by Emma Cooper
The teacher turns to me. ‘Well you’ve done a brilliant job, both of you!’ He claps me on the back, sips from the plastic cup and goes on to the next table, where what looks like a giant penis is perched precariously. I feel smug that there is no longer even a hint of the phallic about ours.
‘Yours looks awesome, Hales . . . way better than the rest.’ I look towards where another volcano is belching something that looks like wallpaper paste onto pieces of newspaper; other miscellaneous pieces of debris are sticking to it as it puddles beneath the desk amongst a flurry of teaching staff brandishing blue paper towels.
She giggles and covers her mouth. ‘When are you going to set it off?’
The little plastic vial containing vinegar sits neatly inside a papier-mâché rock, waiting for its big moment. ‘I was going to wait until Mr Newton comes over.’
She leans forward and whispers, ‘I heard that he gives out big chocolate bars to the ones he thinks are the best.’
We fist bump and the room hushes as the headteacher taps the microphone and announces that it’s time for the budding scientists to leave their own stations and go and see their fellow scientists’ work. Hailey skips from behind her desk and leads me around the room. I notice as we do that her voice is much quieter than at home. Each time a teacher or an adult asks her a question, her shoulders fold inwards, like she’s trying to make herself smaller than she already is; her replies are barely audible above the din.
‘Holy cow!’ I say as we approach a working model of the water cycle. It looks professionally made, stainless steel cogs turning and moving a cloud across a Perspex background. There is no way a kid has made that. ‘Whose model is that?’ I ask, leaning forward, peering over the mechanics that are moving the river around. There are even sound effects: birds calling, a stream gurgling.
‘Oh, that’s Rachel Rodriguez’s.’ Hailey bites the skin around her thumb and gestures towards the pretty Spanish girl across the other side of the room. The other girls are hanging off her like expensive handbags.
‘Well, the teachers won’t be fooled. It’s clear that the kid had no input whatsoever.’
The teachers won’t be fooled, right? A knot forms in my stomach. I know I’m being competitive – I can see it in the amused smile Hailey is looking up at me with – but my daughter has spent hours on this project, and right now she needs a win. Just. One. Win.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Jennifer
My hand is shaking as I fasten my seat belt. I look down at the phone and reread the school text message that I had ignored, alerting me to Hailey’s science fair. It rattles around my head, clattering around my thoughts like stones in a sieve. How could I have missed this?
I give the address of the school to the driver. The thought of Hailey not having a parent there makes my heart ache. I have always made sure that there has been someone at all of my children’s special days. If Ed or I couldn’t make it, it would be Mum or Dad. But I know Ed wouldn’t have thought of that. It’s not his fault; I always organised that side of things and he’s got so much on his plate. As the car banks around a cyclist, I give myself an internal shake. I’ll get a diary, a hand-held one like I always used to. I think of the diary that I always had in my handbag, shopping list at the ready, doctor’s appointments, hairdressers, play dates, all written down . . . it used to be so easy. As we pull up outside the school and I open my bag, I notice that not only is there no diary, there is no packet of tissues, no mini first-aid kit, no hand sanitiser and travel pack of baby wipes, no power bank in case of emergencies . . . there is just my purse and some Juicy Fruit chewing gum.
Outside the school there are pushchairs parked in cluttered lines; the deputy head is standing by the door like a bouncer. I garble something about science, and he ushers me through to the hall. I scan the crowd but can’t see Hailey, so I follow the cage of displays housing frothing experiments and folded up pieces of cardboard scripted with the names of the children, followed with the letters ‘PhD’. All the children are wearing white lab coats and safety goggles hang around their necks.
I spot Hailey’s name and feel a lump of pride warm in my chest. It must have taken her ages to make it. My finger traces the grooves running down from the vent, the paintbrush marks where the crater circles the edges of a plastic bottle filled with – if memory serves – bicarbonate of soda.
