by Emma Cooper
I follow her up the stairs, pulling my dressing gown around me. Yep, I’m Dad-who-wears-a-dressing-gown; he’s not quite as cool as Park Dad, but is still infinitely cooler than Dad-who-wears-slippers. I’m freezing, and we haven’t even left England yet; God only knows how I’m going to cope with being in Lapland. We fly in a week’s time, the anniversary of Kerry’s death and two weeks before Christmas. When the tickets came, my heart sank; how was I going to tell Jen? But she already knew, of course she did. She said it was the best way to spend the day, that we’d be so busy travelling and finding our luggage that she wouldn’t have time to think about it.
I walk behind Jen into the bathroom; I pee while she brushes her teeth, intermittently continuing the conversation between brushes and spits. ‘Can you imagine what must have been going through the writer’s mind? I bet she didn’t sleep for months.’ Jen puts her toothbrush under the running tap as I shake, flush and wash my hands.
She is still chatting about it as we climb into bed. I spoon behind her, pulling the duvet tightly around us and tucking her fleecy-bottomed legs towards me.
‘Ed . . . do you think Hailey is too young for us to tell her about stalker types?’
‘Yes. Go to sleep, we’ve got loads to do tomorrow.’ I yawn and close my eyes. My lids are heavy, my eyes gritty and sore after a day looking at spreadsheets. But Jen is fidgety and rolls over to face me. I open one eye.
‘If . . . if say, something happened to me, you know like I got cancer or something, you’d tell her about stuff like that, wouldn’t you? And Oscar too?’
‘Yes. Now go to sleep, woman.’
‘Did you get the crisp packets out of the oven?’
I groan. ‘No . . . I’ll get them out tomorrow.’
Our life has become filled with the oddities of Kerry’s notebooks. We do a challenge a weekend; this weekend is to shrink various crisp packets to see which ones are the best brand. I’m betting on Walkers, Hailey on Monster Munch, Oscar has gone for Skips and Jen is abstaining as she admits to remembering the winner. Tomorrow we are hole-punching them and adding them to keychains – already ordered from Amazon and waiting patiently inside a jiffy bag.
Working through Kerry’s books has often made a normal day into an extraordinary one. If I’m honest, at first I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing for Jen, you know, to be so absorbed in Kerry’s world, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Dr Pepper came up with a good suggestion that Jen keeps these activities to once a week; I mean I don’t like the guy, but it was a good idea. It gives Jen focus, gives her time to absorb the memories of whatever mad obsession Kerry was having that week. Most things we can keep to a weekend, but the Making Daddy Scream one, that lasted for the whole week.
My first was a solid seven (Hailey hiding in the cupboard under the stairs wearing a ‘Scream’ mask we had from Halloween). The second, I’d give a five . . . clued into their plans, I was on my guard as Jen put two ice cubes into my boxers; the third was a nine, no doubt about it: a bucket of iced water over my head while I dozed on my favourite deckchair in the last of the autumn sun.
Porridge testing was a good week. Double cream and maple syrup won hands down over the salt version preferred by our neighbours in the highlands.
The assault course week was . . . interesting. I did my back in trying to shimmy beneath Brian’s old fishing net, Jen got her foot stuck in a plant pot, and Oscar gave Hailey a black eye when he tried to push past her on the slippery slip (a piece of plastic laid down and covered in washing-up liquid).
We’re getting to the ends of the notebooks now. I’m not sure how Jen will cope with more of Kerry’s absence after we do. So I’ve planned a few of my own memories of Kerry to help ease the transition . . . like the first time I went to watch her skating with Jen, how she jumped and spun across the ice while I hung on to the edges. I thought we could do that a few times a month; maybe Hailey or Oscar would want to join skating classes. In the meantime, we have the Christmas holiday of a lifetime to ease our way into a life without Kerry.
