by Emma Cooper
‘Shoot,’ I say.
Kerry blows the top off her imaginary gun and holsters it. An imaginary imaginary gun: I don’t know whether to be impressed by my subconscious or scared by it.
‘So, I’ve found out from my research that there are many reports of “grief hallucinations” in patients who suffer from complicated grief. Some studies have used MRIs to analyse the subjects’ brains while they’re shown pictures reminding them of the loved ones they’ve lost. The scans show normal responses in the areas of the brain linked with the hurt of losing someone. But the parts of the brain that show reward are also lit up, which might explain why the brain then begins to make these hallucinations. Does that make sense to you?’
I nod slowly. ‘My brain is making me see Kerry to keep me happy?’
‘Yes, I think it might be. The studies also showed that people who have some kind of conflict over the death of their loved ones are often more susceptible to these visions.’
‘So, someone who feels they are to blame for their sister’s death, for example?’ I give him a shy smile.
He nods.
‘It may feel to you that you have only been struggling with your mental health for these past few months, but if I’m right, you have been battling with complicated grief for almost a year.’ He pauses, giving me time to process his thoughts. ‘There is a silver lining to this though . . . in most cases, the hallucinations stop after around twelve months of the loved one’s death.’
‘That soon,’ I say, quietly allowing myself to glance in her direction.
Kerry is looking out of the window, not meeting my eye.
‘So Kerry will . . . move on?’
‘That’s what the research would suggest, yes.’
We fall silent for a moment as I process the implications of his diagnosis.
‘I’ve stopped taking the medication.’ The words fall from my lips abruptly, the weight of their lie releasing like a sigh.
‘Why?’ His tone is inquisitive not reproachful.
‘Because they weren’t working, because they made me and her ill, because . . .’ I don’t finish. Instead I start crying.
He passes me a tissue. ‘If this is complicated grief rather than a—’
‘Psychotic episode?’ I interrupt, smiling from behind my tears as he shrugs his shoulders apologetically.
‘Maybe we should consider a different path. If I’m right, if this is complicated grief, then you’re going to find losing Kerry again a very anxious time. Let’s go back to the antidepressants; I’ll see you three times a week for the foreseeable future and we’ll reassess in a few months. How does that sound?’
I nod, and blow my nose.
‘There is another kind of support you need, Jen . . . your family. Let them help you too.’
Tears start forming again and falling from my eyes, each tiny droplet filled with a different emotion: pain, grief, relief . . . they pour from me.
I imagine ripping up the pages of my notebook and throwing the plans for my own demise through the window. But as I picture the indentations of the blue ink, the peaks and descents of my handwriting, still visible beneath my scribbles, the curled edges of the paper rising and falling as they’re carried away by the breeze, I also know that soon . . . I will have to say goodbye to my sister.
‘Not long now then?’ Kerry says as we sit down next to the river. She blows over the rim of her hot chocolate.
I grip my own cup of coffee and take a sip. My eyes settle on the river, tracking a leaf gliding lazily downstream, while beneath, a furious current is dragging away everything that isn’t strong enough to hold on to its place. A couple walk past; they smile good morning at me. Me. Jennifer Jones, who looks like any other woman in her thirties, sitting on a bench, cradling a cup of coffee, her shoulders folding slightly against the chill the November midday sun can’t relieve. They don’t see the current beneath, pulling away the things that I can’t hold on to. I give Kerry a small nod; she’s leaving soon, I feel like I should offer her a small amount of acknowledgment.
‘So what shall we do?’
What do you want to do?
‘Come on, Jen, this is your chance to give me a good send off! Let’s make a plan!’
Life is what passes you by while others are too busy making grand plans.
‘Ooh, get you and your arty film quotes . . . I would have thought Blow was a bit too heavy for your tastes.’
It is, but Johnny Depp looks hot in it. I’m going to miss this . . . talking to you . . . or not talking to you, I suppose.
‘I know . . . but you’ll be able to get on with your life, Jen, without me holding you back.’
