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
I wake with a jolt again: Kerry’s body hurtling backwards, feet and arms in front of her, ice-blue eyes staring at a fixed point in the distance: red coat, red boots and the primal scream of brakes; painted silver nails; emerald ring.
I blink.
Ed is asleep next to me; his arm is lying heavily around my waist, securing me to him. My eyes are sore and my throat dry. I ease myself from beneath Ed’s arm, dropping a kiss on the top of his hand, and pull on my shorts and vest.
The kids are snoring gently in their rooms: Hailey is lying neatly on her side in a foetal position, her hair wrapped around her index finger, a habit that has stayed with her since her early years. Oscar, in contrast to his sister lying in the next room, is spread out on top of his covers: arms and legs open wide, brown curls sticking up at all angles. I bend down and kiss his forehead and pull the duvet over him.
Outside the kitchen window, the sky is sherbet: pinks, oranges and yellows powder the sky with dawn. I down a glass of water.
Why am I here? I ask Kerry again.
‘Because you have so much.’
I know.
‘I don’t think you do,’ she replies and re-plaits her hair. ‘Come on, Jen, tell me what you have.’
I was adopted by a wonderful family?
‘You were. Tell me something you love about Ed.’
I love that he makes me laugh, that he works so hard every day to make me smile.
‘How? How does he make you laugh?’
He . . . A smile tugs around my mouth. He makes heart shapes with tomato ketchup on my plate.
‘There you go. How many women would kill for heart-shaped blobs of ketchup?’
The emptiness fills a little but it’s not enough . . . my body leans forward, clicking the catch on the window frame, allowing me to inhale the cool stillness of dawn breaking. It’s intoxicating, this smell: fresh and pure and clean. I lean my head as close as I can to the window and stare at the horizon. The world has its arms out to me. ‘Look at this open space!’ it shouts. ‘Look at what is around you!’ I step back; the confines of my home holding my hands behind my back.
I need to escape, no that’s not right, I need to appreciate what I still have. I’ll be back before they’re even awake.
At first, I’m walking, the air chipping away at the heat inside. Gossamer quietness floats over the housing estate, hushing the ticking of clocks and hum of electricity, but all too soon, my lungs have become accustomed to the cooler air.
I should have died.
But I didn’t.
My feet begin to quicken their pace, the molten heat of those words being pushed back by the dry warmth now filling my lungs. I follow my feet, as they stretch into a run, pounding against the tarmac towards the lanes at the back of the estate which lead to the hills. I’ve walked this route before a hundred times, pushing Hailey in her pushchair, a few years later holding Ed’s hand while she clung her arms around his neck, Oscar’s head nestled next to my chest in the baby sling, but this path is leading me somewhere else today.
My feet continue to urge my body forward, the dry heat in my lungs gasping for more of the cool air that surrounds me, the exertion forcing them to work harder, my breath becoming deeper, the purity around me filling my body as the path leads towards Hayworth Hill. Muscles in my legs groan and complain and my back is aching, but my lungs want more; I need to give them more. And so, I do. I run faster, the back of my throat burning; my body has been starving for this cleanliness and if I go a little bit faster, I will be satiated.
I don’t know how long I have been running, but the sun is rising higher, the last of the sherbet pinks and lemons sinking, the morning blue tearing open the sky. I’m reaching the summit: the houses below turn their backs on me, the sleepers inside kicking off the cover of quiet. The summit arrives too soon. Too soon I see the monument – a tower of decreasing stone circles that children want to climb and parents warn not to.
Reaching the summit of the hill isn’t enough.
My fingers grip the stone edges as I pull my knees onto it. I climb onto the next circle until I’m here: the highest point of the county.
But I’ve got here too soon. Too soon. It’s over . . . too soon. My stomach hurts, stitch threading its needle around my insides. My breath feels hot again now that I’ve stopped.
My head feels light, the view in front of me swaying when it should be still. The burning at the back of my throat tells me I need water, but I have none. My vision blurs, and then my legs buckle beneath me.
The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #5
Death by Head Injury
Jennifer Jones watches the snow falling heavily over the county.
‘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.