Page 7 of If I Could Say Goodbye
‘We were just having a little snooze, now go downstairs with Grandpa while—’
This is the position I am in as my dad crosses the threshold to my bedroom.
‘Brian!’ Ed exclaims.
‘Sorry! Sorry!’ is Dad’s awkward reply as I twist and turn, trying to untangle myself. Oscar jumps onto the bed and reaches for the sailor hat.
‘Aye, aye, captain!’ he shouts, putting the hat onto his curls.
‘Good grief!’ Dad replies.
‘Dad, could you take Oscar downstairs, please?’ I ask, addressing the ceiling as Ed lets out a yelp under his breath which coincides with the sound of his zip closing.
I tear a piece of my hair away from the clasp and my chin lowers just enough for me to witness Dad shielding his eyes.
‘Oscar? Come downstairs with Grandpa—’
‘What’s this?’ Oscar reaches for a ‘toy’ that has revealed itself from between the sheets.
‘Noo!’ I screech as Ed limps over and takes the offending item out of Oscar’s reach.
Dad marches over to him, picks him up and takes a perplexed five-year-old down the stairs, the door closing behind him. Ed and I look at each other and burst out laughing.
‘Help me get this untangled, will you?’ I ask. He stands behind me, his fingers working intricately as he pulls the rest of my hair free. We stand opposite the mirror, his arms folding around my waist, my head leaning back against his chest.
‘I meant it, you know . . .’ he says to our reflection as he kisses my shoulder. ‘You are beautiful.’
‘You’re not bad yourself,’ I smile back, the mirror framing this moment in time.
Chapter Four
Jennifer
I select the photo icon on my phone, taking time to make sure I can get the letters engraved on her black granite headstone to fit into the shot along with the daffodils that are just starting to bloom. They are arranged alongside the plastic sunflowers – Kerry’s favourite – which remain in the glass urn. I hope using fake flowers is OK; Kerry always had fake flowers around her house, she could never keep anything alive . . . including herself.
I get myself back into position and tap the screen. The fake shutter sound sends a flock of pigeons scattering on their way.
‘You did not just do that?!’ Kerry exclaims as she drains the last of her coffee from the Starbucks travel cup that I bought her for her birthday. This memory is from when I had taken the time to arrange a bunch of flowers for Mum and Dad’s anniversary picnic and been so proud that I had posted a photo of them on Facebook. Kerry had been appalled by my actions. She had grabbed her phone from her ripped-jeaned pocket and insisted we pull funny faces: me cross-eyed and cheeks puffed out, her gurning with her tongue sticking out to post immediately in case people thought I had actually turned into our mother.
What? I reply defensively. When I say reply, I mean in my head. I’m not talking out loud to a memory of my sister . . . that would just be weird. I think the flowers look nice. Just because it’s a grave, doesn’t mean it can’t look nice.
‘I detest the word “nice”.’
Colourful.
‘Hmmm, better . . . how about resplended?’
Resplended isn’t even a word, it’s resplendent.
My phone alarm begins to chime a tune that verges on an Argentine tango. ‘Pants!’ I gather my trowel and plastic bag filled with weeds. This is the third time this week that I’ve not noticed the time and almost been late for picking up the kids.
I make it to the playground just as Oscar’s class is being released. His face lights up as he spots me, navy-blue book bag swinging in his hand as he storms across the tarmac and into my open arms. Within moments, my arms are full of him, his smell erupting from beneath the faint trace of the inside of the classroom. Before I have untangled the PE bag from Oscar’s shoulder, his mouth is releasing a flurry of information about the new class pet – a stick insect imaginatively called ‘Sticky’ – and how he got nine out of ten in his spelling test, which is OK because the only word he got wrong was ‘spaghetti’ and Daddy says that it isn’t even an English word and Daddy says my teacher is stupid. Time will soon steal these runaway sentences; it will replace them with grunts and shrugging shoulders.
Oscar continues talking, and I make the appropriate noises of congratulatory praise, while extracting the half-folded newsletter from the handles of his bookbag, the residual smell of cheap soap clinging to the material, but I’m distracted. As Oscar continues with his stream of information about the school day, I’m looking at the woman standing towards the back of the playground.
She’s thinner, her hair is longer, but it’s her. Nessa: Kerry’s Nessa.
They were such an unusual couple.
