by Emma Cooper
‘She doesn’t sleep,’ Ed interjects. ‘Well, obviously, she sleeps, but it’s always in small amounts. She fidgets all night long, as though she’s trying to run a marathon.’
‘I’m not that bad.’ I roll my eyes at the doctor. ‘What is he like?’ my face tries to say, but I can feel that I haven’t quite pulled it off. From the corner of my eye, Kerry is wandering around the room, leaning into the pictures on the walls, and yawning.
‘It’s like sleeping on a trampoline some nights.’
I turn to him, my mouth slightly open. I’m about to defend myself, but then I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes.
‘How is your mood, Jennifer?’
‘My mood? Good thanks, Ed bought me a cinnamon roll in the café before we got here and that’s always a good start to the morning, isn’t it?’ I laugh, then look at her toned arms and skinny thighs. I bet she’s been to a spin class this morning and had something green and liquidised for breakfast.
‘So, no loss of appetite, no mood swings or anything like that?’ I hesitate and ignore Kerry, who is peering over the doctor’s shoulder and reading something on the screen and eating a packet of chocolate buttons.
‘Nope.’ I smile.
‘Lack of libido?’
‘Definitely not.’ I give Ed a sheepish look and the doctor chuckles.
‘That all sounds good. So back to the insomnia, have you ever suffered from it before?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘So, explain to me, if you can, about how it feels when you try to sleep.’
‘I start thinking about the accident, and just lately, well, I keep having these thoughts . . . questions really, you know, why I’m here, and my sister isn’t, you know that kind of stuff, but that’s normal after you’ve lost someone close, isn’t it?’
‘Lost? I’m not lost . . . Hellooo? Earth to Jen.’ She waves her hands above her head.
I don’t let my gaze flicker to Kerry. ‘And it’s normal to be thinking about them, to be thinking about old memories?’
She pauses, sensing that I haven’t finished talking.
‘It’s just that—’ I clear my throat. ‘I think about Kerry a lot and I often find myself . . . daydreaming? Replaying good times with her, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes, that’s all perfectly normal,’ the doctor replies. ‘I think anyone who has lost someone so close will have those types of questions.’
‘Jen has also been . . . acting a little out of character,’ Ed butts in, and I try my very best not to scowl at him. I was just being told how normal I am, she was all smiley, and now look, her neat little eyebrows have gone all ‘concerned’.
‘In what way?’
‘Well . . . she’s been, um trying new things . . .’
I feel myself redden, thinking about the new position I had insisted we try last night; Ed almost broke his back.
‘Like going to theme parks and jumping off cliffs and—’
‘It was only a little jump,’ I reassure the doctor with a smile. ‘It was a place called Lovers’ Leap . . . have you ever been?’
‘No, no I don’t think I have.’
‘Oh, you should go, it’s beautiful isn’t it, Ed?’
He nods, his mouth opening to continue, but I jump in.
‘And Ed enjoyed it just as much as me, didn’t you?’
‘Um, yes, it was great. But then Jen went to the higher ledge and cut herself and—’
‘It was just a scratch. He worries too much, that’s all.’
‘And then she went roller-booting recently . . .’
‘I see.’ She smiles indulgently at Ed. ‘So, these changes are not dramatic?’
‘No, but she often stares into space and . . .’ His voice trails off as he turns to me, his eyes pleading with me to help him explain things better.
‘Right, I think the best thing we can do is to get your insomnia sorted first. It might well be that Jen’s moments of lost concentration are a side effect from lack of sleep. I’ll prescribe some sleeping tablets and then let’s book you in for another appointment in a month to see how you’re doing. Does that sound OK? And in the meantime, I’ll print off the NHS notes on bereavement for you both to look through. I think that it’ll reassure you both that what you are going through is very common. Talking about it and being open is key.’ She smiles at us both, hands us the print-out and prescription. ‘But, in the meantime, if you have any concerns, please book an earlier appointment.’
We spend that afternoon at Mum and Dad’s. Dad at the barbecue, Mum making virgin cocktails for the kids and positively pornographic ones for us.