Today has not been an extraordinary day . . . it’s been an ordinary Friday. We’ve had breakfast, I’ve been to work, Jen’s taken the car for its MOT, picked the kids up, ordered a curry, drunk a bottle of wine, watched an – admittedly – creepy box-set, washed up, locked doors, brushed teeth. Today hasn’t been extraordinary, but thinking back to my wife a few months ago . . . for her to have overcome the things she was going through, that is extraordinary.
She sighs and rolls over. A smile fixes itself onto my lips; it broadens as I wait for her to rub her feet together three times before she settles, as she sneezes twice – little cat-like whispers of sound. I wrap my arms around her tightly as we drift into sleep.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Jennifer
I wait until I know Ed is asleep, until his arm around me loosens its grip and I extract myself from the warmth of the bed. Kerry is waiting in the garage as I knew she would be.
It’s getting easier not to speak to her, not to react to something funny she says . . . not that she talks much any more. She promised to help me; she loves Ed and the kids; she can see how well they’re doing, how well I’m doing. But every night I make my way down here, so we can talk.
‘So . . . Lapland.’ Kerry pulls her navy-blue fluffy sock-slippers up, wraps her dressing-gown belt tighter around herself.
‘Yep!’ I run my fingers over the pile of thermal vests that are stacked up on top of the tumble dryer.
‘Our last hurrah?’ She tilts her head, the question loaded with sadness.
‘Our last Christmas together . . . I’ll remember this for the rest of my life. My family will remember this for the rest of their lives too.’
As I say these words, anxiety tugs at them, like there is a loose thread. It’s been a while since I’ve felt it, that little nick, that dragging feeling that reminds me that I shouldn’t really be here.
‘I wish I was really here, that we had done this when I was alive.’ She examines a small gathering of batteries curiously, picking it up for me to explain.
‘Torches,’ I reply.
I sink down onto the step ladders, still open ready for me to reach up and pull down the cases that I will pack tomorrow, and draw my knees up to my chest. My eyes reach out to the old board games, the broken sledge that we used last year, the old baby swing that would rock a fretful Oscar, kept just in case we had another child, the box marked Easter, filled with plastic eggs to be filled with chocolates, the signposts for the egg hunt, the fake tulips and daffodils that would replace the poinsettia.
Kerry grins and pulls a Christmas jumper over her head: the Grinch’s green face is stretched into a grin. Kerry presses a knitted gift-wrapped box stitched into the belly-button area and battery-operated lights begin flashing as a tiny rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ begins playing.
I laugh quietly, stand, smooth down the pile of gloves and scarves that await the cases, and turn off the light.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Jennifer
We’ve been on the sleeper train from Helsinki for a couple of hours. Kerry and I went through an Agatha Christie stage when we were teenagers and always wanted to go on the Orient Express, so this is the next best thing. ‘It’ll be an adventure!’ I’d told Ed. Kerry has been with me the whole time but she’s not here right now, not in this cramped compartment; it’s a good job because there wouldn’t be enough room.
Hailey is asleep with me in the top bunk, Oscar with Ed in the bottom. Sleeping/not sleeping on a train is a surreal experience and so far, me and Ed have spent most of the night talking in whispered tones so’s not to wake the kids. It’s the best way I could have spent tonight; the idea of seeing Kerry’s death from behind my closed lids is something I’m happy to stay away from . . . tonight of all nights. Oscar, we have since discovered, snores louder than a truck driver and fidgets constantly in his sleep, whereas Hailey mumbles, often saying random sentences, making us dissolve into giggles.
<
br /> ‘This feels like the first night we spent together, do you remember? We watched The Rocky Horror Picture Show and you were too shy to try it on.’
Hailey mumbles something about grainy peacocks as I lie on my back and look at the ceiling. I feel Ed smiling below.
‘I wasn’t too shy,’ he answers quietly. ‘I was waiting for you to do it . . . which you did.’
‘I did.’
‘You did it very well as I recall.’
‘You weren’t too bad yourself.’
I close my eyes and remember that night, how soft his lips were when I kissed him, how gentle he was . . . as though he didn’t want to break me.
‘You were so gentle,’ I say quietly.