‘This is so cool! Look at all the detail!’ Kerry fingers a small tree trunk with gravel circling its base. ‘Look inside the boulder!’
I reach into the lump of papier mâché made to resemble a rock next to the volcano. Nestled inside is a small bottle of something orange; I recognise the bottle, it was part of the perfume tester kit that Ed bought me from Oscar last Mother’s Day. I watch Kerry unscrew the lid and peer into the volcano.
‘Oh, I’ve seen this on telly! You pour the vinegar and paint into the bicarb and then it all erupts!’
‘I think we should wait until Hailey is here.’
I try to scan the room again but all I can see is the centre of the volcano.
I blink.
Again I try to focus on the crowds, but my vision is drawn to the centre of the volcano, which has begun to bubble. The sound of a gasp from the teacher next to me slaps me. Kerry has gone and I am holding the bottle. The volcano is erupting: running down the clay rivulets is orange foam; the slow trickle is gaining momentum and begins rolling off the edge of the board and onto the floor.
I feel sick.
The teacher next to me disappears for a brief moment, reappearing with a huge roll of blue paper towel. I crouch down and begin wiping the floor. My heart is thumping in my chest, in my ears, in my throat.
I hear my name but it’s as though it’s dampened, like the treble, the sharpness, has been wrapped up in a damp towel and hidden in the corner of a room, to be dealt with again at a later date.
The room snaps back into focus, the towel unwrapped and shaken, throwing the clarity, sharpening the edges of my name, around the room. Then I see her. I see my daughter, the daughter who would only sleep in my arms when she was a baby, who had my name on her lips if she fell, my name ready to call when she wanted to show me something she was proud of, looking at me; my daughter looking at me as though I’m a stranger.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Ed
We’ve almost done the full circuit when we see it. Just as before, blue paper towels are being flapped about; teaching staff are laughing good-naturedly at the trials that come with a job working with children. You know that feeling when, I don’t know, like when you’ve knocked a glass off the table and there is that split second where you know there is no way of stopping it from smashing, but you still try to grab it? That’s how I feel right now. Only it’s not a glass that is going to be destroyed . . . it’s my daughter.
‘Never work with animals or children, isn’t that what they say?’ Mr Newton is laughing. Hailey’s hand slips into mine; any embarrassment about doing this in front of her peers has gone and the need, I suppose, to have my reassurance takes precedence as we hurry towards her desk. The crowd of hunched staff begin to stand and step back, Mrs Park looking anxiously around, her eyes resting on Hailey with a sad smile. The crowd and paper towels disperse, leaving a figure on all fours desperately trying to rectify a mistake, trying to tidy the mess of poster paint and bicarbonate of soda. Jen is whispering urgently to the space next to her, her hands scrubbing the floor, the panic in her face making her look even more crazy than usual.
‘Jen,’ I say. It’s not a question, not a greeting, just a statement. My voice seems to bring her to the here and now; her eyes refocus and land on Hailey’s pale face.
‘Hailey!’ She stands, twisting the blue paper in her hands into knots. ‘This is wonderful! Aren’t you clever? I’m sorry . . .’ She turns back to where the orange food coloured froth is trickling down the side of the volcano. ‘I think I put too much vinegar in.’
Hailey steps forward and looks up at her mother. ‘It’
s OK, Mummy.’ She wraps her hands around Jen’s waist and hugs her, her face turned into Jen’s tummy. Thankfully, she misses the giggles from the Spanish girl and her group of accessories on the other side of the room. The girls are wearing lip-gloss even though they’re only eight. Hailey doesn’t hear the words whispered in ears or see the spiteful fingers pointing over to where orange sludge is already dripping onto the laminate flooring.
Hailey’s face looks up to me for guidance, but I don’t know what to do. I’m her father, and I can’t fix this for her; I can’t stop the people in the room from looking in our direction; I can’t stop any of it.
This can’t go on.
My kids are never going to win if their mum is losing.
