Page 12 of If I Could Say Goodbye
‘It’s almost over,’ I say to Ed above the screams and the air filling our ears and mouths . . . ‘It’s almost over.’
Chapter Seven
Jennifer
When I was a child, grown-ups would tell me that I was just like my mother. I can see why: we both have thick hair that hangs straight and heavy against our shoulder blades, even though mine is dark and hers is light, and as I pass her the milk, I think about how our mannerisms are similar: we hold our backs straight, we laugh at the same things. But as a child I could never understand why people thought we were alike. My nose lifts at the end, hers is hook-like. My eyes are almond shaped, blue and wide apart, whereas hers are round, hooded and green.
When I found out I was adopted, I felt something change. Perhaps change isn’t quite the right word: it felt as though something had clicked . . . like the way you get used to a door that never quite shuts properly, and no matter how much pressure you apply, no matter how many times you have tried the handle, it just never closes. But once I knew the truth, the door inside nestled against its frame, without fanfare or ceremony, just gently clicking as it fell into place.
While I begin the crossword, I worry that my children will have that feeling if I die before them, that inside they will always feel as though the door is ajar, that for my children, it will never click into place; I’ll be gone.
‘Jennifer?’ Mum’s voice interrupts my thoughts. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, why?’
I look down at the crossword, my handwriting is capitalised, each letter formed with a determined point, the pressure behind the ink like a scar; three-dimensional shapes with depth to each indentation: one across reads ‘FUCK’; seven across shouts ‘BASTARD’; the ‘d’ descending into nine down reads ‘DICKLESS’. It doesn’t stop there either. From ‘DICKLESS’ the word ‘SHIT’ is scribed and from that ‘TITS’ is made. Mum has interrupted as my hand has begun to write ‘CUN—’. I click the tip of the pen.
‘I saw Nessa the other day.’
‘Yes . . . I heard she was back.’
‘Has she been in touch?’
‘No. I’m not expecting her to be either. I’m sure she would want to—’
‘What? Move on?’
‘No. Yes. I just mean it will be awkward for her, and us, if she were to visit. What on earth would we say to one another?’
‘I suppose so. It just feels weird, you know, that she will be close by but not close by, if you know what I mean. It’ll be odd for the kids too, they got used to spending a lot of time together.’
I close the crossword page and begin drawing a pair of glasses on the front-page picture of a portly MP.
‘Do you wish it was me?’ I ask Mum. The words leave their confinement; they bound from my lips hitting Mum’s face, marking it with two angry red blotches. She tastes the bitterness behind them and pulls her mouth into a knot.
‘We are not having this conversation,’ she replies, taking the pen from my fingers and scraping the newspaper across the table.
‘I understand if you do,’ I continue. Mum slams the pen down, making the sugar cubes inside their bowl jump up, momentarily suspended mid-air in shock before descending back into sweet chaos.
‘I loved you both equally.’ Her voice is steady: a statement, not a clause. ‘I would be mourning you in the same way.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I place my hand on her shoulder; her head nods in response. But the subject tugs me.
‘If you could have your time with her again . . . would you do anything different?’
‘No. I treasured every moment of my time with her from the day she was born. I was never supposed to have her in the first place, so any time I got was a gift. You can’t let life slip through your fingers, Jennifer.’
‘I’m not, I’m—’
The door slams on my sentence.
‘Jen?’
‘I’m in the kitchen!’ I reply and turn to flick the kettle back on.
‘Right!’ Ed’s voice announces. ‘I’ve got half an hour before I have to get back to work, so brace yourself, wife of mine.’ His voice becomes muffled, a sound that I’m guessing is stifled from somewhere beneath his clothing. ‘I’m about to make your dreams come true.’
Realisation dawns as I halt my tea-making activities. ‘Ed—’ I try to intervene, but it’s pointless because Ed is naked. Naked except for one of those cardboard cut-out celebrity masks.