Kerry and her notebooks are out again; she’s judging the kids’ efforts with a pen in one hand, notebook in the other. The kids have been making mud pies, marking them out of ten, adding some of Kerry’s scribbled-down suggestions: plain flour (not bad but gloopy), shampoo (looks good but a little sloppy), sugar (total disaster, too many wasps), until they found the winner, which was glitter and sand.
Hailey and Oscar soon tire of the fun and games and return to the kids’ channels. The sun is packed away by clouds that look like a slate roof, each swollen grey cloud slotting on top of another, while dirty-golden light tries to shine through the gaps, trying to get through, but the darkness is keeping it out. My parents and Ed head into the kitchen to wash up, so I go and sit on the tyre swing that Kerry has just vacated; the edges dig into the back of my thighs as I step backwards on tiptoes, before letting my body swing forward. I feel Kerry’s hands push my back, pushing me higher into the air.
‘You should have told the doctor more about me, you know, about how much of the time you think about us.’
‘I know,’ I answer as the force of my movements sends my hair flying backwards. The sky rumbles, the slate roof cracking open, releasing thick rich droplets of warm rain. I continue swinging; Kerry’s laughter fills my ears as the rain sticks my cotton summer dress to my legs, plasters my loose hair to my head. I find I am laughing with her, laughing at the way my body is flying higher, laughing because it feels good to be alive, laughing because I know she is dead and yet it’s almost as if I can hear her laughter behind me as my body swings forwards and backwards. I can hear hysteria licking the ends of my laughter, because I know, deep down, that spending so much time with my memories is wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ed
You know that feeling? That feeling when you look at your wife, husband, whoever, someone you know better than yourself but instead of seeing what everyone else sees, you see something else? If you were to look out of this window, this window with blue flowery curtains held back in those tie-back things and see a grown woman swinging on a swing, laughing and smiling, it might even look like something out of, I don’t know, Pride and Preji-bollocks but without the period clothing, or the tyre swing for that matter, you know what I mean; anyway, what I’m trying to say is that to anyone else it might look OK. It might look almost romantic how she’s enjoying herself so much that she hasn’t even noticed that it is raining. But. When you’ve noticed that the woman you love is starting to behave differently, irrationally, this woman swinging and laughing in the rain, wet hair flying behind her looks like something else. She looks . . . wrong.
Brian joins me beside the window. He glances up at his daughter; he watches her actions with unblinking scrutiny, his actions calm.
‘Judith, grab a towel will you, Jen is getting soaked.’ He throws me a sideward glance: we need to talk about this, we both know what we can see. Brian washes his glass and dries it with a tea towel.
Jen appears at the doorway to the kitchen. Her face is pale, like she’s seen a ghost, and she is soon wrapped up in a towel by her mother and guided upstairs to take a shower. Her mother is fussing, and berating her, telling her she should have come in sooner and what was she thinking? Jen avoids my eyes throughout the exchange.
‘She’s still grieving,’ I begin, filling the silence as Brian continues to look at the tyre sw
ing, the last of Jen’s momentum hanging on. ‘And I think the guilt of Kerry’s death is harder for her to cope with than any of us thought. Jen has so many questions: why Kerry died and not her, why Kerry saved her, why she’s even here in the first place.’
Judith joins us as I explain about the erratic behaviour, the insomnia, my worries. I look away from their faces. They stay silent, looking at each other with raised eyebrows.
‘Maybe now she has something to help her sleep . . .’ I can’t help but let my gaze slide away from Brian’s as I say, ‘and if she could, you know, get some answers, she might be able to control it.’
‘Control it?’ Brian asks sceptically.
‘She can’t control her grief; she couldn’t control Kerry’s death . . .’ I shrug my shoulders, embarrassed at the psychobabble coming out of my mouth. ‘I just think if we can give her some power back, give her something to focus on, then she can start to get better.’
‘But she is getting better,’ Judith says.
Brian, I notice, looks away from his wife and meets my eyes, understanding clear in his expression.
