with affection, tongue lolling out of his mouth. ‘I made my parents’ life an even worse hell than it was already.’
We’re almost at my house and so I stop walking. ‘So, what happened?’
‘I hit rock bottom
, almost drowned after throwing myself off Coletown Bridge. I had my stomach pumped and was forced to join AA. I never intended to get sober, but as I was coming out of my first meeting, I met my wife.’ A smile breaks out from beneath his skin, the landscape of his face transforming in seconds: the creases between his eyebrows softening; the crow’s feet around his eyes deepen. ‘She was late for a dance class and her purse fell out of her bag as she ran past.’ His smile is infectious. ‘I’ve been sober 2,196 days,’ he says with a hint of pride. ‘And we’re expecting our first child next month.’
‘Congratulations,’ I say sincerely. ‘I’m so pleased for you, for you both. This is me,’ I add, looking up at my house.
As his hand raises to knock the door, he pauses. ‘Everything happens for a reason, Jennifer. I know that means nothing to you right now.’ His eyes meet mine and there is deep understanding in his gaze. ‘Fate is an impossible thing to control, but if you can see past the pain . . . you will find reason there. If my brother hadn’t died, I might never have met my wife, we wouldn’t be having our baby. I’m not saying that one thing is better than the other, but I don’t think there was anything I could have done to change my life even if I wanted to.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Ed
Someone is hammering at the door. I reach for the clock: it’s only six a.m. The knocking repeats. My leg kicks across to Jen’s side of the bed but it’s cold; nothing new there.
I pull my boxers from the heap of clothes on the floor, and rush down the stairs. Hailey opens her bedroom door; her cheeks are red and she is rubbing her eyes.
‘What’s that noise, Daddy?’ Fredrick – her teddy – is hanging limply in her hand; his one eye is missing from a fatal incident with one of Oscar’s hot wheels.
‘It’s just the post lady, go back to bed, sweetie, it’s early.’ I place my hand on her back and return her to her room as another assault on the front door ensues. I know even as I fly down the stairs that something isn’t right. If Jen was here the house would smell of the fresh coffee that she can’t function without, the radio would be on in the background playing classical music quietly so as not to wake the kids. The house feels cold, and as I slide across the door chain, I realise that the kitchen window is wide open. I’m scared about this as my hand turns the lock on the front door . . . anyone could have climbed through it. Anyone could have got into our house. But that thought is pushed aside as the door opens and hanging on to a tall, well-kept man, who is a complete stranger, is Jen. And she’s bleeding.
Again. And again, fear spikes inside my chest.
There is a diagonal cut along her cheek lying parallel to her cheekbone, like some perfectly marred damsel in distress.
‘What happened?’ I reach for her, taking her out of the arms of the stranger as he ties his dog’s lead around the trellis.
‘Nothing, I’m fine, I just tripped, that’s all.’
‘I found her by the monument.’ His voice is rich; it suits the clothing and the perfect designer stubble.
‘On Hayworth Hill? What were you doing up there at this time in the morning?’ I guide her into the lounge. She is leaning her weight on me and limping, there is blood on her white vest and she is wincing every time she puts any weight on her foot.
I position her onto the sofa and thank the stranger.
‘It’s no problem at all . . . it was a good job that my dog is incontinent, that’s all I can say. She was out pretty cold for a few seconds.’
‘Out cold?’ My voice shoots up a couple of notches. ‘What do you mean she was out cold?’
‘I’m fine, Ed, I just need a coffee—’
‘She’s had a can of Coke on the way. My guilty pleasure, I’m afraid, but don’t tell the missus.’ He winks, laughs and pats me on the back as if we’re making small talk at a bar. ‘Speaking of which, I’d best be off. She’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ Jen interjects, looking up at this stranger as if she doesn’t want him to leave. ‘For everything.’
‘Take care, Jennifer.’
I find myself looking from one to the other and back again like a spectator. I thank the man who seems to have some kind of understanding with my wife, and see him out the door.
I take a deep breath and head into the kitchen, robotically turning on the coffee machine and reaching for the first-aid kit in the top of the cupboard before returning to Jen. My stomach is clenched into a knot. What am I missing? I mean, she’s doing everything that WikiHow says she should be doing: time outside, talking to people . . . but I’ve got to be missing something.
I don’t meet her eyes while I wipe her cheek with an antiseptic wipe; she flinches but I still don’t look her in the eyes. I don’t look because I’m scared of what I’ll find there.
