Page 91 of If I Could Say Goodbye
I reach into the lump of papier mâché made to resemble a rock next to the volcano. Nestled inside is a small bottle of something orange; I recognise the bottle, it was part of the perfume tester kit that Ed bought me from Oscar last Mother’s Day. I watch Kerry unscrew the lid and peer into the volcano.
‘Oh, I’ve seen this on telly! You pour the vinegar and paint into the bicarb and then it all erupts!’
‘I think we should wait until Hailey is here.’
I try to scan the room again but all I can see is the centre of the volcano.
I blink.
Again I try to focus on the crowds, but my vision is drawn to the centre of the volcano, which has begun to bubble. The sound of a gasp from the teacher next to me slaps me. Kerry has gone and I am holding the bottle. The volcano is erupting: running down the clay rivulets is orange foam; the slow trickle is gaining momentum and begins rolling off the edge of the board and onto the floor.
I feel sick.
The teacher next to me disappears for a brief moment, reappearing with a huge roll of blue paper towel. I crouch down and begin wiping the floor. My heart is thumping in my chest, in my ears, in my throat.
I hear my name but it’s as though it’s dampened, like the treble, the sharpness, has been wrapped up in a damp towel and hidden in the corner of a room, to be dealt with again at a later date.
The room snaps back into focus, the towel unwrapped and shaken, throwing the clarity, sharpening the edges of my name, around the room. Then I see her. I see my daughter, the daughter who would only sleep in my arms when she was a baby, who had my name on her lips if she fell, my name ready to call when she wanted to show me something she was proud of, looking at me; my daughter looking at me as though I’m a stranger.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Ed
We’ve almost done the full circuit when we see it. Just as before, blue paper towels are being flapped about; teaching staff are laughing good-naturedly at the trials that come with a job working with children. You know that feeling when, I don’t know, like when you’ve knocked a glass off the table and there is that split second where you know there is no way of stopping it from smashing, but you still try to grab it? That’s how I feel right now. Only it’s not a glass that is going to be destroyed . . . it’s my daughter.
‘Never work with animals or children, isn’t that what they say?’ Mr Newton is laughing. Hailey’s hand slips into mine; any embarrassment about doing this in front of her peers has gone and the need, I suppose, to have my reassurance takes precedence as we hurry towards her desk. The crowd of hunched staff begin to stand and step back, Mrs Park looking anxiously around, her eyes resting on Hailey with a sad smile. The crowd and paper towels disperse, leaving a figure on all fours desperately trying to rectify a mistake, trying to tidy the mess of poster paint and bicarbonate of soda. Jen is whispering urgently to the space next to her, her hands scrubbing the floor, the panic in her face making her look even more crazy than usual.
‘Jen,’ I say. It’s not a question, not a greeting, just a statement. My voice seems to bring her to the here and now; her eyes refocus and land on Hailey’s pale face.
‘Hailey!’ She stands, twisting the blue paper in her hands into knots. ‘This is wonderful! Aren’t you clever? I’m sorry . . .’ She turns back to where the orange food coloured froth is trickling down the side of the volcano. ‘I think I put too much vinegar in.’
Hailey steps forward and looks up at her mother. ‘It’s OK, Mummy.’ She wraps her hands around Jen’s waist and hugs her, her face turned into Jen’s tummy. Thankfully, she misses the giggles from the Spanish girl and her group of accessories on the other side of the room. The girls are wearing lip-gloss even though they’re only eight. Hailey doesn’t hear the words whispered in ears or see the spiteful fingers pointing over to where orange sludge is already dripping onto the laminate flooring.
Hailey’s face looks up to me for guidance, but I don’t know what to do. I’m her father, and I can’t fix this for her; I can’t stop the people in the room from looking in our direction; I can’t stop any of it.
This can’t go on.
My kids are never going to win if their mum is losing.
Chapter Sixty
Ed
I’ve been sitting outside Nessa’s house like a frigging stalker for the best part of an hour. Raindrops are falling slowly against the windshield as I sit here. No doubt the neighbours will be thinking of calling the police if I don’t get my arse into gear and do something.
Come on, you idiot. Get a grip.
Across the road I watch a couple walking hand in hand, their steps quickening as the rain gathers momentum, their walk turning into a skip, a run, laughter following them. I think about the journey back from the science fair as we all sat in silence; even Oscar was quiet. How I guided my wife from the car and into her mother’s arms, briefly explaining to Brian in hurried and hushed tones what had happened at the school. How I sat on Hailey’s bed reading to her until she finally fell asleep, her eyes puffy from crying behind a locked bathroom door.
I jump as Nessa’s hand thumps the passenger window. I reach for the window control, sliding it downwards, letting the sounds and smells of rain on tarmac into the car.
‘Do you want to come in?’ she shouts above the din. Her hair is covered in one of those plastic covers that my nan used to wear; it looks oddly cool on her head.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply honestly, leaning over the hand brake.
‘She’s not here.’
‘I know.’