Chapter Sixty
Ed
I’ve been sitting outside Nessa’s house like a frigging stalker for the best part of an hour. Raindrops are falling slowly against the windshield as I sit here. No doubt the neighbours will be thinking of calling the police if I don’t get my arse into gear and do something.
Come on, you idiot. Get a grip.
Across the road I watch a couple walking hand in hand, their steps quickening as the rain gathers momentum, their walk turning into a skip, a run, laughter following them. I think about the journey back from the science fair as we all sat in silence; even Oscar was quiet. How I guided my wife from the car and into her mother’s arms, briefly explaining to Brian in hurried and hushed tones what had happened at the school. How I sat on Hailey’s bed reading to her until she finally fell asleep, her eyes puffy from crying behind a locked bathroom door.
I jump as Nessa’s hand thumps the passenger window. I reach for the window control, sliding it downwards, letting the sounds and smells of rain on tarmac into the car.
‘Do you want to come in?’ she shouts above the din. Her hair is covered in one of those plastic covers that my nan used to wear; it looks oddly cool on her head.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply honestly, leaning over the hand brake.
‘She’s not here.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m putting the kettle on,’ she answers and hurries back into her house, her feet zigzagging along the path and hopping over puddles. I slide the window back up and drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I turn the ignition back on and then off again. If I go in there, if I find out the truth, will I still be able to be the husband my wife needs right now? Does she deserve me to be? I toss the keys between my hands, pull up the collar on my coat and walk into her house.
I sit down at Nessa’s kitchen table, and she places a cup of coffee in front of me. I thank her, blowing over the rim, and try to stop myself from shaking. I’ve never really shaken before a conversation, not even when I asked Jen to marry me, because, I suppose, I already knew she would say yes. I notice the school letter about a trip to a local farm. The return slip is missing; Erica must have taken it back today. I make an exhausted mental note to make sure I fill in Oscar’s.
Nessa sits down opposite me. In contrast to Jen, Nessa looks well, made-up, ironed, fresh.
‘Do you love her?’ I ask. I have no control over these words, and I find my face has arranged itself into something that resembles astonishment or shock. Probably both.
‘Ye-es.’ The word rolls forward, lilting at the end like a question. Nessa squints at me like I’m mad.
‘Because if you love her, you will see that this isn’t what she needs right now, she needs stability not, not—’
‘Ed, what is this about? Has something happened?’
I take a sip of my coffee, which goes down the wrong way so I spend the next minute coughing and spluttering and waving my hands. Control regained, I continue. ‘I saw you both . . . together . . . in the pool. The day you made the cardboard house.’
She tilts her head, her eyes looking upwards as if trying to recollect something. Then realisation dawns and her hand flies to her mouth.
I expected a reaction, but I didn’t expect her to try and hide laughter.
‘Oh, God.’ Both hands fly in front of her eyes now, like the beginnings of a game of peek-a-boo. She’s laughing loudly, and I honestly don’t know what to do with myself. ‘I bet you got a shock!’
‘Well . . . yes, I—’
‘We’d had a few drinks.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Naked Macarena, now there’s one to tell your grandkids.’
Naked. Macarena. Two words I wasn’t expecting to hear today. Nessa stops laughing and looks at me.
‘You’re not angry, are you? Jen said she had never played naked in a paddling pool and, oh I don’t know, it was a good idea at the time. I’m mortified you saw it though! What must you have thought?’ She shakes her head in a, I suppose, good-natured way.
‘I, um, I didn’t see the Macarena.’
‘Thank the Lord!’
‘I saw you both, you were . . . entwined.’
She seems to register my tone, my face. ‘Entwined? Oh, Ed . . . tell me you didn’t think? That Jen and I were—’
My face must conclude that ‘that’ was indeed what I thought.
‘But Jen’s not gay, Ed!’
‘I know, but I thought, I thought, she’s not herself, she’s—’
‘That doesn’t mean you suddenly turn gay! Oh, Ed.’ She reaches over and holds my hand. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking that Jen and I have been having an affair?’
