Page 41 of If I Could Say Goodbye
‘OK. Can we have fizzy water in it? Mummy lets us have fizzy water in it.’
‘Sure.’ I smile and go into the kitchen and open the cupboard which holds the mineral water. Even as I reach for the bottle, I know it’s almost empty. This cupboard is never empty of water: Jen always drinks mineral water, always makes the kids drink mineral water. I shake the bottle, as if by doing that it will suddenly become full, but of course it doesn’t. Why didn’t I buy mineral water? Hailey is staring at the bottle, frowning above her glasses. I bop her on the head with the empty bottle and she giggles. ‘Sorry, poppet, no fizzy water, but I’ll put some ice in it for you.’
‘Can I have a straw?’
‘You can. And then I’ll make some lunch.’
The kids go out into the garden and I breathe out. The muscles in my neck are tight and I roll it to relieve the tension. OK. This isn’t a big deal. I open the cupboards and start putting the shopping away, trying not to stare at the empty spaces where ‘things’ should be. Where they have always been. Jen is a bulk buyer. We don’t run out of things, because she is always one bottle of fabric softener ahead; cereal boxes sit in tidy rows in the garage, waiting to refill the plastic containers. I reach for one and do the shaking thing again. It’s still empty, all but for a few dusty Rice Krispies.
Maybe Jenhasgone to the shop. I dial her number again and leave another message.
‘Hi Jen, it’s me, Ed, obviously, um again. Just wondering if you’re at the shop? We’ve run out of a few things.’ I scratch the back of my head; I sound like a dick. Like I’m ringing her to tell her off that we’re out of Rice Krispies. ‘Anyway, I’ve picked up some bits and bobs, but I forgot the apple juice and, well give me a quick ring if you get the chance. I can go to the shop if you’re, if you’re . . .’ What? If she’s what exactly? ‘Busy,’ I finish. Christ, when did speaking to Jen become something I had to concentrate on?
I hang up the phone and drum my fingers on the back of its case. I look at the kitchen again. There are three things that I consider.
1) Jen hasn’t been shopping. This is strange, because Jen likes to keep to a routine. Friday is shopping day. It has always been grocery shopping day. Always. Today is Saturday.
2) There is a washing load sitting in the washing machine. It is sunny. There is a light breeze. Jen would know this. She smiles when she puts the washing out on days like this. Instead,Lego Batmanpyjamas are staring at me through the washing-machine door; Batman looks pretty depressed about still being inside.
3) The kitchen is in a mess. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t give a monkey’s that there is spilt milk on the side, that there is mould growing on the tomatoes in the fridge. I give a monkey’s because Jen does. Give a monkey’s, I mean.
Why am I talking about monkeys? Who decided to coin the phrase couldn’t give a monkey’s arse? And why are they thinking about a monkey’s arse? Why am I thinking about a monkey’s arse? I throw the tomatoes away and wave through the window at the kids, who are drawing chalk faces on the brick barbecue.
In the lounge, I notice three more things:
1) The carpet needs hoovering. Jen loves to hoover; she hoovers every day. She polishes her Hoover like a trophy.
2) There is a distinct lack of cushion-plumping. Not a plump in sight.
3) Dust. Oscar has eczema, only mild but enough to wake him in the night, for him to draw blood on occasion. This is aggravated by dust. There is dust. Everywhere. I would have done it if I’d noticed . . . honestly, I would.
I’m not house-proud, but I am proud of our house, or rather, I’m proud of us in it: of the lines drawn neatly onto the hall wall with the kids’ heights, dates, ages written neatly beside them in Jen’s handwriting; of the leaf that Hailey had pressed into clay at school and made into a plate that we throw our keys into when we come home; the hat stand that I insisted on buying even though Jen hated it, because it didn’t match. I run my hand over it and can feel the grooves that she made as she sanded it down, feel the faint tracks of the paint brush that she had used. Jen loved it when it was finished, it matched the greys and silvers of the hall; I love it because of what it represents, a piece of both of us. I’m proud of the photos of us that gleam from behind glass picture frames that scale the wall along the banister; I love that with every step, I get to see a piece of our lives together. Pieces of our lives that were captured mostly by Kerry: me wiping squirty cream from Jen’s lip in a coffee shop; Jen picking a piece of grass from my shoulder; me watching Jen as she threw her head back laughing; me kissing her bump with Hailey hidden inside; the back of us as we walked out of the hospital, both of us with a hand on the car seat. As I carry on up the steps there are the more recent pictures, the number of faces increasing from two, to three, to four, and with the invention of the selfie, five. Kerry always shining brighter than the rest of us.
I stop at the second-to-top stair and lean in at the photo of Jen and Kerry. It’s a photo I had taken. Jen had got the giggles; she’d said ‘clogged archery’ instead of ‘clogged artery’ and was at the mercy of the type of laughter that you can’t stop, no matter how hard you try. When I’d taken the photo, she had already been laughing for a good five minutes and was at the stage where no sound was coming out of her except the occasional gasp for air. Her hands are gripping Kerry’s shoulders, and Kerry is laughing back at her. I had taken the photo . . . but it was Kerry that she had been holding on to for help.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jennifer
Ed turns off the Hoover as I walk through the door, trying not to smirk because he is wearing my cleaning apron. My cleaning apron is a great source of amusement to my family.
‘What. Is. That?’ Kerry had asked as I opened the door to her, the year I made it. It was when I tried – and failed – to find a new hobby when the kids were small. I didn’t last long at the textiles class, but the fruits of my labour did result in one of my most favourite possessions: my cleaning apron. It has the right-sized pockets to hold: three micro-fibre cloths at the right breast; duster on the left; elastic holsters at the hips (polish at the right, antibacterial spray on the other); bin bags at the tummy, and tealights and a lighter to replenish the wax burners at the belly button. The material was bought from Cath Kidston and is a flurry of flowers on a pink background.
All Ed needs are some hair rollers, a hairnet, and he would fit comfortably in the ‘I Want to Break Free’ music video by Queen.
‘You look . . . busy,’ I smile.
‘Where have you been?’ he asks. I notice his tone has a clipped edge with a hint of annoyance as he gives me a hasty kiss on the cheek; he smells like a mixture of Ed and Pledge.
My shoulders are sunburnt from the June sun while I was picking up Kerry’s things and I have the beginnings of a migraine.
‘Jesus, Ed, could you let me get in through the door before you give me the Spanish Inquisition?’
‘Sorry, I was worried, we’re out of Rice Krispies and there is washing in the machine and I—’
‘What?’ I ask. Kerry is standing behind him, shaking the empty plastic cereal container. ‘You were worried because we’re out of cereal? You know, Ed, you could go to the shop yourself. You’re a big boy, I’m sure you could manage it, and as for the washing machine—’
‘I wasn’t—’