‘I’d waited a long time. I’d fantasised about that girl standing on the train platform, one arm raised in a right angle behind her head, eyes looking off at something or someone further up the platform, not at me . . . you only glanced in my direction as the doors closed.’
I hear Ed shifting himself onto his back and rolling Oscar onto his side towards the wall. ‘I wonder what you were looking at,’ he muses.
‘Another man,’ I reply, deadpan.
‘He was probably more your type too . . . dark hair, brooding eyes—’
‘Intelligent, mysterious . . . Nah, I was probably looking for Kerry. She was always late.
‘What happened when the doors shut? Did you stare out of the windows like a lost puppy? All sad eyes and palms against the window?’
He laughs quietly. ‘No . . . but I do remember hitting that girl with a door.’
‘You made me see stars.’ I hang my head upside down over the edge of the bed, my hair falling down towards Ed’s smirking face.
‘How else was I going to make an impression?’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘Do you ever wonder how different our lives would have been if you hadn’t decided to buy flowers that day?’ I ask, returning my head to my pillow.
‘Truth?’ he asks.
‘Truth.’
‘I think if it hadn’t been that day, it would have been another day. I think it was fate.’
‘I love you.’ I yawn.
‘I know.’
From nowhere, I think back to the day I had gone for a run, when I met Richard – the man from Hayworth Hill – his words from that conversation so long ago replaying in my mind: ‘I don’t think there was anything I could have done to change my life even if I wanted to,’ he had said.
But what if I don’t want to?
What if I don’t want to change my life? What if I want to keep my sister and my family?
Chapter Seventy-Five
Ed
It’s fucking freezing. I mean cold, like I’ve never ever felt before. I’m not sure if my fingers and toes are still attached, but I look over to where Jen and the kids are beaming from the sleigh, and I don’t care about the fact that beneath my clothes my extremities could very well be perishing. Christ, I hope Jen isn’t expecting me to perform later; I doubt she’ll be able to find my boy beneath all these layers, and even if she does, I suspect he may be hunkering away, shying from the cold.
‘Come on, Daddy!’ Hailey shouts, her cheeks red, her eyes bright behind her glasses. Oscar is fidgeting with his scarf and puffing out steam through his nostrils.
‘I’m coming!’ I jog/stomp my way over to them through the snow. I’m not sure my knees will ever recover from this trip.
I shuffle forward in the snow; soft flakes are falling from the sky again. The sky is blue. That sounds like a simple explanation, but what I mean to say is, it is every shade of blue; above me it is deep blue . . . That’s not better, is it? The only way is to describe it by the Crayola crayons that are currently broken in half in the kids’ cupboard. If I was to get a fresh new pack and lay out all the shades of blue, they would go from baby blue to periwinkle blue to ruddy blue, to . . . what colour does Oscar use for Aquaman? Ultramarine – you get the idea – until they end with white . . . next to the horizon, the blue sinks into white.
Snow cushions my footsteps, the sound swallowed, like I’ve hit mute on the controller. Everything is so quiet here. Well, apart from the sniffs of the huskies, the squeals and creaks of the kids as they sit huddled beneath a fur throw.
My heart swells inside my chest, well, not actually swells because I’m sure that would give me a heart attack and that is the last thing I want to happen here, could you imagine how fucked up that would make my kids? I mean that I never thought being here would be as magical as it looks in the brochures. I felt pretty damn cynical about the whole thing, but as I look at the excitement and joy on their faces . . . no, my heart isn’t really swelling but my love for my family is. Just look at them. I reach up onto the sled and stand behind them. Jen is sitting with the kids Cool Runnings style, Hailey between her legs, Oscar between hers. My gloves hold on to the driving bow – the arch of wood like a handle.
Ahead of us the snowmobile motor ticks impatiently, ready to clear our path; the snow is falling at a steady pace, but the staff aren’t concerned. I’m glad to watch the snowmobile from afar; yesterday Jen persuaded me to let her on one.
In front of the sled the dogs, all eight of them, are impatient to get going.
