Page 18 of If I Could Say Goodbye
‘Um . . . actually, no, I was thinking that I might have a go. By myself.’
His face changes into an expression that could be interpreted in a variety of ways. It’s the type of expression that shows the thoughts behind his stubbly chin. The first that comes to mind is ‘It’s your funeral’ . . . funny in the circumstances.
‘Hurry up, Jen!’ Kerry shouts.
‘How much?’ I ask.
The boy takes my money and directs me towards the wooden booth where I am to hire my boots. I ask for a size three and a half from the bored-looking teenaged girl, who gives me a size four. I’m about to raise the issue but she has already returned her focus to her phone screen.
I lace up the boots and try to move. My knees bend and I feel my body form itself into a squatting position. Kerry’s memory zooms past me in a blur, her leg balanced out straight behind her. I try to pull myself up and begin to push my feet forward in little shuffling movements as I begin to gather some pace. I feel a grin creep its way between the creases of concentration and fear that have formed around my mouth.
It takes me a while, but I manage to do a lap, my balance improving with my confidence. I continue to circuit the rink, managing to take my eyes away from the ground as my speed picks up with my mood. My breath is becoming laboured but it’s a good feeling, I can feel the endorphins popping around my body; I let out a little ‘whoop’ as I pass the teenage admission boy for the third time, giving him a smug smile. You see? I can do this, my face tries to express. But behind the teenager, and across the street, is my sister’s fiancée. Is she her fiancée? Was she?
Nessa’s skin is grey, and her hair is limp. She is pacing up and down repeatedly; the air around her pulses. Nessa’s phone is gripped by white knuckles, her mouth moving quickly, as angry words push and shove each other, spitting out sentences and sucking in responses.
The glory I was feeling is becoming bruised as I find myself rollering (skating?) towards her, and the barrier between us. She stops speaking. Her eyes meet mine and for a split second I feel like the pain she feels is hammering against my head, clawing at my skin.
She looks away from me hesitantly.
‘Nessa!’ I shout, which is quickly followed with an ‘ooof!’ as I avoid a speeding toddler and crash into the barrier. I catch my breath and shout at her again. She glances back over her shoulder and continues to talk into the phone, her feet taking her away from me. Beneath me is a bolt holding a gate in place. I turn my head as slowly and inconspicuously as I can towards the teenager, who is looking in the other direction. My fingers slide the bolt across; I cough loudly to cover up the squeak coming from inside my palm and continue to slide the bolt back. I step out of the rink and begin to take tentative steps on my stoppers towards Nessa.
‘Hey! Woman!’ the teenager shouts. ‘You can’t leave the enclosed area with your boots on!’
I look back towards Nessa and speed up my tippy-toed, stopper-steps, towards her, whilst mouthing a sorry gesture over my shoulder at the teenager and pointing towards Nessa by way of explanation. But in my attempts to appease the boy, my wheels have somehow tilted backwards from their stoppers, and I begin to make haste.
The path beneath me, I notice, is made of recently laid smooth tarmac and has a distinct ‘downhill’ feel to it.
‘Oh nuts.’ I try to slow my momentum, while simultaneously calling Nessa’s name. She has stopped walking and is staring at me with wide eyes as I career past perplexed shoppers, my arms gesturing wildly in strange semi-circles à la the Karate Kid: wax-off, wax-off, wax-off. Behind me, I can hear that the teenager has given chase.
‘Neeeesssaaaaa!’ My eyes widen, an expression of ‘help!’ and ‘look out!’ all in one. I crash into her arms, knocking her body backwards. We both land with a thud, on Wilko’s doorstep.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask as she removes herself from my tangled limbs. The teenager has come to an abrupt stop and is removing the boots from my feet.
‘Oi!’ An outraged woman pulling along a material shopping bag has begun hitting him on the head with her handbag. ‘You.’ Thwack. ‘Thieving.’ Thwack. ‘Little.’ Thwack. ‘So and so!’
The teenager releases my feet and tries to protect his head. I untangle the laces, pull the boots free and give them to the boy with an apology as Nessa brushes herself down. The woman stops her assault, registers what is going on in front of her and gives me a look of contempt usually saved for dog poo offenders.
The teenager and lady retreat and I’m left in my socks, which are odd, I notice, one red and one blue.
My arms envelop Nessa in a hug, but her back remains rigid, wire arms hanging limply by her sides.
‘Come and have some cake,’ my eager voice says, laying out the word cake like a travelling salesman: cake is the answer, it can fix you, the voice implies, you cannot carry on living your life without it. I gesture to the café behind me. She twists her neck from side to side, both of us ignoring the cracks and snaps of her ligaments.
‘I don’t like cake.’
Kerry is standing beside her, skates swinging from the laces looped over her fingers, while her other hand slips into Nessa’s, her head leaning against her shoulder. ‘Ask her for help, she never could turn down a lost cause.’ Kerry’s smile is sad.
‘A coffee? Tea?’
Nessa passes the phone between nervous hands and looks over her shoulder; for a moment I wonder if she can see Kerry too, but she’s looking through Kerry’s face, as though she is looking for an excuse not to follow me. Kerry steps back from Nessa and I replace her hand by linking my arm through Nessa’s. She is covered in grey, in darkness; her body seems to be weighted, each movement hampered by something hidden, something dark. She detaches herself from my arm.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’ Nessa steps backwards from me. ‘I don’t think I can just—’
The teenager returns to our side and drops my Converse at my feet without saying a word.
‘Thank you and sorry—’ I begin, but he has already turned back and is returning to his duties.
‘Just one coffee?’ I ask Nessa again. She gives me a short nod and follows me in, sitting herself at a table while I go to the counter and order two drinks.