I turn to look at her but she’s walking away, swerving past a woman with shopping bags, the top of a box of Christmas cards poking out of the top. I used to be like that: I used to have the Christmas cards already written and ready to go by the end of November, Nativity outfits would be high up on my agenda and the turkey would have already been ordered.
I think back to Christmas when we were kids; how hard Mum and Dad must have worked to make those moments so special. One by one I replay the memories, just like the ones on our home videos, the TV screen blinking into action with the scenes that were never caught: Kerry scratching her head beneath a checked tea towel; a grumpy-faced shepherd; the way we would grin at each when Mum’s back turned as we shoved handfuls of Quality Street into our dressing-gown pockets so we could eat them hidden beneath our duvets with our torches and a magazine; Christmas mornings on our parents’ bed when we were young; the excitement of Kerry bouncing on my bed shouting, ‘He came! He came!’; on to the mornings when we were far too old to have stockings, but still found ourselves on Mum and Dad’s bed, legs tucked beneath us as we tore open the presents that Santa had brought: face packs, mascara, nail varnish and always a yo-yo, satsuma and walnuts. Icing-sugar-smeared faces with gapped-toothed grins as we decorated the gingerbread angels that always looked wonky; how we would swap presents behind our backs – a T-shirt, a lipstick – as soon as Dad started clearing away the wrapping paper. Memories that are precious, memories that I will still have even once she has gone.
I find that I’m crying as I look up to see her – my beautiful sister – as she briefly stops walking to stroke a golden labrador. She pulls an ‘isn’t he cute?’ look over her shoulder at me. She always wanted a dog. I close my eyes, trying to fold away the tears behind my eyelids; I try to tidy them, put them away, but before I can, I picture me and Kerry sitting on the sofa watching a Christmas film. We were drinking Baileys and eating a chocolate orange – straight from the fridge – like she always insisted.
‘One day, we should all go to Lapland for Christmas . . . I’ve always wanted to go on a husky ride . . .’
I open my eyes and watch as she blows me a kiss, puts her earphones in and walks along the path.
‘We can’t afford this, Jen.’
Ed is looking at the e-booking. His mouth is saying all of the responsible things that are going through his mind, but I can tell by the pull of his lips that he’s as excited as I am.
‘I know . . . but Lapland, Ed. And Dr Popescu said doing something I always wanted to do with Kerry is a good way to say goodbye and celebrate her life at the same time.’
‘Is he also going to pay for it?’ Ed grumbles.
I ignore him. ‘You’ve only got a few years of the kids being this age, where they can really experience Christmas as it should be. It’s on my credit card, not yours, and look at the price! It’s a cancellation.’
‘It doesn’t make a difference whose card it’s on. It’s our debt.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport, I might get hit by a bus before the bill even comes! We can pay it off when the kids are older.’ I dismiss his look of shock with a wave of my hand.
Kerry is licking her finger and flicking through the brochure. ‘Oh man, you get to go on a husky ride!’
‘Look!’ I reach for the brochure, taking it from her dead fingers. ‘We get t
o go on a husky ride!’
‘But . . .’
I know I’m bringing Ed round: he’s forcing his forehead into a frown, but I can see the laughter lines around his eyes. He turns the page; the lines crack their knuckles, ready to break free as he sees the picture of a little girl who resembles Hailey, in so far as she’s a girl and is wearing glasses. I may be stretching the resemblance part a little. The laughter lines relax; here we go. The page turns and there is a full two-page spread of the log cabin, the family of four, the presents beneath the tree. Ed has always been a sucker for Christmas.
‘OK.’ The laughter lines are released, a full-on massacre across his frown lines.
‘Woohooo!’ I jump up, pull his hands and make him join in the victory dance.
He glances up at the clock. ‘Shit, I’m late. I’ve got to get to work if I’m going to pay for this!’ He grabs his coat.
‘Oh, I forgot to check you’re OK picking up the kids tomorrow? I’ve got an appointment with Dr Popescu at three.’
My regular therapy sessions are really helping me; it’s good to be able to talk openly. Ed offered to come to the sessions too, but I enjoy the freedom they give me, and there is still the matter of the little white lie that I told him when I stopped the medication. I can be honest-ish with Ed about that now – he knows that my prescription has ‘changed’ to the antidepressants – but I’d really rather not open up the whole can of worms, not yet. Besides, I get the impression Ed doesn’t really like Dr Popescu – I can’t imagine why.
