Page 47 of If I Could Say Goodbye
As his hand raises to knock the door, he pauses. ‘Everything happens for a reason, Jennifer. I know that means nothing to you right now.’ His eyes meet mine and there is deep understanding in his gaze. ‘Fate is an impossible thing to control, but if you can see past the pain . . . you will find reason there. If my brother hadn’t died, I might never have met my wife, we wouldn’t be having our baby. I’m not saying that one thing is better than the other, but I don’t think there was anything I could have done to change my life even if I wanted to.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Ed
Someone is hammering at the door. I reach for the clock: it’s only six a.m. The knocking repeats. My leg kicks across to Jen’s side of the bed but it’s cold; nothing new there.
I pull my boxers from the heap of clothes on the floor, and rush down the stairs. Hailey opens her bedroom door; her cheeks are red and she is rubbing her eyes.
‘What’s that noise, Daddy?’ Fredrick – her teddy – is hanging limply in her hand; his one eye is missing from a fatal incident with one of Oscar’s hot wheels.
‘It’s just the post lady, go back to bed, sweetie, it’s early.’ I place my hand on her back and return her to her room as another assault on the front door ensues. I know even as I fly down the stairs that something isn’t right. If Jen was here the house would smell of the fresh coffee that she can’t function without, the radio would be on in the background playing classical music quietly so as not to wake the kids. The house feels cold, and as I slide across the door chain, I realise that the kitchen window is wide open. I’m scared about this as my hand turns the lock on the front door . . . anyone could have climbed through it. Anyone could have got into our house. But that thought is pushed aside as the door opens and hanging on to a tall, well-kept man, who is a complete stranger, is Jen. And she’s bleeding.
Again. And again, fear spikes inside my chest.
There is a diagonal cut along her cheek lying parallel to her cheekbone, like some perfectly marred damsel in distress.
‘What happened?’ I reach for her, taking her out of the arms of the stranger as he ties his dog’s lead around the trellis.
‘Nothing, I’m fine, I just tripped, that’s all.’
‘I found her by the monument.’ His voice is rich; it suits the clothing and the perfect designer stubble.
‘On Hayworth Hill? What were you doing up there at this time in the morning?’ I guide her into the lounge. She is leaning her weight on me and limping, there is blood on her white vest and she is wincing every time she puts any weight on her foot.
I position her onto the sofa and thank the stranger.
‘It’s no problem at all . . . it was a good job that my dog is incontinent, that’s all I can say. She was out pretty cold for a few seconds.’
‘Out cold?’ My voice shoots up a couple of notches. ‘What do you mean she was out cold?’
‘I’m fine, Ed, I just need a coffee—’
‘She’s had a can of Coke on the way. My guilty pleasure, I’m afraid, but don’t tell the missus.’ He winks, laughs and pats me on the back as if we’re making small talk at a bar. ‘Speaking of which, I’d best be off. She’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ Jen interjects, looking up at this stranger as if she doesn’t want him to leave. ‘For everything.’
‘Take care, Jennifer.’
I find myself looking from one to the other and back again like a spectator. I thank the man who seems to have some kind of understanding with my wife, and see him out the door.
I take a deep breath and head into the kitchen, robotically turning on the coffee machine and reaching for the first-aid kit in the top of the cupboard before returning to Jen. My stomach is clenched into a knot. What am I missing? I mean, she’s doing everything that WikiHow says she should be doing: time outside, talking to people . . . but I’ve got to be missing something.
I don’t meet her eyes while I wipe her cheek with an antiseptic wipe; she flinches but I still don’t look her in the eyes. I don’t look because I’m scared of what I’ll find there.
‘So,’ I begin, ‘you went for a run?’ It sounds like I’m trying to make conversation, like this is normal behaviour, for her to leave the windows wide open while we sleep upstairs, like it’s normal for her to go for a run – a pastime that she hasn’t practised for years – at what must have been about half-four in the morning.
‘I needed to clear my head,’ she says, pulling her cheek away as I dab the wound.
‘So, what happened?’ I discard the bloodied wipe, open another packet with my teeth and continue. There is a fly behind me, I can hear it buzzing and see that Jen is tracking its movements up and down the lounge.
‘I think I was probably a bit dehydrated, that’s all. It’s been a while since I went for a run.’
‘It has,’ I agree and then take a piece of gauze and tape it over the cut with microporous tape. I’m about to get up when she grabs on to my hand.
‘I need to know why, Ed.’
‘Why what?’ I ask.
