If I Could Say Goodbye

by Emma Cooper

  ‘Pie and chips OK, love?’ Mum asks.

  ‘I’m not really hungry, I think I might—’

  ‘Sit down, Jennifer.’ As usual, Dad’s voice is insistent but somehow not confrontational, and I do as he says.

  I wait until the dinner is plated before I try to make small talk. ‘They say the weather is taking a turn for the worse.’ I concentrate on chasing the gravy around the plate with a chip.

  ‘We don’t want to talk about the weather,’ Mum says calmly. ‘We want to talk about you. Now—’

  Dad reaches for the salt, which Mum takes from him with a shake of her head; he sighs in response.

  ‘Start from the beginning. When did you first start seeing Kerry?’

  I push my plate away and stare at the pattern beneath the track I have made in the gravy. It’s blue and depicts a horse and carriage and a woman wearing a bonnet. ‘I don’t know. At first I thought they were just memories, you know? But then somewhere along the line they stopped being memories and started being . . . Kerry. When she first died, I kept talking to her, I couldn’t see her then, but I just wanted to know she was . . . OK. Even though she is dead. Crazy, right?’

  ‘No, love. We’ve all done that. I asked her to move the curtain.’ Mum cuts into her pastry. ‘That’s what you do when you’re grieving.’

  ‘Did she?’ I ask. My eyes are focused on the woman in the bonnet but I raise my eyes in time to see the look that passes between them.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see her move things.’ I look up to where Kerry is stealing a chip from my plate and dipping it into the gravy. I watch as the gravy swirls around it; I watch as a drip falls from the end as it disappears into her mouth with a grin.

  I blink.

  Kerry has gone and a skin has formed inside the gravy boat. Mum reaches her hand towards mine and holds it tightly.

  ‘What is she doing?’ Mum’s face is full of hope, for a snippet of ‘the afterlife’.

  ‘Dipping a chip into the gravy boat.’

  Mum grins but Dad’s cutlery clatters beside the plate. ‘There is nothing to smile about, Judith, what Jen is seeing is a hallucination, she is—’

  ‘But what if Jen isn’t sick? What if it really is her? We had the girls baptised, we—’

  ‘Enough.’ His tone is serious.

  ‘It’s not her, Mum.’

  ‘How do you know? How do you know that she hasn’t come back, that she doesn’t want to, you know, move on?’

  ‘Because she was vegetarian and would never have dipped her chip into the gravy. She never saw half of the movies that I hear her quoting from. Because she would never have come back and have me talking to thin air and be the cause of me losing my family.’

  I push back my chair and scrape the food into the bin and go back to bed.

  Ed’s fingers land on top of mine and I realise they are tapping nervously on the tops of my thighs. Dr Faulkner leans back, tips her head to one side and pushes her large, fashionable glasses further up her nose.

  ‘What I think we ought not to do is jump to conclusions. Mr Jones, I’ve no doubt that you’ve been Googling?’ She smiles kindly and Ed nods guiltily. ‘The internet is an incredible thing, but it can make hypochondriacs out of us all. I’m guessing the internet threw up some pretty scary diagnoses?’ Ed nods.

  ‘He thinks I’m schizophrenic,’ I clarify as she gets up and fetches her water bottle, taking a few sips as she sits back down.

  ‘I don’t, I’m just saying that is one of the things it could be.’

  ‘Is there any family history of schizophrenia? Mrs Jones?’

  ‘Jen is adopted,’ Ed interrupts.

  ‘I see.’ She swivels on her seat and taps this information into her computer. ‘Have you ever had any hallucinations like this before your sister died?’ She spins the seat back to face us.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Can you see your sister now?’

  My eyes flick over to Kerry, who is sitting on the examination table, raising her hand like she’s in school and saying ‘Here’. I nod.

  ‘Do you believe your sister is actually there?’

  I clear my throat. ‘No. I mean . . . I know she’s not actually here, but I also know that I can see her, if that makes sense?’

  ‘How do you know she’s not really there?’

  ‘Because the top she is wearing is hanging up in my wardrobe at home. She shrank it and gave it to me over a year ago.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ Kerry pulls at the black sleeves.

