Page 109 of If I Could Say Goodbye
I shuffle forward in the snow; soft flakes are falling from the sky again. The sky is blue. That sounds like a simple explanation, but what I mean to say is, it is every shade of blue; above me it is deep blue . . . That’s not better, is it? The only way is to describe it by the Crayola crayons that are currently broken in half in the kids’ cupboard. If I was to get a fresh new pack and lay out all the shades of blue, they would go from baby blue to periwinkle blue to ruddy blue, to . . . what colour does Oscar use for Aquaman? Ultramarine – you get the idea – until they end with white . . . next to the horizon, the blue sinks into white.
Snow cushions my footsteps, the sound swallowed, like I’ve hit mute on the controller. Everything is so quiet here. Well, apart from the sniffs of the huskies, the squeals and creaks of the kids as they sit huddled beneath a fur throw.
My heart swells inside my chest, well, not actually swells because I’m sure that would give me a heart attack and that is the last thing I want to happen here, could you imagine how fucked up that would make my kids? I mean that I never thought being here would be as magical as it looks in the brochures. I felt pretty damn cynical about the whole thing, but as I look at the excitement and joy on their faces . . . no, my heart isn’t really swelling but my love for my family is. Just look at them. I reach up onto the sled and stand behind them. Jen is sitting with the kidsCool Runningsstyle, Hailey between her legs, Oscar between hers. My gloves hold on to the driving bow – the arch of wood like a handle.
Ahead of us the snowmobile motor ticks impatiently, ready to clear our path; the snow is falling at a steady pace, but the staff aren’t concerned. I’m glad to watch the snowmobile from afar; yesterday Jen persuaded me to let her on one.
In front of the sled the dogs, all eight of them, are impatient to get going.
‘OK?’ I ask Jen, her face turning and tilting up to me.Isn’t this magical? Isn’t this amazing?it says, and I match her expression. The forest ahead of us is . . . Christ, itisamazing; the trees are covered in snow, some of the green patching through the fir, but others are gleaming. When we first got here, I reached up to one of the trees and gave it a gentle tug. I expected the ‘snow’ to stay still, so convinced was I that this was all fake. The snow on this tree was white – crystal white – like the fake stuff that is already on the pop-up trees from the supermarket. But it fell from the branches, landing with a thud on top of me, a great source of amusement to the kids.
‘Ready?’ the guide asks. The snowmobile revs its engine and begins and then with a tug the sled starts moving. It’s moving fast, like really fast. The kids are squealing, Jen is wooohooo-ing and me? I’m looking down at my family, as we power around bends, following the snowmobile, part of me desperately wanting to enjoy the moment, but as we fly forward, the magic turns into something else: fear. I’m suddenly terrified. What happens if there is a fault with the engine ahead of us? What if it bursts into flames, if we fly into a ball of fire, or swerve, the sled turning on its sides, the fear sending the huskies rabid, my family trapped while being ravaged? The squeals of joy continue as the sled picks up pace. My breath is coming fast, my hands gripping the handle; it seems to go on and on, the paws of the dogs pounding, the rush of the wind in my ears and ice in the air, the snow hanging from the trees; on and on the ride goes.
Eventually, as things do, our journey comes to an end. I step off and, in a few strides, my wife, my daughter and my son are in my arms. They’re safe; we’re all together; we’re all alive.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Jennifer
I can’t stop smiling; my cheeks are stuck, but they’re not frozen in place – I don’t think – I’m just happy. Ed disembarks the sled and pulls me and the kids into his arms; his body is shaking from the adrenaline that I can still feel hammering around my own. The kids are yelping and screeching about how amazing it was and asking if they can stroke the huskies.
‘Just a minute,’ Ed says into our coats, ‘I just want to remember this.’ I know exactly how he feels.
‘Kids . . . we’re going to take a memory picture, OK?’ I say.
‘A what?’ Oscar replies.
‘A memory picture, it’s where we all take one minute to take a picture, but a picture in our minds.’
‘You’re weird, Mummy,’ Hailey replies, taking off her glasses and rubbing the lenses with her mittens to clear the steam created by Ed’s embrace.
‘Well, I think Mummy is a genius,’ Ed replies. ‘You can’t smell and listen to a photo, can you?’
‘I s’pose. Can we stroke the doggies now?’ Oscar is impatient.
‘Just a minute, buddy. But first, memory picture. Are you ready? I’ll count three, two, one, and then you take the picture with your brains. Remember the smell, the sounds, the feel of your clothes, the . . .’
‘Hurry up, Daddy!’ Hailey interrupts.
‘OK, OK, ready? Three, two, one!’ We’re all silent for a moment. The guide has pulled out his phone and is taking a snapshot as we all sit there, Ed and I looking into each other’s eyes and the kids looking confused but happy, their noses red and their eyes glassy.
‘My memory picture is done, Daddy. NOW can we stroke the doggies?!’
‘OK, buddy, oof, off we get.’ Ed picks up Oscar, and takes hold of Hailey’s hand, shooting me a cheeky grin over his shoulder that tells me how lucky we are.
I jump.
Kerry is standing next to me. Her voice is loud in my ear; I can smell the hot chocolate vapour rising from her cup.
‘This is why I saved you.’
She leans in and kisses my cheek; the warmth of her lips stays with me for the rest of the day.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Jennifer
It’s Christmas morning. All around the world families have been arranging presents, cooking special meals, meeting up with loved ones, remembering the ones who are no longer here.
