Page 46 of If I Could Say Goodbye
‘I can’t remember the last time we had a white Christmas,’ she says to her husband as he pulls the sled behind him. Her green bobble hat is adjusted and she walks on, her boots digging into the fresh blanket of snow.
‘Come on, Daddy!’ their son, Oscar, shouts. ‘We’re almost at the top!’
‘Are you sure it’s safe to let them slide down this side of the hill?’ Jennifer asks.
Her husband’s cheeks are red and he is out of breath. He stops as they crown the crest of the hill and come to a stop. ‘It’s fine. I did it loads of times when I was a kid. My weight will slow them down and I’ll just dig my feet in and stop if I think we’re going too fast.’
Her eyebrows furrow beneath the hat.
‘What a view eh?’ Jennifer exclaims, looking out.
Her husband plods towards her, leaving the kids organising the position of the sled; his wellies leave deep footprints in the snow. His arms wrap around her shoulders as they look out at the snow-topped, Christmas-cake houses.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Jennifer replies.
‘Come on, Dad!’ their daughter shouts. She is sitting with her legs either side of Oscar, scarlet woollen scarf wrapped around her neck, while Oscar’s blue mittens clutch the reins.
‘I’m coming!’ The husband kisses his wife’s cheek. ‘Make sure you get a good picture!’ he adds over his shoulders, climbing onto the back of the sled.
Jennifer looks up at the monument, straightens the green scarf and steps up, taking out a camera.
‘One, two, three!’ her husband shouts.
‘Wait!’ But they have already started moving. Jennifer Jones climbs up to the next level in haste and aims the screen at their whoops of laughter. She sees them in the shot, the trees surrounding them weighed down with heavy snow, the scarlet scarf of her daughter flying behind them, but then the scene tilts, Jennifer’s foot slips from beneath her. And she falls, the crack of her head against the stone snapping at the same time as the camera: the aperture capturing the white of the snow, the green of her scarf and the river of blood flowing from Jennifer Jones’s temple.
My head hurts when I come to. A dog’s wet nose is sniffing in my face, making me recoil. I try to move but a man smelling of expensive aftershave is talking to me. At first, I can’t separate his words, the endings and beginnings crashing into each other like surf on the crest of a wave.
‘Stay still.’ The world around me is soft, like it is outlined in chalk and the artist’s fingers have smudged it. My mouth is dry, my body soaked in sweat. The dog licks my face again, but is berated by a voice behind it while an arm is fixed around me, sitting me upright, my back leaning against the base of the statue. ‘I think you’ve fainted, what’s your name?’
‘Jennifer,’ my lips say.
‘Right, well, Jennifer, are you hurt anywhere else?’
My head shakes the negative, even though there is a searing pain radiating from my ankle. My cheek is burning too but I’m not sure if that is just because I’m hot.
‘Here.’ I smooth my hair away from my head, take hold of the can of Coke he is offering me, lifting it to my dry lips and gulping it down. The dog licks my face again and I can’t help but smile.
‘Are you lost?’
I laugh at this and then check myself. ‘You could say that, but no, I’m local.’ I pull myself up but take his arm, wincing as I lean on him for a moment.
The man, Richard, helps me home and I chat easily with him. He has an easy-going manner, conversation flows smoothly, my limping is taking us longer to get home than usual and soon I’m talking about Kerry.
‘She sounds like an amazing sister.’
‘She was. That’s why I don’t . . .’ I pause, rolling around the words in my mouth, chewing them before swallowing. ‘I don’t understand why.’
‘Why she died?’ he questions. I nod, looking away. ‘And why you didn’t?’ The words that fall from his lips seem effortless, hinged with an understanding; they pull my gaze back. ‘I lost my twin brother to cancer when I was twelve, so I know something of what you’re going through.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I give his arm a gentle squeeze. ‘How did you . . . cope?’
‘I didn’t. I got into fights, was drinking myself into an early grave by my late twenties . . .’ He pulls the lead with his spare hand and the dog looks up at his owner with affection, tongue lolling out of his mouth. ‘I made my parents’ life an even worse hell than it was already.’
We’re almost at my house and so I stop walking. ‘So, what happened?’
‘I hit rock bottom, almost drowned after throwing myself off Coletown Bridge. I had my stomach pumped and was forced to join AA. I never intended to get sober, but as I was coming out of my first meeting, I met my wife.’ A smile breaks out from beneath his skin, the landscape of his face transforming in seconds: the creases between his eyebrows softening; the crow’s feet around his eyes deepen. ‘She was late for a dance class and her purse fell out of her bag as she ran past.’ His smile is infectious. ‘I’ve been sober 2,196 days,’ he says with a hint of pride. ‘And we’re expecting our first child next month.’
‘Congratulations,’ I say sincerely. ‘I’m so pleased for you, for you both. This is me,’ I add, looking up at my house.
