I don’t meet her eyes while I wipe her cheek with an antiseptic wipe; she flinches but I still don’t look her in the eyes. I don’t look because I’m scared of what I’ll find there.
‘So,’ I begin, ‘you went for a run?’ It sounds like I’m trying to make conversation, like this is normal behaviour, for her to leave the windows wide open while we sleep upstairs, like it’s normal for her to go for a run – a pastime that she hasn’t practised for years – at what must have been about half-four in the morning.
‘I needed to clear my head,’ she says, pulling her cheek away as I dab the wound.
‘So, what happened?’ I discard the bloodied wipe, open another packet with my teeth and continue. There is a fly behind me, I can hear it buzzing and see that Jen is tracking its movements up and down the lounge.
‘I think I was probably a bit dehydrated, that’s all. It’s been a while since I went for a run.’
‘It has,’ I agree and then take a piece of gauze and tape it over the cut with microporous tape. I’m about to get up when she grabs on to my hand.
‘I need to know why, Ed.’
‘Why what?’ I ask.
She stares over at the sofa as if she’s talking to someone else. ‘I need to know why.’
‘Why what?’ I repeat again.
‘Why my life was more valuable than hers.’
‘None of that matters.’ I kneel down in front of her until she turns her face to me. ‘It doesn’t matter why you’re here, what matters is that you are here.’
‘It’s not enough.’
She looks off into the distance again, her face twitching and frowning while she thinks it over. It’s starting to scare me, this looking off into the distance thing.
‘It’s not enough?’ I say, bringing her focus back to me. ‘Me and your kids aren’t enough?’
She blinks a tear away. ‘It’s not that, it’s just . . . I feel like part of me died with Kerry, like I’ve got a hole inside of me . . .’ she clenches a fist to her chest, ‘and it’s filling up with all these questions. Why am I here and Kerry isn’t? And . . .’ Her face grimaces.
‘And?’
‘Why was I so lucky? I know I sound crazy, Ed, but the questions just won’t stop.’
‘So, let’s get you some answers.’
‘Thank you.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jennifer
I’m in the garden before the rest of the world is awake; the sun is pushing its way up from beneath the heaviness of night. Kerry is pegging out clothes on the washing line, shaking one of Ed’s pairs of boxers out before hanging them up. I try to rub the sleep deprivation away with the heel of my hand. I’m thinking about what Richard said, about fate. Was Kerry’s death unavoidable?
‘Tell me another reason why you should be happy,’ she instructs from the side of her mouth as she holds a peg between her lips.
‘My house?’
‘OK . . . so what do you love about it and please don’t say your tea-towel drawer . . . nobody should iron their tea towels.’
I clasp the coffee cup in my hands. ‘I know I’m lucky to live in a nice area, that I have everything I need.’
‘That’s right, you do, but what makes it special?’
‘The hat stand. Ed wanted it, I didn’t, but then . . . we both fixed it up. It’s the first and last thing I always notice when I come and go.’
‘Come on, Jen.’ She untangles a pair of socks and reaches for another peg. ‘You can do better than that.’
‘That I can imagine myself growing old in it. I can imagine me and Ed babysitting grandchildren.’
‘That’s better. Grandchildren and growing old . . . aren’t you lucky?!’
I nod. I am.
‘Jen?’
I blink.
The washing is gone and Ed is standing in the doorway, half-naked and rubbing his hair. I get up, wrap my arms around his waist and lift my chin so he can kiss me. He flinches at my cold hands, and takes them in his, blowing into them and holding them between his own.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘We’ll mention it at the doctor’s. Get you something to help with that.’
‘We?’
‘Yeah, I thought I’d come with you, I need to pick up my dry-cleaning in town anyway.’
‘OK.’
‘We can go to that café with the cinnamon buns first if you fancy it?’
‘Edward Jones, you always say the right words. You had me at cinnamon buns,’ I reply, closing my arms and thinking about all of the things that I should be grateful for.
‘Hello, Jennifer, and this must be Mr Jones, do take a seat.’ Dr Faulkner re-arranges her ballerina bun and pushes her oversized glasses up her nose. She looks as though she’s in her early twenties.
‘So . . . how have you been?’ she asks, smiling briefly at me over the rim of her glasses before returning her focus to the screen in front of her. ‘I see you stopped seeing the grief counsellor after only two sessions?’
I nod.
‘Wasn’t it helping?’
I shake my head. ‘She just kept repeating what I said and following it with “So how does that make you feel?” I just, well, it was hard enough coping without my sister that going to those sessions just felt like something else to add to the things I didn’t want to do.’
‘OK. And have you been sleeping any better? It’s always hard in the early stages of grief, so how is it now?’
‘She doesn’t sleep,’ Ed interjects. ‘Well, obviously, she sleeps, but it’s always in small amounts. She fidgets all night long, as though she’s trying to run a marathon.’
‘I’m not that bad.’ I roll my eyes at the doctor. ‘What is he like?’ my face tries to say, but I can feel that I haven’t quite pulled it off. From the corner of my eye, Kerry is wandering around the room, leaning into the pictures on the walls, and yawning.
‘It’s like sleeping on a trampoline some nights.’
I turn to him, my mouth slightly open. I’m about to defend myself, but then I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes.
‘How is your mood, Jennifer?’
‘My mood? Good thanks, Ed bought me a cinnamon roll in the café before we got here and that’s always a good start to the morning, isn’t it?’ I laugh, then look at her toned arms and skinny thighs. I bet she’s been to a spin class this morning and had something green and liquidised for breakfast.
‘So, no loss of appetite, no mood swings or anything like that?’ I hesitate and ignore Kerry, who is peering over the doctor’s shoulder and reading something on the screen and eating a packet of chocolate buttons.
‘Nope.’ I smile.
‘Lack of libido?’
‘Definitely not.’ I give Ed a sheepish look and the doctor chuckles.
‘That all sounds good. So back to the insomnia, have you ever suffered from it before?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘So, explain to me, if you can, about how it feels when you try to sleep.’