Page 37 of If I Could Say Goodbye
I should have died.
The words are swirling around like fog, their meaning running a finger up my spine in a gentle caress. I shake my head, and open my eyes; the words aren’t real, just like my sister who is sitting on the bonnet of my car smoking a cigarette isn’t real.
I gather myself and step out of the car. The night is drawing in, side lights are being turned on and cats’ eyes begin to blink. I sit next to Kerry and watch the cars pass, listen to the sounds of their speed and the wind as they fly by. Their passengers are unaware of me, unaware of the turmoil inside my body.
‘Why did you do it?’ I ask, turning towards Kerry, but she has gone, and the pain of her loss punches me. I sit still, I don’t know how long for, but there is a pause in the flow of traffic. The road has become empty.
Kerry is tightrope-walking along the feline lights, as they reach forward. I check the empty road and follow her into the centre of the two lanes. This small act of rebellion, of stepping into a place which doesn’t normally entertain the pedestrian, ignites inside my body; it tingles beneath the soles of my feet, radiates up through my calves, spreads into my pelvis, warms my stomach and brightens my eyes. My arms stretch outwards; what would it feel like to stand here with the sound of the cars passing? With the knowledge that if my balance was lost, if my balance shifted just a fraction, I could be killed? I close my eyes and picture it: the brush of death passing me by, the nearness of the bumpers, the exhausts, the absolute power of speed.
The image is blocked, like someone has pulled down a projector screen. A picture of my family stares back at me, the beam of the projector displaying them on the screen, dust motes trapped in the tube of light, the three of them, Ed in the middle, my children flanking him: tired eyes, forced smile like they are trying to be a happy family, just the three of them. My eyes flash open. There are the beginnings of car lights, their beam bumping along the slip road joining the carriageway, and I know I have to move. I will. In just another moment. A car from the other side of the barrier lets out a loud horn, the sound colliding against my ear drums, waking me up, smashing sense into me.
‘Oi! I’m walking on here!’Kerry sort of quotes fromMidnight Cowboy, another film I know she has never watched. I look back to where the lights are approaching, my senses heightened, the adrenaline rushing into my veins as they get closer.
I want you to understand that I don’t want to die right now. I’m going to move in a second, I’m not going to put the driver in danger, the car won’t have to swerve or move out of my way, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to know how it felt for her, how it felt for Kerry in those last seconds of her life.
Just one more minute and I’ll move. I promise. Just. One. More. Minute.
Reluctantly, I return to my car. My chest is rising and falling rapidly and as I pull down the visor against the flash from the low-setting sun, my reflection looks alive, but it shouldn’t . . . I should have been the one who died.
I throw the keys into the bowl on the desk in the hall. The blue light from the TV is flashing silently through the crack from the lounge door. I take a deep breath and push it open. Ed is sitting in his chair; he looks like he’s been crying. I glance over to the small table where a bottle of whisky has been opened and an empty glass sits next to Ed.
‘Where have you been?’ He sniffs and wipes his eyes as he rises from the chair, striding over, holding my hands, searching my face. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I went for a drive. I needed to clear my head.’ I let go of his hands, walk over and refill the glass, taking a long sip, the heat burning my insides. I like the feeling but can’t help but grimace at the taste. I take another gulp regardless.
‘Where?’
‘Hmmm?’ I ask, lost in my own thoughts, the heavy feeling that I had felt when I approached the roundabout returning like lead in my stomach.
‘Where? Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Nowhere? Well next time your children ask where you are at bedtime, I’ll tell them that Mummy isn’t here because she had to go . . .nowhere.’
I drain the glass and refill it; Ed paces the room. ‘I just needed some space, I needed to get out of—’
‘What, Jen? You needed to get out of what? Out of here? Out of our home?’ He throws his hands up into the air, exasperated.
‘Yes. No. I—’
‘Or is it that you wanted to get away from me?’
‘No, of course not . . . Ed—’
He stands up and walks towards me, taking the glass and sliding it onto the dining table before taking my hands again and holding them. ‘Tell me what is going on.’
‘Nothing is—’
‘Don’t tell me that nothing is going on!’ he yells. I flinch. He takes a breath and repeats, with his voice level, ‘Don’t tell me nothing is going on. I deserve more credit than that.’
‘I can’t.’
How can I tell him what I now know? That I should be dead. That Kerry’s death was my fault.
‘I see.’ He drops my hands and leaves the room, hesitating with his hand on the door handle. ‘I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. Give you some . . . space.’
I find myself nodding. Why am I nodding? I don’t want space from Ed, I need Ed. He makes me feel alive.
