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.
As his hand raises to knock the door, he pauses. ‘Everything happens for a reason, Jennifer. I know that means nothing to you right now.’ His eyes meet mine and there is deep understanding in his gaze. ‘Fate is an impossible thing to control, but if you can see past the pain . . . you will find reason there. If my brother hadn’t died, I might never have met my wife, we wouldn’t be having our baby. I’m not saying that one thing is better than the other, but I don’t think there was anything I could have done to change my life even if I wanted to.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Ed
Someone is hammering at the door. I reach for the clock: it’s only six a.m. The knocking repeats. My leg kicks across to Jen’s side of the bed but it’s cold; nothing new there.
I pull my boxers from the heap of clothes on the floor, and rush down the stairs. Hailey opens her bedroom door; her cheeks are red and she is rubbing her eyes.
‘What’s that noise, Daddy?’ Fredrick – her teddy – is hanging limply in her hand; his one eye is missing from a fatal incident with one of Oscar’s hot wheels.
‘It’s just the post lady, go back to bed, sweetie, it’s early.’ I place my hand on her back and return her to her room as another assault on the front door ensues. I know even as I fly down the stairs that something isn’t right. If Jen was here the house would smell of the fresh coffee that she can’t function without, the radio would be on in the background playing classical music quietly so as not to wake the kids. The house feels cold, and as I slide across the door chain, I realise that the kitchen window is wide open. I’m scared about this as my hand turns the lock on the front door . . . anyone could have climbed through it. Anyone could have got into our house. But that thought is pushed aside as the door opens and hanging on to a tall, well-kept man, who is a complete stranger, is Jen. And she’s bleeding.
Again. And again, fear spikes inside my chest.
There is a diagonal cut along her cheek lying parallel to her cheekbone, like some perfectly marred damsel in distress.
‘What happened?’ I reach for her, taking her out of the arms of the stranger as he ties his dog’s lead around the trellis.
‘Nothing, I’m fine, I just tripped, that’s all.’
‘I found her by the monument.’ His voice is rich; it suits the clothing and the perfect designer stubble.
‘On Hayworth Hill? What were you doing up there at this time in the morning?’ I guide her into the lounge. She is leaning her weight on me and limping, there is blood on her white vest and she is wincing every time she puts any weight on her foot.
I position her onto the sofa and thank the stranger.
‘It’s no problem at all . . . it was a good job that my dog is incontinent, that’s all I can say. She was out pretty cold for a few seconds.’
‘Out cold?’ My voice shoots up a couple of notches. ‘What do you mean she was out cold?’
‘I’m fine, Ed, I just need a coffee—’
‘She’s had a can of Coke on the way. My guilty pleasure, I’m afraid, but don’t tell the missus.’ He winks, laughs and pats me on the back as if we’re making small talk at a bar. ‘Speaking of which, I’d best be off. She’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ Jen interjects, looking up at this stranger as if she doesn’t want him to leave. ‘For everything.’
‘Take care, Jennifer.’
I find myself looking from one to the other and back again like a spectator. I thank the man who seems to have some kind of understanding with my wife, and see him out the door.
I take a deep breath and head into the kitchen, robotically turning on the coffee machine and reaching for the first-aid kit in the top of the cupboard before returning to Jen. My stomach is clenched into a knot. What am I missing? I mean, she’s doing everything that WikiHow says she should be doing: time outside, talking to people . . . but I’ve got to be missing something.