‘Yep! Got an alarm set on my calendar!’ He gives me a hasty kiss. ‘Just promise me you’re not going to have an affair with him!’
‘Promise.’
And off he goes, marching out of the house whistling ‘Jingle Bells’.
I love my husband so much sometimes it hurts.
Look at how happy he is!
I resist the urge to wink at Kerry as Nessa knocks at the door.
Are you ready?
‘I’m not here, dummy, I could go to the cinema with you both butt-naked and nobody would know. In fact . . .’ She begins taking off her shoes.
Don’t you dare! I said I would go to a scary film with you because you’re about to kick the bucket, I did NOT agree to going with you in your birthday suit.
‘Spoilsport.’
I laugh.
‘Hey, you ready?’ Nessa asks.
‘Come in, yeah . . . just let me grab my coat.’
‘Are you’re sure you want to do this? You do remember that you almost didn’t watch Game of Thrones because you were scared of the White Walkers, right?’
‘I know but, well, YOLO and all that.’
‘YOLO?’
‘Yeah, you only—’
‘I know what it means but you’ve never really been a . . .’ she finger-quotes, ‘“YOLO” type of woman.’
‘Well it’s time to change that.’
‘OK, then these are the rules.’ She begins ticking them off her fingers. ‘One: no looking away from the screen. Two: no hiding behind your popcorn. And three: no going to the loo when you think something scary is going to come on.’
‘Can I hold your hand?’ I ask as I throw my phone into my bag.
‘You can, but no getting fresh.’ She grins as her phone pings, hailing a message. I watch a slow, deliberate smile cross her face as her fingers flutter across the screen.
Kerry leans over her shoulder, swallowing down a sour piece of orange. Her eyebrows rise.
‘Who are you texting?’ I ask, pushing my arms into my jacket.
‘No-one.’
‘Well that no-one is making you smile like a Cheshire cat. What is a Cheshire cat, anyway?’
‘It’s from Alice in Wonderland.’
‘But why is it from Cheshire?’
‘No idea.’ Her fingers finish fluttering and she slips the phone into her back pocket.
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘You know what . . . Who is making you smile like a cat?’
‘Like a cat? That just sounds odd, doesn’t it? Maybe Cheshire is a funny place or something?’
‘Stop avoiding the question.’
‘It’s a . . . friend.’
‘A friend?’ I grin. ‘Like a girrrrlllfriend?’
‘Oh shush.’
‘Oh my God, you’re blushing!’
Kerry slams the rest of the orange into the bin, the stainless-steel clang of the lid closing ringing around the room.
‘It’s . . . look, it’s early days yet. She’s a writer. We were both working in the pub and got talking. It’s no big deal. Right, let’s go before we miss the start. I hear that the first five minutes is terrifying.’
‘Right. Good. I mean, the scarier the better.’
Nessa walks ahead of me and I stop myself from turning to my dead sister and checking that she’s OK, that she is happy that we are all moving on without her.
Chapter Seventy-One
Jennifer
‘OK, so . . . our killer playlist,’ Kerry begins, sitting next to me on the sofa.
You. Are. Hilarious.
I know.
This is one of the things that Dr Popescu has suggested in preparation for Kerry’s . . . departure. We’ve spoken more and more about complicated grief and the more I hear about it the more I want to believe that this will be the way to get my life back . . . because if Kerry doesn’t go, well . . . I push back the image of the page in my notepad, the page with stained carpets and—
‘Well, obviously we’re going to go with Aretha first . . .’
I add ‘Respect’ to the playlist, scrunch up my nose and close my eyes, trying to think of songs that remind me of Kerry. Oh, I know!
I add ‘Someone Like You’ by Adele to the list.
She peers over my shoulder at my phone screen and laughs. We’d played that song over and over the first time we got drunk together. She starts singing, begging not to forget me.
I laugh. Chance would be a fine thing.