  ‘People with schizophrenia are usually convinced that what they can see is actually there. I’m not saying that it isn’t the case here, but . . . I think it is probable that your hallucinations are being caused by something else. Grief is a powerful emotion, Jennifer . . . tell me about how your sister died?’

  ‘She was hit by a car . . . saving me. It should have been me, I should be the one who is dead. It was my fault.’

  Her head tilts to the side; her sympathy for me is palpable.

  ‘Jennifer, deep grief can make the most rational of people become irrational and guilt . . .’ her head nods towards me, ‘guilt can eat you alive if you let it.’ She returns her attention to Ed. ‘Now before we can go any further with a diagnosis, we need to rule out any medical reasons for your wife’s hallucinations.

  ‘Are you taking any drugs?’

  Kerry snorts. Ed does the same. ‘As if!’ Kerry states.

  ‘What’s funny?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘Nothing really, it’s just that Jen is a bit—’

  ‘Square?’ Kerry butts in, drawing a square shape with both her hands.

  ‘Square?’ I question Ed with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Sensible,’ he corrects, reaching forward and holding my hand.

  ‘Well, we’ll do the test anyway, so we can cross it off for your referral to a psychiatrist. I’ll book you in for a CT scan too, again to rule out a few other things.’

  ‘Such as?’ Ed leans forward.

  ‘Personality changes can be caused by a brain tumour.’ I take a sharp breath in. She holds her hands up defensively. ‘But again, this is just a precaution so that we can rule it out. I would also like you both to keep a record of your behaviour. We might begin to see a pattern, and again, it can help us rule out certain disorders. Bipolar being one.’

  ‘OK,’ Ed and I say in unison.

  ‘Um, how long will it take until Jen sees a . . .’ he clears his throat, ‘psychiatrist?’

  ‘It can vary . . . I will put an urgent referral through, though, which may help to speed things up. But until then, I would like to see you once a week, Mrs Jones, just so I can see if there are any dramatic changes in your behaviour. Does that sound doable?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘In the meantime, I will write you a prescription for anti-depressants. Mood and anxiety can affect so many things; after a month or so we can reassess if they have helped.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK,’ Ed repeats.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Jennifer

  I’m finding the weekdays away from my family and the cacophony of the school run strangely full. Now that Kerry is out in the open, so to speak. The doctor has suggested exercise and so we are currently in the gym on a treadmill. It’s been a while since I’ve power-walked but I have to admit that I’m enjoying it, if I ignore the dry heat in the back of my throat and the strange puffs that are being emitted through my nostrils. I cast a glance in her direction: she has ear buds in and her silver plait is bouncing between her shoulder blades as she runs in her lycra without seeming to break a sweat. I, on the other hand, can feel damp patches beneath my arms and under my boobs, which are bouncing up and down like a pair of helium-filled balloons, my fringe is stuck to my eyebrows and I’m quite sure my face resembles a slightly overripe tomato.

  ‘Do you have to be such a show-off?’ I ask between gasps of air as she increases her speed.

  She pulls out her ear bud. ‘Pardon?’
<
br />   ‘I said . . .’ I swallow down another gulp of air, ‘do you have to be such a show-off?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ She grins.

  I turn my focus back towards the screen where my mileage is clocking up. ‘It’s no wonder you are so thin,’ I grumble under my breath. ‘I mean look at your bum!’ I bend my neck slightly to wonder at her perfectly round bum cheeks that are more like apples, whereas mine are more like overripe cantaloupes. And they’re as mottled. ‘Have you ever been worried about your weight?’ I carry on, even though the effort of speaking is making my voice sound strangled. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have, you’re one of those women who are perfectly comfortable with their shape and aren’t ashamed to flaunt it in the face of people like me.’

  ‘Are you trying to get thrown out?’ Kerry’s voice makes me jump. She is standing beside my treadmill with a towel around her neck. She unwraps a chewing gum and pops it in her mouth.

  I blink.

  On the machine next to me, and in Kerry’s place, is a lady of more generous proportions than Kerry, or, I should add, myself. A feeling of dread crawls through me as I replay the conversation I have just had with Kerry. My parting line of ‘you’re one of those women who are perfectly comfortable with their shape and aren’t ashamed to flaunt it in the face of people like me’ is holding my attention as heat flames into my cheeks. She throws a furious look in my direction; her bottom has more than a touch of the Kardashian and I realise with another flush to my already flaming cheeks that I have just been scrutinising it.