‘She’s much better than she was after Kerry died,’ my mother-in-law enthuses. ‘She didn’t talk or get dressed for days and there was that time when she wasn’t eating . . . she’s much better now.’
‘What answers?’ Brian pulls the conversation back, just as Jen walks into the room, but I can tell by his expression that he knows what I’m about to say.
‘Jen wants to know why she is alive when Kerry is dead . . . why Kerry saved her.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jennifer
It’s another Monday morning, another normal day where I am here and my sister isn’t, but it’s been a good morning. Ed brought me breakfast in bed; the sleeping tablets are working, but they make getting up harder than usual. Oscar has showed us how far he can fire a raisin from his nostril – over a metre, which is impressive – and Hailey has given us a squint-worthy rendition of ‘A Whole New World’ from Aladdin on her recorder.
Ed leans in, his lips brushing the skin just below my ear, as the click of the front door latch locks into place behind me. After I’ve dropped off the kids, I’m going over to Nessa’s to see how she is.
His long legs take the steps from the door to the pathway, his grey suit jacket is folded over his arm, his hands run through his blond hair as he unlocks the car doors with a click of the keys.
‘Ed—’
Panic fills me. It wasn’t there a minute ago. A minute ago, I was putting on my sandals; I was ushering the kids out of the door and into my open car. I hadn’t given a thought to Ed’s journey to work: I hadn’t pictured the other drivers in their metal coffins, half-asleep, half-alive, not paying attention to the way they are driving. What if something happens to him on the way there? What if this is the last time I see him? My feet run down the steps. He turns towards my voice, surprise in his eyes as I throw my arms around his neck, pull him close to me, grip the tops of his shoulder blades as he bends his body down to my height.
‘Don’t go. Don’t go to work.’ I pull myself away and meet his eyes. ‘Please, Ed, stay here, stay with me, we can keep the kids home, I won’t go to Nessa’s, we can—’ As I speak these words, the laughter and normality I had seen just a short time ago is gone, and the worry, the fear of shattering me is back.
‘I can’t, Jen. You know I can’t, and we can’t keep the kids from school.’ His voice is level, kind: guarded.
I swallow down the panic; I try to nod, to confirm that of course he should be going to work, of course the kids should be going to school. I want to tell him that I don’t want to be alone.
He glances at his watch. ‘Look, why don’t I drop you off at Nessa’s? I can take the kids to school.’ He doesn’t wait for my reply; instead he beckons the kids over from my car, sitting redundantly on the drive. Hailey is the first to open her door, followed by an excited-looking Oscar.
‘Are we going to Muddy Creek again?’ his excited voice asks as he arrives by Ed’s side, looking up at his dad expectantly.
‘No, matey, jump in the back. Mummy is visiting Nessa, so we’re going to give her a lift on the way.’
My feet walk around to the passenger side; I open the door and buckle the seat belt around me. It’s as though I’m watching these hands complete their actions from the outside. Is it really my brain telling them to do these things?
Oscar’s chatter fills the journey with facts about Riley Davies and how every dinner time he eats with his mouth open and it makes him feel sick. I pull down the visor and catch Hailey’s reflection: I notice she has put clips in her hair; two small navy bows sit neatly either side of her parting.
‘Your hair looks pretty, Hailey,’ I say to the freckled face framed in the small rectangle. Her long dark eyelashes flick behind her lenses as she meets my gaze, a hesitant smile lifting her cheeks.
‘Thank you. It’s the school photographs today.’
‘Oh yes, right. Of course it is.’
She pushes her lips together.
‘Well, make sure you give your one-hundred-watt smile.’
She nods and turns her attention to the view passing outside the car window.
I turn my head over my shoulder to surreptitiously look at Oscar’s appearance and my heart sinks. He has chocolate spread at the corners of his mouth and along the corner of his white polo-shirt collar. His hair is in need of a cut; why hasn’t his hair been cut? I take him every six weeks. I close my eyes and try to remember when I last took him. The car stops, my eyes opening, taking in Nessa’s house.
