Page 27 of If I Could Say Goodbye
‘If you want a bigger jump, go somewhere else tomorrow, somewhere safe.’
I won’t get a chance tomorrow, I’ll have the kids.
I throw a cursory glance at Ed, who is deep in sleep, and then begin climbing the ladder. Once on Lovers’ Leap, I follow the ledge around to the right. I hold on to the rock and stretch my leg out, digging my fingers into the grooves of the rock face. It scrapes my hands and knees, but I push myself forward, finding safe footing. Above me hangs the higher ledge. The rock here is strong and there are plenty of footholds for me to be able to scale upwards without much trouble. My throat is dry, my legs are bleeding a little, but the adrenaline is pushing me forward; the need to feel that freedom – even for a few more seconds – is tempting me, calling out my name. I heave myself onto the ledge and roll onto my back. My breath is coming out in short sharp gasps and I lie here for a few minutes, listening to the silence. But the silence is cracked open by Ed’s voice and I sit up, frustrated that he has interrupted my moment. I stand up and walk towards the edge; it is higher than I first thought. Ed’s hands are waving at either side.
‘Come on, Jen . . . enough is enough.’I turn my head and watch as Kerry reaches her hand forward towards me, beckoning me away from the brink.
‘You’re not here,’ I say and turn away from her, my feet stepping into air, giving me my freedom back.
Chapter Eighteen
Ed
I can’t believe what I am seeing. She is standing on the edge of the cliff; her head is tilted back and she is smiling. Even from here I can see that she is at peace. I’m trying to decide on a course of action. I know I haven’t got time to get to her but that doesn’t stop me from looking at the ladder; I know I can’t catch her but it doesn’t stop me from thinking that I can, and it doesn’t stop me from calling her name, even though I know she is going to jump.
My eyes scour the water to where she will land. Sickness rises in my throat as I notice that the blue of the water holds a hidden shadow beneath the surface; the image of the iceberg fromTitanicpushes into my thoughts. ‘Jen!’ I shout, but I know it’s too late; she is stepping forward. I jump into the water. It’s the same action that just an hour ago had felt exhilarating, but this time the water feels heavy and I battle against it, forcing my muscles to work against the gravity and pushing myself to the surface in time to see her body crash into the pool. I don’t hear a thud, or a scream, but as my arms begin to slice through the water, I see the blood. And I see Jen floating, arms outstretched, face down.
Her name is caught in my throat as I pound through the water, my fingers grasping at her arm; she begins to kick, her legs sinking below the surface, her head erupting from the water with a huge gasp of air. I pull her into my arms, cupping her legs in my arms the way I hold Hailey when she has fallen asleep and needs to be carried to bed. Jen’s arms encircle my neck. I pull her body as close to mine as I can, our chests rising and falling quickly as we each catch our breath.
‘Where are you hurt?’ I ask frantically, scanning her face, expecting her skin to be pale, expecting to see the fear of death mirroring my own, but instead . . . she has never looked more alive.
‘I’m fine,’ she answers, smoothing her wet hair back from her head.
‘You’re bleeding. You’re not fine.’ I don’t mean it to come out the way it does, and I realise that I’m angry with her. I drop her legs and pull away.
‘Am I?’ And then she laughs, like it’s all a joke. But it’s not. My anger dissipates as I noticed the red stain running over her shoulder and onto her chest. I run my thumb over the blood and show it to her. She shrugs and turns her head over her shoulder to see the damage. I take her gently by the shoulders and turn her around. Trailing from the top of her shoulder and down to her spine is a cut. It’s not deep but it’s bleeding profusely. I swallow down the lump in my throat, lean in, move her hair aside and gently kiss the base of her neck. She turns back to me, the vitality of her face changing as our eyes meet.
I swallow hard. ‘You’ve cut your back.’
‘Really?’ She looks surprised. ‘Huh.’
‘Huh?’ I repeat, my eyebrows rising, my anger returning. She lowers her eyes and sinks beneath the surface, rising with her mouth full of water, which she spits out at me as though we are young lovers splashing at each other in a pool in Ibiza. What does she expect me to do? Splash her playfully? I wipe away the water from my face as her focus goes to something beyond the pool and over my shoulder. I turn but there is nothing there. Blood is creeping back over Jen’s shoulder as I return my focus to her.
‘We need to stop that bleeding.’ My tone is flat.
‘It doesn’t hurt, stop worrying, it’s just a scratch.’ Her answer is dismissive and distracted as she scans the rocks again. ‘Do you want to have a go?’ She’s smiling as if I haven’t just seen her face down and bleeding.
‘No.’
And then I turn and swim to the water’s edge, dry off with the towel and watch my wife floating on her back, kicking her legs like she’s on the holiday of a lifetime.
I don’t often Google stuff about health. I once searched the symptoms of my dodgy knee and ended up being convinced I had a rare type of bone cancer, but I can’t help it. The sun is starting to come up; I can’t believe I’ve been on here most of the night. I rub my eyes: they’re stinging from sitting here like a dick, scrolling through pages and pages on the internet, trying to work out why my wife is acting all weird.
My hand cups the mouse and hovers over the title which reads: ‘What to Do if you Think your Spouse Is Suicidal’. I don’t know how my research has led me to this. I started by looking at grief, that led me to mental illness, and then . . . well, this. I left-click and read another piece telling me of the warning signs: loss of interest in daily activities (nope); hopelessness (nope); substance abuse(?). I’m about to exit the screen when a different sentence grabs my attention. Is your loved one making risky decisions, or can you see a dramatic change in their personality? I reach for my cup and drain the last of the cold coffee. My wife isn’t suicidal. My wife is just, my wife is just . . . Jen is—
I turn off the screen and head for the bathroom.
The shower is cold and the jets of water are stinging my skin but it’s what I need. I need to wake up. My eyes close against the spray but I open them again quickly; the image of Jen lying face down in the pool won’t stop. I wrap the towel around my waist, make two cups of coffee and sit down gently on the edge of the bed. Jen always sleeps on her stomach, same position: head to the side, one arm beneath the pillow, the other at a right angle, her dark hair often covering her face, shielding her from the rising sun. I hook my finger beneath her hair, carefully revealing her face. Her features scrunch up and I can’t help but smile: she hates to be disturbed in sleep; her instant reaction is to pout and pull her muscles together. I continue to stroke her hair and her features relax again, just as I knew they would. I let my eyes trail along the edge of the gauze covering the scratch. Old blood has congealed around the edges, marking Jen’s pale skin. I blink back the image of the pool again and lean forward to kiss her forehead. The pout returns fleetingly, but then a smile replaces it.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s early,’ I reply. Her eyes open a fraction and she smiles at me, tapping the empty space beside her. I discard the damp towel and climb beneath the sheets as she rolls towards me, entwining her legs with mine.
‘We need to talk.’ My voice betrays me: it’s unsteady.
‘I know.’ Her eyes are sincere; tears threaten behind them.
I touch her nose with mine.