  ‘I, um . . .’ I begin as Kerry covers her mouth in embarrassment, ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’ The woman’s eyes have a rather feral look about them as she looks me up and down; her perspiring face resembles a colour somewhere between puce and ruby. She continues to pound her lilac trainers along the treadmill deck. ‘I have a . . . that is to say I’m not well, I was talking to my sister.’

  From beside me, Kerry grabs my earphones and shakes them. ‘Tell her you were on the phone!’

  ‘I was on the phone!’ I exclaim, louder than I had intended, making the woman recoil from me. Her head is pulling back, not unlike a horse in the face of an inconsiderate car horn. She alights her machine, ignoring my protests and apologies as she makes her way to the other side of the gym.

  Kerry snorts with laughter and then starts choking on her gum. I would pat her on the back, but she’s already dead, so what would be the point?

  ‘It’s not that funny,’ I say as Ed pulls into the cinema carpark for our date night. Mum and Dad are at our house watching TV and having a takeaway while the kids sleep so that Ed and I can have some time together.

  ‘If you say so. So what did she say to you?’

  ‘Nothing . . . she just sort of glowered.’

  His laughter is infectious, and I find that by the time we have bought our tickets, I’m laughing again too. He finally controls himself enough to tell me that my arse is nothing like a cantaloupe as we order our snack and take our seats.

  ‘Well that’s good to know.’

  I haven’t told him that Kerry has come on our date too; I didn’t think that mentioning my dead sister tagging along on date night would strike the right tone. We’re sitting in the middle of the auditorium; there is a space next to me which Kerry hunkers down in along with her tray of nachos. I have a tub of popcorn – salted and buttered – and Ed is hoovering a foot-long hotdog into his mouth; the lights dim and the trailers begin.

  A calm settles over me as we begin to watch. It’s almost as if everything is normal, as if this is just any other Friday night. On the screen, two lovers are discovering that they can never be together; the heroine is packing her bags while, unaware, the hot Irish male lead sleeps in the room above. I lean my head against Ed’s shoulder as the music builds and an accident befalls the hero. This is the type of film I would watch when Ed was away with work. Ed prefers action films or psychological thrillers. I look up to him, to where he is frowning slightly at the screen. This is the type of film that Ed and Kerry would pull apart, the type of film that right now I’m sure he is ripping open plot holes in and inwardly scoffing at the way the hero and heroine keep almost getting together but then something gets in their way. My hand flies to my mouth as the hero is told he is going blind and yet he decides to keep the news to himself.

  ‘Oh please!’ Kerry interrupts the tears forming in my eyes. ‘As if he wouldn’t just phone her.’ I turn my head to look at her, noisily slurping her drink and scowling at the screen. Ed crunches on his ice cube as I tell Kerry to shush from the corner of my mouth.

  ‘Oh come on, Jen, it’s stupid!’ She chomps on a nacho and shouts at the screen. ‘Just call the girl!’

  ‘You’re stupid,’ I smirk, and throw a handful of popcorn in her direction, a piece of which she catches and throws into her open mouth.

  ‘You OK?’ Ed asks.

  ‘Yes . . . You?’ I whisper back. He meets my eyes, the flashes of blue from the sky on the screen flickering as the shot pans to an aeroplane descending, the noise as it touches down on the runway pulling his attention back to the screen.

  Kerry sighs as the story moves on from the hero to the heroine opening the door to an old cottage somewhere in the hills. The blonde actress on screen reaches for the phone but decides not to use it.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake! Now she won’t ring him!’

  Beside me, Ed unwraps his sweet noisily as I quickly whisper back, my response hidden by the crinkling of his wrapper.

  ‘If she called him, there would be no story. Stop being a grumpy git.’ I throw another piece of popcorn.

  This is exactly how things used to be and I find myself smiling as I accept one of Ed’s packets of sweets, the wrapping crinkling noisily as I tear it open with my teeth.

  ‘Shush!’ a man sitting behind us implores.

  ‘Sorry!’ Ed throws over his shoulder, rolling his eyes at me as he turns back to the screen.

