Page 74 of If I Could Say Goodbye
Hailey pulls a face that says my dad is weird, then points to the pineapple bobbles. ‘I like the pineapple ones, I think,’ she concludes; Oscar pulls back the elastic and catapults it in our direction, then runs into the kitchen laughing.
I bank this conversation, ready to tell Jen. I find myself doing this, storing the good things into one part of my brain like a filing cabinet. ‘Things that are OK to tell Jen.’ Every night for the past few weeks, Oscar has woken screaming in the middle of the night because he’s had a nightmare. At first, he was easily consoled but last night, try as I might, I couldn’t. It took Hailey to come into his bedroom and snuggle up to him. She sang ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ like Jen does and he soon went back to sleep. That goes into the file marked ‘Things that are not OK to tell Jen’.
‘Can you help me make a volcano, Daddy?’
‘Ouch!’ The pineapple band twangs against my finger. I twist it back into place at the end of Hailey’s plait. ‘A volcano?’
‘Yeah, for the end-of-term science day.’
‘Um . . . OK.’
‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to. Rachel Rodriguez always wins anyway.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her daddy is a gineer.’
‘A gineer?’
‘He makes stuff.’
‘Oh! An engineer. There you go.’ I release the plait and spin her around to face me so I can check that she doesn’t look totally ridiculous.
‘That’s what I said. A gineer.’
‘Well, I got an A in technology so I’m sure we can knock something up that will give Rachel Rodriguez a run for her money.’
‘OK.’ Her face tries to not look impressed, or excited, or anything but nonchalant about the whole thing, but I can see a smile tugging at her clamped-down lips.
I make a mental note to Google how to make a volcano. It’s going to be the best homemade volcano in the history of homemade volcanoes.
I have to make sure of it if I’m going to keep that smile on my daughter’s face.
Chapter Fifty
Jennifer
‘Hi, Jennifer? Jenny?’
‘Just Jen.’ I smile at the psychiatrist.
‘I’m Doctor Popescu. Please, sit down.’
Kerry is watching him, her eyes widening as she mimics me flicking my hair, fluttering my eyelashes and mouthing ‘Just Jen’. I try not to laugh. Dr Popescu is gorgeous and clearly my subconscious is only too aware of this fact. He looks Italian – long nose, dark eyes, thick hair – but his accent is more Eastern European, I think.
Dr Popescu smiles. He has a nice smile, not like Ed’s or anything – Ed’s smile can make me weak at the knees even after all these years – but he’s good-looking, in a carefully maintained gym-and-daily-skin-care-routine kind of way.
‘So, how are things? Dr Faulkner has passed on your notes and explained a little about your situation. I understand you’re taking olanzapine?’
As nothing has changed since taking the antidepressants, my doctor has started to give me some antipsychotic drugs ‘to help control the neural transmitters in your brain’. I baulked at the mention of them, and ignored my husband, this man who was sitting next to me and spouting medical terms like he’d swallowed a whole medical dictionary. I mean, I’m seeing a deceased relative, but does that mean I’m psychotic? I check myself. Nobody has said that.AmI psychotic?
‘And you’re living with your parents?’ he continues.
I nod. ‘Just for a little while, until, well, until . . .’ I look over to Kerry, who is mimicking tying a noose around her neck. He tracks my focus and smiles.
‘And your sister, Kerry . . . How is she today?’
‘I’m very well thank you,’ Kerry replies, perching herself on the end of the desk and grinning at him. ‘Thank you for asking.’
