Page 44 of If I Could Say Goodbye
Is this what they call an existential crisis? I’m sure that’s what this is. I close the toilet seat and tap ‘existential crisis’ into the search bar of my phone as Oscar brushes his teeth.
People can suffer from an existential crisis for a number of reas—
‘Is that two minutes?’ Oscar interrupts.
‘No, buddy . . . another, um, forty seconds.’
—ons: guilt over losing a loved one . . .
Ha! Jackpot!
Right. I type in ‘how to fix an existential crisis’ as Oscar spits. I’ll have this sorted in no time . . . I’ve already diagnosed the problem; I’ll have Jen back to her old self by the end of the week.
There is no quick fix to an existential crisis, but there are a number of things you can do to help. 1. Identify your triggers.
‘What’s an egg, eggsiss—’ Oscar leans over and peers at the screen.
I close the tab and stand. ‘Right, what story do you want?’
I distract my son and guide him into his bedroom, ignoring the sounds of Jen crying from behind the bedroom door. I can fix this.
I lean in and kiss Oscar’s forehead, closing the door quietly behind me.
‘Daddy?’ Hailey’s voice calls out. I glance at my watch.
‘Hey, poppet, what’s up?’ I smooth down the unicorn’s face on her duvet and pinch the end of her nose.
‘I can hear Mummy crying.’ I turn my head towards the door where Jen’s soft sobs can still be heard. ‘Is she alright? Is she cross that I drank proper Coke?’
I smile. ‘No, no . . . we haven’t done anything wrong. Remember how I said that Mummy’s heart is a bit broken?’
She nods, her blonde hair bouncing with the action. I tuck it behind her ears and follow the outline of her birthmark with my finger.
‘Well, sometimes, to fix it, you need to cry. Just like you did when Chester the hamster died. Do you remember?’
She rubs her eyes, red-rimmed from the chlorine in the swimming pool and the pull of sleep.
‘Shall we make her some flapjacks tomorrow?’ Her mouth opens wide as she yawns through her words. ‘Mummy made me flapjacks when Chester died and then I was OK.’
Hailey’s eyes close.
‘Sure. Get some sleep now though, OK?’
‘Night, Daddy. Love you millions.’
‘Love you zillions.’
I sit at the end of the bed and watch Jen sleep. I’ve read all the hints and tips that WikiHow has to offer: spend time outside, talk to people, imagine one of your idols is giving you advice . . . that one is tricky. Kerry was her idol.
Jen is fitful; the duvet has been kicked and punched and twisted. Sweat is clinging to the hair at the back of her neck and she’s muttering to herself. Nonsense words, nothing she says makes sense except for when she calls my name.
‘I’m here,’ I say, but no matter how many times I say it, whatever horrors that are happening behind my wife’s closed eyes, my being here isn’t enough.
I’ve got to do more.
Chapter Thirty
Jennifer