  The film continues, Kerry becoming so keen on her negative dialogue that I have to put my finger in my ear.

  A few moments later, a torch beam bounces along the aisle and is pointed at Ed and me. Next to the attendant is a woman with large hair and wild hand gestures. The beam dips as the attendant consults the woman, who is gesturing and pointing maniacally at us. I gulp as she picks out a kernel of popcorn from her hair and glares at me.

  ‘Um . . . Ed?’

  ‘Hmm?’ His gaze slides from the screen to the bouncing beam of light and the popcorn-kernelled woman. His eyes widen amongst the flashes from the screen; I’m not sure if it’s the colour from the screen or Ed’s pallor that has changed to grey.

  I look sheepishly up at Kerry, who is standing next to the petite woman. She has her arms arched over the lady’s head and is now pointing enthusiastically to the popcorn kernels ensnared within the backcomb and hairspray. I chew the inside of my lip as Kerry starts counting them loudly, laughing as she does.

  ‘Oh Jen! Jen! Look at that one! It’s buried right in there!’ Once she reaches six, Kerry bends over, her laughter so consuming that she has started snorting. In contrast, Ed’s face looks anxious. He leans in, speaking into my ear, but I can’t hear him, I can only hear the sound of the dramatic music from the screen and Kerry’s laughter. I glance up to where my sister – sniggering and looking more and more like she’s going to wet herself – narrows her eyes triumphantly as she spots another piece of buttered and salted.

  I blink.

  Kerry has disappeared.

  ‘Jen?’ Ed repeats my name.

  ‘I think I may have thrown popcorn at that lady.’ I look up at him with a grimace as his eyes widen in understanding.

  The lady in question is now gaining the attention of other cinemagoers. The faces from the flip-down seats flash red as an explosion explodes from the screen. The attendant ushers himself forward along our row.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, madam.’

  ‘There has been a m
istake,’ Ed begins, shifting his body to the edge of the seat, straightening his back. ‘My wife is ill and—’

  I look up at Ed, tears blurring my vision, the laughter that was bubbling in my chest just moments ago bursting, leaving nothing but a feeling of emptiness as I gather my things and make my way across the empty seats. I try to apologise to the lady waiting at the end of the row, but Ed steers me slightly away, stepping just in front of me, apologising on my behalf, offering to pay for the woman’s ticket. Her expression softens as she listens to his words. I can’t hear what he is saying; I’m watching the screen instead, wondering if the hero and heroine will finally get their happy ending.

  If only mine was as easy as their story.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Ed

  A routine has ordered its way into our life over the past few weeks. I get up early, make the kids’ lunches, write in their reading journals, iron their uniforms, take them to school, go to work, smile and shake hands, keep my head down, say the right things at the right times, drink coffee, pick up the kids, worry about why Hailey is so quiet, notice that she is becoming quieter with every day that Jen is away, that she has started to get angry and frustrated with simple things that she used to enjoy. I make the dinner – try not to make the chicken nuggets again, try to stop Oscar from helping himself to the biscuits when I’m not looking – bath them, FaceTime Jen so she can read them a bedtime story, say goodnight, blow them kisses as she goes on with her life without us but still with Kerry. I kiss the kids goodnight, clean up, work from home for another couple of hours to make up the time for leaving early for the school run. I call Jen again before bed. Sometimes we watch TV together, her in her bedroom at her parents, me on our bed at home. We say I love you; we say we miss each other.

  She says she’s getting better, but then tells me what Kerry thinks about the show on TV, laughing about how ridiculous her point of view is. I laugh too, as if this is all normal; I even throw in a few one-liners in response to some jibe Kerry has apparently said. I don’t say how every time she says the words ‘Kerry thinks’ or ‘Kerry says’ that it feels like parts of her are falling away from me. I ask if she’s taking her medication and she says she is; I tell her she’ll be home before she knows it. I run my plans for the weekend with the kids by her: the cinema is now a no go, so last weekend we went to the zoo, which was fine, I mean apart from a whispered over-the-shoulder conversation while we waited for the caterpillar ride and an outraged man who thought Jen was referring to him when she told Kerry that she was ‘such a dick’. This weekend we’re just having a day at Nessa’s because Jen says the tablets are making her ill.