‘No, yes, I don’t know. I don’t know what to think any more.’
She holds my face in her hands and kisses my cheek. ‘You stupid, beautiful man. Jen has been in love with you ever since you met. Do you know that she spent two hours walking around with a hair repair kit the day before you were coming? That she was pruning and pampering like a teenage girl just because you were coming over?’ She kisses my head and gets up. Then she tells me about what happened when Jen couldn’t see Kerry, when she thought she had lost her.
‘Jen needs you now more than she ever has, Ed. She wants to choose you, but in order to do that . . . she has to choose to kill her sister.’
Chapter Sixty-One
Jennifer
Ed is the type of man who can make it feel like the sun is shining when outside the rain and wind are throwing things around, desperately shouting for your attention. He is the type of man who will step into an argument and calm it . . . pouring oil over troubled waters. He is the type of man who can make you feel loved, safe, worthy even though you know you are acting irrationally because you’ve only had an hour’s sleep, or you have just had one of those days that tarnishes your routine with bad decisions.
My husband is not the type of man to abandon his wife. But he is the type of man who will protect his family. No matter what. That is why, when he is explaining why he never told me about the science fair, I know he is telling the truth.
We are sitting in our lounge. The wallpaper is made of stripes: beige, grey, silver, beige, grey, silver. I stare at the repeating lines: so straight and neat, so tidy and organised. Just like my life was when we chose them. The list of wallpapers that had been narrowed down into a shortlist, my handwriting clear and precise. Lists used to give me pleasure – even my day to day routine was written down in a list – but I don’t think I would be capable of even finding a notepad right now.
‘Do you understand, Jen? It’s just until you get better . . . the kids are seeing too much. We’re going to fight this, you and I, but the kids need to be protected.’
He reaches into the backpack that he seems to carry around with him wherever he goes and opens a packet of tissues, handing me one. I will my fingers to reach for them, but they don’t move. He leans forward and starts to wipe my face like I’m a child. The texture of the tissue feels rough on my face, like sandpaper. I wish for a moment that it was, that he could rub away this broken layer and reveal smooth new skin, skin that’s not warped and brittle.
‘I’ll tell the kids that you’re going on holiday with your parents. I’ll tell them they can’t go becau
se you have to help with Grandpa’s back and I have to work. They’ll understand.’
I want to reply but my mouth remains closed.
‘I’ll come and visit you every day, I’ll take you to the doctor’s, I’ll help you. You’re not going to do this alone.’
My hand twitches and reaches for the open packet of tissues on the sofa. And I begin wiping away his tears. I’m not sure he knows that they are running along the curve of his cheeks, that they are glistening on his lips. The room is silent; we stare at each other, trying to wipe away the layer of guilt that is covering us.
‘Are we really going to do this, Ed?’ I ask. I can see how much this is hurting him; his words are trying to be controlled but instead they come out in a rush.
‘We-don’t-have-a-choice.’
I glance up at Kerry, who mouths the words, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat.
Ed opens his mouth as if he’s about to speak but instead pulls me into his chest, where I can feel him shuddering with the sobs he’s trying not to let me hear.
I don’t know how long we’ve been walking but Kerry and I are sitting on top of Hayworth Hill.
‘You have to do it, Jen,’ Kerry says again, but no matter how many times she says it, I still don’t know how I can. ‘You have to let me go.’
‘I don’t think I’m strong enough,’ I reply.
‘You’re stronger than you think.’
‘Really? Do I need to remind you of the state of my life right now? Losing you once has cost my family, my sanity . . . my life.’
‘You still have a life; you know you do. You have to let me go. Think about that day, the last day you were happy. You think you can’t be that happy again because I won’t be there? Right?’
I nod.
‘But imagine that day without them, Jen. They’re here, they’re alive, they need you . . . they need you more than I ever have.’