Page 103 of If I Could Say Goodbye
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 thoughtBlowwas 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 to 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.’
