Page 35 of If I Could Say Goodbye
I swallow down my discomfort. We had thought they were busy watching a film in Hailey’s room. I make a mental note to make sure we are more careful.
‘You should play Monopoly instead,’ Erica interjects, ‘and then your daddy wouldn’t hurt himself.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I announce as I look back to where the couple have unlocked their faces and are continuing along the street.
‘Or Just Dance, you and Daddy like to play Just Dance on the Wii, don’t you?’
‘Just Dance?’ I ask, as a vague memory of a caravan holiday springs to mind.
‘Yes, when we went in the caravan in Wales and it rained the whole time, I woke up because the caravan was rocking and you said it was because you and Daddy were playing Just Dance.’
‘Just Dance, yes. Um. Kids, stay in the car while I take Erica in.’
Erica’s hand holds tightly to mine as we make our way through the front lawn, which is patchy and yellow, but I’m pleased that Nessa seems to be making some changes. She bends down and hugs Erica, avoiding my gaze, as I stand back and try to hide the concerned expression from my face, hoping that it is buried deep within the contours of my skin, that it isn’t there for her to see.
‘Daddy’s inside,’ she announces to Erica, who does an overstated ‘Yes!’ and runs towards the doorway.
‘Pumpkin!’ Daniel exclaims, stepping over the threshold: blond hair, long legs, wearing a look of confusion that never seems to go. He is lifting Erica up beneath her armpits and swinging her around as Erica giggles in delight; Nessa rolls her eyes but there is no malice behind them. Daniel and Nessa married when they were young, realised they had made a mistake early on, and split up in a very Gwyneth and Chris kind of way. They are the most abnormally normal exes I’ve ever met.
‘Look, Jen . . . I’m sorry, about the other night,’ Nessa says quietly.
‘You’ve already apologised.’ Nessa had rung the following morning, her voice cracked, her words broken. ‘I’m just glad I could help. How are you?’
‘OK.’ She smiles. ‘You?’
I don’t look over to where Kerry is currently cartwheeling across the lawn, her blue summer dress tucked into her knickers. I think back to the beach last year; for any other twenty-five-year-old woman to be cartwheeling would have seemed childlike, but for Kerry, it seemed normal. She just had that way: effortlessly cool, Ed always said.
‘I’m fine.’ I return her smile with my own. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Good.’ The lies surround us, the ‘OK’s and ‘fine’s itching our skin and making us shift our bodies uncomfortably.
‘Muuuuuummmmy!!!’ Hailey yells from the open car window. ‘Hurry up! Oscar has farted and it stinks!’
‘Trumped!’ I correct. ‘I’d better go.’ I lean and give Nessa a hug; she holds her breath, her body tense as my arms fold around her. She responds by giving me a gentle pat on the back. As we release each other, the breeze blows her hair in her eyes, blows the hem of my skirt upwards, and I don’t look over to where Kerry is giving out a wolf-whistle.
‘It’s not funny, Ed!’ I reply, but I’m trying not to laugh. ‘They thought we were playing hide and seek.’
‘Well we were, in a manner of speaking.’
I throw the tea towel at him and return to the business of onion-chopping. I’m trying to ignore Kerry sitting on top of the kitchen counter, watching me while I cook.
I continue to ignore her. ‘Ed, pass me the garlic press, please.’
He opens the drawer, fishes it out and begins opening and shutting the press with a puzzled look on his face. ‘Who do you think invented this thing? I mean, what made this person stop and think, “I know! I’ll make something specifically for squashing garlic”?’
‘Someone who was sick of having their hands stink, I suppose.’ I glance up at the space Kerry had sat in and for a split second, instead of seeing my sister alive and sitting on the kitchen counter, I see her body in the air: red coat, red boots, silver nails, emerald ring.
I catch the tears forming with the back of my hand and continue chopping.
‘Are you OK?’ Ed asks.
‘Mmmmhmmm, the onion is strong. That’s all.’
I look up at Kerry. She is wearing an off-the-shoulder black top that we used to call herFlashdancetop. That top had shrunk in the wash before I even met Ed.
‘Jen?’ I can hear Ed’s voice, but I can’t stop looking at Kerry.
Is this what I’m still here for? Is this what you saved me for? To cook dinner and live in this perfect house?