‘So,’ I begin, ‘you went for a run?’ It sounds like I’m trying to make conversation, like this is normal behaviour, for her to leave the windows wide open while we sleep upstairs, like it’s normal for her to go for a run – a pastime that she hasn’t practised for years – at what must have been about half-four in the morning.
‘I needed to clear my head,’ she says, pulling her cheek away as I dab the wound.
‘So, what happened?’ I discard the bloodied wipe, open another packet with my teeth and continue. There is a fly behind me, I can hear it buzzing and see that Jen is tracking its movements up and down the lounge.
‘I think I was probably a bit dehydrated, that’s all. It’s been a while since I went for a run.’
‘It has,’ I agree and then take a piece of gauze and tape it over the cut with microporous tape. I’m about to get up when she grabs on to my hand.
‘I need to know why, Ed.’
‘Why what?’ I ask.
She stares over at the sofa as if she’s talking to someone else. ‘I need to know why.’
‘Why what?’ I repeat again.
‘Why my life was more valuable than hers.’
‘None of that matters.’ I kneel down in front of her until she turns her face to me. ‘It doesn’t matter why you’re here, what matters is that you are here.’
‘It’s not enough.’
She looks off into the distance again, her face twitching and frowning while she thinks it over. It’s starting to scare me, this looking off into the distance thing.
‘It’s not enough?’ I say, bringing her focus back to me. ‘Me and your kids aren’t enough?’
She blinks a tear away. ‘It’s not that, it’s just . . . I feel like part of me died with Kerry, like I’ve got a hole inside of me . . .’ she clenches a fist to her chest, ‘and it’s filling up with all these questions. Why am I here and Kerry isn’t? And . . .’ Her face grimaces.
‘And?’
‘Why was I so lucky? I know I sound crazy, Ed, but the questions just won’t stop.’
‘So, let’s get you some answers.’
‘Thank you.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jennifer
I’m in the garden before the rest of the world is awake; the sun is pushing its way up from beneath the heaviness of night. Kerry is pegging out clothes on the washing line, shaking one of Ed’s pairs of boxers out before hanging them up. I try to rub the sleep deprivation away with the heel of my hand. I’m thinking about what Richard said, about fate. Was Kerry’s death unavoidable?
‘Tell me another reason why you should be happy,’ she instructs from the side of her mouth as she holds a peg between her lips.
‘My house?’
‘OK . . . so what do you love about it and please don’t say your tea-towel drawer . . . nobody should iron their tea towels.’
I clasp the coffee cup in my hands. ‘I know I’m lucky to live in a nice area, that I have everything I need.’
‘That’s right, you do, but what makes it special?’
‘The hat stand. Ed wanted it, I didn’t, but then . . . we both fixed it up. It’s the first and last thing I always notice when I come and go.’
‘That I can imagine myself growing old in it. I can imagine me and Ed babysitting grandchildren.’
‘That’s better. Grandchildren and growing old . . . aren’t you lucky?!’
I nod. I am.
‘Jen?’
I blink.
The washing is gone and Ed is standing in the doorway, half-naked and rubbing his hair. I get up, wrap my arms around his waist and lift my chin so he can kiss me. He flinches at my cold hands, and takes them in his, blowing into them and holding them between his own.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘We’ll mention it at the doctor’s. Get you something to help with that.’
‘We?’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d come with you, I need to pick up my dry-cleaning in town anyway.’
‘OK.’
‘We can go to that café with the cinnamon buns first if you fancy it?’
‘Edward Jones, you always say the right words. You had me at cinnamon buns,’ I reply, closing my arms and thinking about all of the things that I should be grateful for.
‘Hello, Jennifer, and this must be Mr Jones, do take a seat.’ Dr Faulkner re-arranges her ballerina bun and pushes her oversized glasses up her nose. She looks as though she’s in her early twenties.
‘So . . . how have you been?’ she asks, smiling briefly at me over the rim of her glasses before returning her focus to the screen in front of her. ‘I see you stopped seeing the grief counsellor after only two sessions?’
I nod.
‘Wasn’t it helping?’
I shake my head. ‘She just kept repeating what I said and following it with “So how does that make you feel?” I just, well, it was hard enough coping without my sister that going to those sessions just felt like something else to add to the things I didn’t want to do.’
‘OK. And have you been sleeping any better? It’s always hard in the early stages of grief, so how is it now?’