Page 50 of If I Could Say Goodbye
‘Yes, that’s all perfectly normal,’ the doctor replies. ‘I think anyone who has lost someone so close will have those types of questions.’
‘Jen has also been . . . acting a little out of character,’ Ed butts in, and I try my very best not to scowl at him. I was just being told how normal I am, she was all smiley, and now look, her neat little eyebrows have gone all ‘concerned’.
‘In what way?’
‘Well . . . she’s been, um trying new things . . .’
I feel myself redden, thinking about the new position I had insisted we try last night; Ed almost broke his back.
‘Like going to theme parks and jumping off cliffs and—’
‘It was only a little jump,’ I reassure the doctor with a smile. ‘It was a place called Lovers’ Leap . . . have you ever been?’
‘No, no I don’t think I have.’
‘Oh, you should go, it’s beautiful isn’t it, Ed?’
He nods, his mouth opening to continue, but I jump in.
‘And Ed enjoyed it just as much as me, didn’t you?’
‘Um, yes, it was great. But then Jen went to the higher ledge and cut herself and—’
‘It was just a scratch. He worries too much, that’s all.’
‘And then she went roller-booting recently . . .’
‘I see.’ She smiles indulgently at Ed. ‘So, these changes are not dramatic?’
‘No, but she often stares into space and . . .’ His voice trails off as he turns to me, his eyes pleading with me to help him explain things better.
‘Right, I think the best thing we can do is to get your insomnia sorted first. It might well be that Jen’s moments of lost concentration are a side effect from lack of sleep. I’ll prescribe some sleeping tablets and then let’s book you in for another appointment in a month to see how you’re doing. Does that sound OK? And in the meantime, I’ll print off the NHS notes on bereavement for you both to look through. I think that it’ll reassure you both that what you are going through is very common. Talking about it and being open is key.’ She smiles at us both, hands us the print-out and prescription. ‘But, in the meantime, if you have any concerns, please book an earlier appointment.’
We spend that afternoon at Mum and Dad’s. Dad at the barbecue, Mum making virgin cocktails for the kids and positively pornographic ones for us.
Kerry and her notebooks are out again; she’s judging the kids’ efforts with a pen in one hand, notebook in the other. The kids have been making mud pies, marking them out of ten, adding some of Kerry’s scribbled-down suggestions: plain flour (not bad but gloopy), shampoo (looks good but a little sloppy), sugar (total disaster, too many wasps), until they found the winner, which was glitter and sand.
Hailey and Oscar soon tire of the fun and games and return to the kids’ channels. The sun is packed away by clouds that look like a slate roof, each swollen grey cloud slotting on top of another, while dirty-golden light tries to shine through the gaps, trying to get through, but the darkness is keeping it out. My parents and Ed head into the kitchen to wash up, so I go and sit on the tyre swing that Kerry has just vacated; the edges dig into the back of my thighs as I step backwards on tiptoes, before letting my body swing forward. I feel Kerry’s hands push my back, pushing me higher into the air.
‘You should have told the doctor more about me, you know, about how much of the time you think about us.’
‘I know,’ I answer as the force of my movements sends my hair flying backwards. The sky rumbles, the slate roof cracking open, releasing thick rich droplets of warm rain. I continue swinging; Kerry’s laughter fills my ears as the rain sticks my cotton summer dress to my legs, plasters my loose hair to my head. I find I am laughing with her, laughing at the way my body is flying higher, laughing because it feels good to be alive, laughing because I know she is dead and yet it’s almost as if I can hear her laughter behind me as my body swings forwards and backwards. I can hear hysteria licking the ends of my laughter, because I know, deep down, that spending so much time with my memories is wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ed
You know that feeling? That feeling when you look at your wife, husband, whoever, someone you know better than yourself but instead of seeing what everyone else sees, you see something else? If you were to look out of this window, this window with blue flowery curtains held back in those tie-back things and see a grown woman swinging on a swing, laughing and smiling, it might even look like something out of, I don’t know,Pride and Preji-bollocks but without the period clothing, or the tyre swing for that matter, you know what I mean; anyway, what I’m trying to say is that to anyone else it might look OK. It might look almost romantic how she’s enjoying herself so much that she hasn’t even noticed that it is raining. But. When you’ve noticed that the woman you love is starting to behave differently, irrationally, this woman swinging and laughing in the rain, wet hair flying behind her looks like something else. She looks . . . wrong.
Brian joins me beside the window. He glances up at his daughter; he watches her actions with unblinking scrutiny, his actions calm.
‘Judith, grab a towel will you, Jen is getting soaked.’ He throws me a sideward glance: we need to talk about this, we both know what we can see. Brian washes his glass and dries it with a tea towel.
Jen appears at the doorway to the kitchen. Her face is pale, like she’s seen a ghost, and she is soon wrapped up in a towel by her mother and guided upstairs to take a shower. Her mother is fussing, and berating her, telling her she should have come in sooner and what was she thinking? Jen avoids my eyes throughout the exchange.
‘She’s still grieving,’ I begin, filling the silence as Brian continues to look at the tyre swing, the last of Jen’s momentum hanging on. ‘And I think the guilt of Kerry’s death is harder for her to cope with than any of us thought. Jen has so many questions: why Kerry died and not her, why Kerry saved her, why she’s even here in the first place.’
Judith joins us as I explain about the erratic behaviour, the insomnia, my worries. I look away from their faces. They stay silent, looking at each other with raised eyebrows.
