‘Sorry, I was worried, we’re out of Rice Krispies and there is washing in the machine and I—’
‘What?’ I ask. Kerry is standing behind him, shaking the empty plastic cereal container. ‘You were worried because we’re out of cereal? You know, Ed, you could go to the shop yourself. You’re a big boy, I’m sure you could manage it, and as for the washing machine—’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘There’s a silver button, you press it and then the door opens, it’s like magic.’
I hate the way I’m speaking to him, but I hate the worried look on his face more. I know this isn’t about Rice Krispies – Ed has never been the type of man to expect his dinner on the table, and he always helps around the house even though he knows that I will probably tease him when he doesn’t do things right – but the words spew from my mouth regardless. I barge past Kerry, shooting her an angry look; I throw open the door to the garage, where I find a boxful of Rice Krispies sitting neatly in the spare cereal cupboard. I storm into the kitchen, where Ed is gripping on to the draining board and staring out of the window to where the kids are arguing.
‘Here are the goddamn Rice Krispies! Did you even bother to look?’
‘Jen, calm down.’ He turns, and places his hands on my shoulders; they sting and I shrug him off, instead tearing the box open and trying to pull apart the plastic bag inside. ‘I just noticed you hadn’t been shopping and I didn’t know where you were, I—’
‘You want Rice Krispies, Ed? Well, here . . .’ I pull the bag out of the box as I wrestle with it, ‘they . . .’ I pinch the top of the bag between my fingers and try to prise it open, ‘are—’
The bag rips apart, an explosion of puffed rice hitting almost every surface, every appliance, the hair on Ed’s head. Oscar and Hailey run in from the garden, Oscar brandishing a Nerf gun; they both halt in their tracks, a little skidding sound coming from beneath Hailey’s jelly sandals; both of their mouths open into an ‘o’.
I look at Ed, whose startled expression is being showered with stray puffs of rice, which are being blinked from his eyelashes. The kids look at Ed, they look at each other, they look at me, they look at the Rice Krispies. A giggle rises from my tummy; it clambers through my chest, bubbling up my throat and escaping into the kitchen. Ed catches it, bites his lip and tilts his head; the bubble of laughter floats towards him, his eyes meeting mine, the sound of my laughter popping the tension that had filled the air just moments before. Rice crunches beneath his flip-flops as he makes his way to me. I point at the sound beneath his feet, the bubble of laughter hovering above me as I take in a strangled breath. I jump into the air, my feet exploding the pile of little puffed-rice-shaped bombs, dust flying from my steps. Hailey and Oscar copy my actions, jumping up and down, sending dusty cereal up in puffs of air. Ed slips his hand in mine and pulls me into a waltzing position; I shake my head, releasing a fresh shower of cereal; we begin dancing, Ed twirling me around. The kids’ giggles are like background percussion to my laughter, which is achingly relentless. Soon Ed has to release me, because I’m gasping for breath.
Kerry watches the scene in front of her with a smirk; she sits on the kitchen chair, rolling her eyes at me but chuckling to herself. I have a stitch and step towards her, placing my hands on her shoulders as I try to calm the hiccups that have started to take hold.
Ed and I clear away the dusty remains of cereal, the air between us cleared by the gentle way he danced with me, by the humour of the afternoon, by the kids as we watched them jumping up and down as though they were wearing wellies and jumping in muddy puddles: our two beautiful children, our beautiful home, our beautiful life.
‘So . . .’ Ed scrapes the dust from the pan into the bin, ‘what did you get up to this afternoon?’ He has his back to me, he is trying to be nonchalant, but I can see by the set of his shoulders that he is tense.
‘Nessa’s. She’s, she’s not doing so well, Ed. She was upset, so I went round.’
‘I was worried, you said—’
‘I know what I said, Ed,’ I say quietly, ‘but you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m OK. Honestly.’
He straightens and turns to me, a forced smile on his face. ‘I’m not sure you are, Jen.’
I sigh loudly. ‘Can we not do this now? I’ve had a hell of an afternoon at Nessa’s, she’d thrown all of Kerry’s stuff out of her window.’
‘Thrown it out?’ Ed questions, putting the dustpan and brush away and pulling me towards him. I rest my head against his chest, breathing in his smell, a smell that is unique to him, that I can’t imagine ever living without.
‘She thought she was ready to handle it, going through Kerry’s things, but it was too much for her,’ I want to tell him, but he’s already becoming so . . . suspicious. ‘I’ve spent the afternoon picking up my dead sister’s things.’
‘I’m sorry. It must have been difficult for you.’
I think about the euphoria I had felt as I picked up every piece of Kerry’s clothing, how I was compiling memories like photos in a photograph album, attaching them carefully with cardboard-corner memory holders. I had a wonderful afternoon, but I know I can’t tell him that.
Here is what I do know: I can’t share these feelings with anyone; I can’t tell anyone that my dead sister is currently making herself a cup of tea, yawning and saying goodnight to me. I can’t tell anyone that the only time I feel alive is when I put myself in danger.
I can’t tell anyone . . . because then they’ll know: they’ll know that really, I’m falling apart.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jennifer
My eyes are hot beneath my eyelids, as I blink; my eyelids strain with the effort; there is no moisture there. Guilt and insomnia are currently best friends and they have ganged up on me, bullying me. Guilt fills my eyes with tears, a cup forever full and cascading over the edge like a waterfall, but then, just when I feel like I have found some relief, insomnia yawns and stretches. It drinks in all of the liquid, all of the fluidity and emotional release, and replaces it with stark, barren inertia.
The kids run into the lounge, filling my arms with sun-creamed skin and artificial, strawberry-sweet breath. I breathe in their smell, gulping it down.
Ed throws down his backpack and slumps onto the sofa, in dramatic fashion. ‘We have raised monsters! Monsters! I tell you!’
Oscar lets go of my neck and dive-bombs on top of Ed, who winces but lifts a delighted Oscar above his head.
‘Daddy let us eat as many sweets as we wanted at the park, because we both jumped in the deep end at the swimming pool,’ Hailey says, shifting her weight on my lap: wide, innocent eyes peering over her purple-framed glasses and a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
She lowers her voice into a whisper. ‘And I had real Coke. Not the diet kind.’
This is demonstrated by her climbing off my knee and jumping up and down on the space beside me. I look over to Ed. The sun has caught his face, red patches of tender skin cover the end of his nose and cheeks. He puts Oscar down onto the floor, throwing up his hands in a ‘not my fault’ gesture.