‘Can you remember the colour of my sick? It was bright orange.’ She shudders. ‘It was ages until I could stomach another cheese puff after that night.’ But a smile remains on her face. ‘I was only sixteen, it was very irresponsible of you.’
It’s a life skill! That’s why I was making you eat plenty of cheese puffs, I say in my defence. I was giving you weak white wine with lemonade, I didn’t know you were sneaking into the kitchen and helping yourself to Dad’s whisky every time I went to the loo.
‘Ooh, how about Olly Murs? You had such a crush on him!’
I still do.
‘What was that Bruno Mars song we played in the car the day you passed your driving test and took me to Barmouth?’
‘Grenade’?
I add that to the list.
Once we’ve exhausted our musical memories, finally adding Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’ – a memory of a drunken night at a karaoke bar where I declared my love for Ed in front of a busy pub on New Year’s Eve – I sync the speaker, hit shuffle on my phone, and turn up the volume. With elaborate dance moves and enthusiastic smiles on our faces, we start singing along to Olly while he asks if I want to dance with him tonight.
‘Ooooh-hooo-oooh-uh-oh-oh-baby!’ I warble as Ed and the kids come into the lounge. I take Ed’s hands and swing him around as the kids start jumping up and down on the sofa.
‘Are we having a party?!’ Hailey asks mid-air. Ed spins me around and bends me backwards, a laugh caught in my throat. Kerry is shoving a handful of cheese puffs into her mouth while her head bobs from side to side to the music.
‘Kind of!’ I shout back as Ed pulls me back up.
‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T!’ Aretha begins. Oscar stops jumping, his face forming one of concentration while he tries to spell the letters into a word.
‘R-E-P-T-T?’
Kerry stops with a puff half-way to her face. ‘How does your son not know this song?’ She shakes her head in mock disappointment.
‘Re
spect, dummy!’ Hailey tells him mid-bounce.
‘Mummy, watch this!’ Oscar star-jumps off the sofa. Ed pulls me into a slow dance. Kerry twists the top of a bottle of beer and takes a slug, dancing behind us, with her eyes closed, lost in the moment, swinging the bottle as she does. My head rests on Ed’s shoulder as he dances with me. I close my eyes and concentrate on this moment: the feel of Ed in my arms, the grins on the kids’ faces as they bounce up and down on the sofa and the image of my sister singing. My eyes open as Ed pulls back from me.
‘Why have you got the conga on your playlist?’ he asks, humour creasing around his eyes.
‘Butlin’s.’
‘Oh God, the night of the sambuca?’
‘And the night I got pregnant with Oscar,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m amazed I was able to perform.’
‘It was conga night . . .’
‘It sure was.’ He winks and I laugh.
‘Come on!’
Kerry stands in front of us, turning her back and gesturing me to put my hands on her shoulders. I wish I could. Instead, I turn my back to Ed and pull his hand to my waist. Ed shouts instructions to the kids to join our conga line as I lead them through the lounge, Ed and I singing loudly and ‘Oh-eh-oh-ing’ up the stairs, circling the middle of each of the bedrooms before finally snaking back down the stairs into the lounge, where we all slump onto the sofas in a fit of giggles.
The playlist moves on to Bruno Mars. My heart hammers in my chest as Kerry begins singing into her beer bottle, her face changing from amusement to serious intensity as she looks me straight in the eyes, beginning to repeat the lines of the song: she would catch a grenade for me, step in front of a train for me . . . she would die for me, she tells me slowly, putting down her beer bottle onto the mantelpiece.
‘Please don’t do the same.’ Kerry echoes Bruno as the playlist finishes.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Ed
‘I don’t know why anyone would enjoy it!’ Jen says as she double-checks the locks on the front door for the third time. ‘I mean, the guy was normal, all geekily shy, endearing and then . . .’ she shivers, ‘you hear his inner dialogue and he’s all . . .’ She shudders again. Jen has been enjoying a round of horror films since her trip to the cinema with Nessa. She had popped her horror-film cherry and now couldn’t get enough – Jen’s words, not mine. But we’ve just watched a box-set on Netflix about a stalker and it has turned her off.