‘OK?’ I ask Jen, her face turning and tilting up to me. Isn’t this magical? Isn’t this amazing? it says, and I match her expression. The forest ahead of us is . . . Christ, it is amazing; the trees are covered in snow, some of the green patching through the fir, but others are gleaming. When we first got here, I reached up to one of the trees and gave it a gentle tug. I expected the ‘snow’ to stay still, so convinced was I that this was all fake. The snow on this tree was white – crystal white – like the fake stuff that is already on the pop-up trees from the supermarket. But it fell from the branches, landing with a thud on top of me, a great source of amusement to the kids.
‘Ready?’ the guide asks. The snowmobile revs its engine and begins and then with a tug the sled starts moving. It’s moving fast, like really fast. The kids are squealing, Jen is wooohooo-ing and me? I’m looking down at my family, as we power around bends, following the snowmobile, part of me desperately wanting to enjoy the moment, but as we fly forward, the magic turns into something else: fear. I’m suddenly terrified. What happens if there is a fault with the engine ahead of us? What if it bursts into flames, if we fly into a ball of fire, or swerve, the sled turning on its sides, the fear sending the huskies rabid, my family trapped while being ravaged? The squeals of joy continue as the sled picks up pace. My breath is coming fast, my hands gripping the handle; it seems to go on and on, the paws of the dogs pounding, the rush of the wind in my ears and ice in the air, the snow hanging from the trees; on and on the ride goes.
Eventually, as things do, our journey comes to an end. I step off and, in a few strides, my wife, my daughter and my son are in my arms. They’re safe; we’re all together; we’re all alive.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Jennifer
I can’t stop smiling; my cheeks are stuck, but they’re not frozen in place – I don’t think – I’m just happy. Ed disembarks the sled and pulls me and the kids into his arms; his body is shaking from the adrenaline that I can still feel hammering around my own. The kids are yelping and screeching about how amazing it was and asking if they can stroke the huskies.
‘Just a minute,’ Ed says into our coats, ‘I just want to remember this.’ I know exactly how he feels.
‘Kids . . . we’re going to take a memory picture, OK?’ I say.
‘A what?’ Oscar replies.
‘A memory picture, it’s where we all take one minute to take a picture, but a picture in our minds.’
‘You’re weird, Mummy,’ Hailey replies, taking off her glasses and rubbing the lenses with her mittens to clear the steam created by Ed’s embrace.
‘Well, I think Mummy is a genius,’ Ed replies. ‘You can’t smell and listen to a photo, can you?’
‘I s’pose. Can we stroke the doggies n
ow?’ Oscar is impatient.
‘Just a minute, buddy. But first, memory picture. Are you ready? I’ll count three, two, one, and then you take the picture with your brains. Remember the smell, the sounds, the feel of your clothes, the . . .’
‘Hurry up, Daddy!’ Hailey interrupts.
‘OK, OK, ready? Three, two, one!’ We’re all silent for a moment. The guide has pulled out his phone and is taking a snapshot as we all sit there, Ed and I looking into each other’s eyes and the kids looking confused but happy, their noses red and their eyes glassy.
‘My memory picture is done, Daddy. NOW can we stroke the doggies?!’
‘OK, buddy, oof, off we get.’ Ed picks up Oscar, and takes hold of Hailey’s hand, shooting me a cheeky grin over his shoulder that tells me how lucky we are.
I jump.
Kerry is standing next to me. Her voice is loud in my ear; I can smell the hot chocolate vapour rising from her cup.
‘This is why I saved you.’
She leans in and kisses my cheek; the warmth of her lips stays with me for the rest of the day.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Jennifer
It’s Christmas morning. All around the world families have been arranging presents, cooking special meals, meeting up with loved ones, remembering the ones who are no longer here.
I don’t really remember last Christmas. I vaguely remember the kids opening presents, the smell of burnt potatoes as Ed tried to cook the dinner, the Queen’s speech that sounded so far away, Mum and Dad perched on the sofa. They were wearing brightly coloured paper hats from the Christmas crackers, the colours brash and insulting against their stark faces, both as blank and expressionless as my own.