Page 5 of If I Could Say Goodbye
I didn’t think I would ever get her back but here she is, a tiny piece of her at least. One of the hardest parts of watching and helping your wife grieve is when you’re grieving yourself.
I loved Kerry. Everyone loved Kerry: she was beautiful . . . hauntingly beautiful, inside and out. When I say this, it’s important you understand that I wasn’t in love with her – I belonged to Jen the first day I saw her – but Kerry? Kerry was ethereal: pale skin, blue eyes that were . . . almost glacial.
The in-laws always said that Kerry was their miracle; maybe that’s why she always seemed like she didn’t belong on this earth. But I often think about that, I mean, if you’ve been told that your whole life, it would make you act differently, wouldn’t it? Even though Jen was adopted, they never treated her any differently, but I often wondered what kind of effect that had on my wife. Hearing that your sister is a miracle . . . then what does that make you?
I mean, if it was my family, right, it wouldn’t have meant much. Mum and Dad divorced when I was twelve, it wasn’t as much a shock as a relief. My childhood always felt like a bit of an inconvenience to them, as though they’d come home from work one day and a baby had been placed in their care. Like a stray dog found on the streets: look after this little thing, will you? Just until it’s old enough to look after itself? I moved in with Mum, Dad rang or visited once a week until I hit my mid-teens and after that, I just kind of got on with my life, while it ran parallel to theirs. They send birthday cards, they visit once in a blue moon, but my family was never how Jen’s is. Or was. No actually, it still is: even though we’ve lost Kerry, my in-laws – Brian and Judith – still have a roast on a Sunday, still play board games with the kids, they still ring if they have a big day at school to wish them luck. I think that’s why Jen has never wanted to track down her ‘real’ parents; she didn’t need them. I feel more a part of their family than I ever did my own . . . and Kerry was . . . God I miss her.
‘Ed? What shall we watch?’
This is the first time in a long time that Jen has shown any interest in our life. Sure, she has answered our questions, robotically ironing everything – even my pants, which saddens me; it’s not a productive use of her time. I’ve tried to approach the subject of pant-ironing; I wish she’d take that time to do something for herself instead, like taking a long bath or reading a book, but, it seems, pant-ironing is a thing. A thing that helps her control yet another slot of time that she has to bear without Kerry. But asking a simple question that involves any amount of pleasure for herself is . . . new.
I hesitate before answering her. You see, the thing is, with living with someone who is still grieving, you have to avoid ‘issues’. Take this question, for example: it’s a minefield. I’ve got to be careful with my choice. No sisters and no car crashes. I’m starting to panic because she has her hands on her hips now, a sure sign she is becoming impatient . . . or eager? It could be eagerness. Pick something. Something funny? Maybe she’s not really ready for comedy just yet. I’m taking too long; I just want my wife back, I don’t want to lose this little glimpse of her.Guardians of the Galaxy. Genius . . . and she fancies that Pratt that’s in it. Anything to keep her with me and not for her eyes to go blank and unfocused. With us but not really with us.
She looks at me and I worry that she knows what I’m thinking, but then something about her shifts. It’s a split second, a second that nobody else would take any notice of, but it is like the haze has lifted and for the first time in a long time, I can see my wife again.
Chapter Three
Jennifer
‘Are you having an affair?’ Ed asks from the tangle of white sheets as I search the bedroom for my knickers. I laugh.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I reply, finding them flirting between Ed’s boxers and a black sock on the floor. He rakes his fingers through his dark blond hair, short at the back, curls on top.
‘Because I’ve Googled—’
‘Googled?’
‘Yes, I Googled: why your wife has started shagging you every chance she gets and why she has suddenly started wearing new underwear.’ He shuffles up the bed and props a pillow behind his head as he watches me; the glassy haze that glossed over the brown eyes that drank me in just moments ago, now bright and alert – deep in the grasp of post-coital satisfaction.
‘Don’t you like my new underwear?’ I ask, pulling on my red knickers and standing in front of him with my hands on my hips, my nipples, which at one time would face my husband straight in the face, now starting to cast themselves apologetically towards the floor.
‘I LOVE your new underwear, your new underwear is my favourite, but—’
I fasten my matching bra and sit on the edge of the bed, beginning to pull on my jeans. ‘But what?’ I glance at him over my shoulder.
‘Well, the last time you wore matching undies was on our honeymoon so . . . why now?’
I reach for my hair bobble which has somehow found its way onto the doorknob and twist my heavy dark brown hair into a knot. ‘Well, I’m heading towards my forties and . . . isn’t that supposed to be when a woman reaches her sexual peak?’
‘Women have a sexual peak? Men are always peaking.’ He smirks, the right side of his mouth always a fraction higher than the rest of his lips. I’d forgotten about that. How could I have forgotten the part of him that I first found attractive? That and the way he appeared to saunter through life with ease, seemingly startled to find himself the main character in his own life.
I crawl across the mattress on all fours and kiss the right side of his lips, running my tongue over their familiar shape.
He pulls away from me. ‘You’re not dying, are you?’
‘What? No! Of course not, why? Do I look ill?’
‘That was the next thing on the Google list.’
Illness.
We’re all going to die someday, and this is something that keeps playing on my mind. I know it’s morbid, but I can’t stop thinking about how it might happen.
I have been replaying the possible scenes over and in minute detail. The most obvious – and most likely – accident to cause my death would be by car crash, as I am, quite honestly, a terrible driver. When I picture myself on The Day of My Death, I see myself wearing a green top, as apparently green is blood-red’s complementary colour, at least that is what it said inBella. Ideally, my nails and lips will be painted in matching red too: I may be dead, but I want to look my best. My hair shall be held back from my head in either a ponytail or a chignon – if time has allowed – so that the paramedics have no trouble finding that I have no pulse behind my ear, and I shall wear the pearl studs in my ears that Ed bought me for our wedding.
The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #1
Death by Car Crash