‘Have a good day, and remember your one-hundred-watt smile, Hailey.’ I don’t look at her as I say it; I don’t want to see the one-hundred-watt roll of her eyes.
Ed’s hand grabs mine as I reach for the handle; I turn to look at him.
‘I love you,’ he says.
‘You too,’ I reply and walk away from my family towards Nessa’s.
‘Hi. Jesus, you look like shite,’ I greet Nessa.
‘I haven’t slept . . . you?’
‘Like a log . . . it’s the tablets. Maybe you should try—’
‘I can’t. What if Erica needed me and I didn’t wake up?’
I follow Nessa into the kitchen. She is wearing a loose white shirt tied in the middle above denim shorts. I look down at my own jeans: there is a brown stain of something nondescript and the material of my black top is too thick for a day where the sun is shouting so loudly from the sky.
The kitchen is clean. The sun reflects in the silver tap as it spews water into the kettle, the room soon filling with the rattle and groan of the kettle while Nessa spoons coffee into a cafetière. The table is strewn with paper; a laptop perches on top of a notebook surrounded by several half-filled coffee cups. I nod towards the laptop as she passes me the sugar bowl. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good. At least that’s how it felt at three this morning, it might be a different story when I look at it in the harsh light of day, but that’s sleep deprivation for you, isn’t it?’ She adds water, the grains of coffee rising to the top as Nessa adds the lid and plunger.
‘Talk to her, Jen. You need to talk to her about how you’re feeling.’
Kerry is plunging the coffee down. Her hair is being held in place by a red-and-white-spotted head scarf, like the day she dressed up as a land girl for Hailey’s VE Day school fair: a pair of dungarees hang from her frame over a pale blue T-shirt.
I blink.
She is gone: the coffee is still percolating; Nessa is pouring milk into a jug and is arranging cups onto a tray. ‘Shall we go into the garden? You like your coffee strong, right? Kerry always plunged the plunger too early, didn’t she?’
Kerry sticks her tongue out behind Nessa’s back but the image fades, shudders, like the image of another train passing yours.
The sounds of the kitchen are becoming distant: Nessa’s voice runs away from me; I try to move towards it but I’m stuck; I’m paused. Nessa continue
s to move around the kitchen, the minute hand on the clock continues to tock, steam is still billowing from the kettle . . . but I’m still on pause. My eyes try to search the room for Kerry, but they won’t move; I need to breathe, but I can’t. A fly is bouncing in front of me, its jerky flight path zigzagging in front of my face. Nessa’s hand flaps it away, then her eyes meet mine, the panic I’m feeling reflecting in her eyes.
‘Jen? Jen!’
Red coat, red boots, emerald ring, car brakes and my name.
‘Jen? Oh God, Jen!’
I blink.
The play button has been pushed and I find myself clutching on to Nessa; my body is reaching for her, desperate to hold on; I don’t want the pause button to be hit again by mistake.
She holds me, as my body heaves and shakes, the tears salty along my lips as I repeat the words: ‘It should have been me.’
I don’t know how long I have been crying, how long I have been wrapped in Nessa’s arms on her kitchen floor. She hasn’t tried to move, hasn’t tried to talk; she has just held me.
‘We need to get you to a doctor, Jen,’ she says softly.
‘A doctor won’t bring her back.’ I pull away from her and wipe my face with my hands as she stands, holding out her hand to me, which I use to stand myself up. I smooth down my hair, suddenly embarrassed by my episode.
‘You won’t tell Ed, will you? That I’m, well, about . . .’ I flap my hands in the direction of where I had just been having a panic attack, ‘that?’
‘Jen . . . I don’t feel comfortable keeping something like this to myself, I—’
‘Please Ness, he’s worried about me enough. Look, I’ll change, have something to eat and then go home for a lie down . . . OK?’
She chews her bottom lip.
‘I promise I’ll tell him, just let me find the right time.’
She considers this and then gives me a quick nod.
‘Thank you.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ed
My phone rings, pulling my attention away from the Facebook analytics for our plastic-free hand sanitiser. I take the call, relieved to have something else to focus on.