Oscar’s blue eyes are wide and confused. Hailey’s hand grips his tightly but she isn’t looking at her brother. She’s looking at Ed, a conversation passing between them: it’s not one of the roll of the eyes because Mum has said something silly, it’s something else – it’s a conversation filled with judgement.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, the car—’ My words are thick and slow.
‘Kids, grab your things.’ Ed’s face is pinched as he takes off his suit jacket and pulls it over my shoulder. His chest rises as he takes a deep breath, runs his hands through his hair as he turns towards our audience. ‘Cars, eh? It’s about ready for the great garage in the sky, I think.’
Oscar has let go of his sister and slips his hand into mine. I look down at him: his eyes are wide like they are when I’m reading him his favourite story, like he’s just seen the page where the monster is hiding. I pull my arm around him and he leans into me, his wide eyes seeking out his sister’s. She responds with a barely noticeable shrug.
Ed is talking too fast and shaking Mr Newton’s hand, thanking Mrs Park, laughing too loudly as he talks about the problems we had with my car, listening to the small talk they respond with while his car keys swing from his finger. He asks if they wouldn’t mind if we leave my car in their carpark while he runs us home. He’ll be back for it in half an hour, he says. Doesn’t want to risk it breaking down with us in it while the weather is so bad. It’s supposed to carry on all day, he continues, his tone rising by a couple of octaves. I smile over at Hailey, and she returns it with a tilt of her lips before warily looking away.
The silence of all of the words Ed wants to say is camouflaged by a Roald Dahl audiobook: made-up words like ‘snozzcumbers’ and ‘whizzpoppers’ rest over Ed’s hands as they grip the steering wheel; they try to tickle Hailey under her arms as she stares out of the window; but they don’t, they just clamber around the uncomfortable interior of the car, their fizz deflating and popping into the quiet.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ed
Please don’t let this be what I think it is. Please don’t let this be my wife having a breakdown.
This is what I was thinking as I saw Jen, my beautiful wife, my wife who has always kept the plates spinning, has always kept the invisible string that holds our family together taut and tightly knotted, spread, kneeling on all fours in the reception area of our children’s school.
That person who was slurring her words, who was wearing a blouse so transparent that we could all see her assets, that person is the shell of the woman I married.
I reached over to help her up, and the look she gave me . . . that look, I’ve never seen her look at me anything like that. Like she needed saving. Jen has never needed saving; she is the one who saves us.
My wife is standing in front of the kettle, motionless, as she stares out of the window. I look down to where I’m half-way through preparing the sandwiches: a piece of bread half-buttered.
‘Jen?’ I place my hand on her shoulder and she jumps. ‘Could you pop the kettle on while I finish these?’ Gently, I turn her to face me. A smile is placed onto her lips. A kiss is placed on my mouth. But the kiss isn’t real: her lips don’t yield, her shoulders don’t relax. I bring her hand towards me, kissing the inside of her palm, trying to breathe some life into her.
‘Tea or coffee?’ she asks, brightening.
‘Coffee, please.’
She turns her back as I continue buttering the other half of the bread and packing the lunchboxes.
‘Mummy!’
Her head turns towards Hailey, who is anxiously looking at the clock.
‘Remember we are supposed to be in the car in four minutes.’ She points towards the timetable we had drawn together the night before, the three of us listing the morning activities while Jen had ‘a little lie down’. This is my first attempt at fixing the late arrivals to school.
There are blocks of colour, each one showcasing a morning activity – getting dressed, brushing teeth, putting coats on, putting shoes on; if all of their morning activities are completed on time, they both get a sticker on their chart. Five stickers means a treat, to be selected from the ever-growing treat list: cinema, sweets, park, Muddy Creek, ice cream. Oscar is currently adding making slime to the list.
Everything looks normal.
I can fix this.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jennifer
Reflecting from the mirror above the sink is a face I don’t recognise. I lean towards the woman staring back at me.
‘Slap yourself.’ Kerry stands over my right shoulder just like she did when she dared me to drink Tia Maria from Nan’s cupboard and needed to pretend I was sober. ‘You need to get a grip. Slap yourself.’
I do as she says. But it doesn’t help.
‘Really hard, Jen.’
I stretch my arm out in front of myself, my palm upturned, and bring it full force against my face: the heel hits my jaw, my fingers marking my eyelids, a red imprint clearly visible in the mirror. I smile and repeat the action, waking myself up, making me feel alive.
‘Jen?’ Ed knocks the bathroom door. I’m red in the face. With a look of panic, I turn to Kerry.
‘Hoooston, we’ve got a problem,’ Kerry says.
You’re telling me.
‘Quick!’ She points to the bathroom cabinet, where inside I know there is a clay face-mask sachet.
‘Are you OK?’ Ed asks. The handle moves up and down as he tries to open the door.
‘I’m, I’m just—’
‘Quick!!’ Kerry points to the cabinet again but has got the giggles and is crossing her legs like she needs a wee. I bite back the humour as I rip open a charcoal mask and begin smearing it all over my face.
‘Jen! Open the door!’
‘I’m having a poo!’ I shout through my lips, which are poised in the same way as Ed’s are when he shaves around his mouth as I cover the red marks with black mud. The handle bounces up and down urgently. ‘Almost done!’ I make an ‘Ugh!’ noise as though I’m giving birth rather than having a Monday-morning movement. I flush the loo and slide the lock free.
Ed releases a feminine screech and his body jumps backwards, his hand on his chest like a Victorian debutante. The mask is beginning to harden and so I try to keep my face straight even though I want to laugh; I’m aware that beneath the mask, my face may still be red.
‘It’s just me,’ I explain, the words shortened and spoken from that place at the back of our throat which we employ when wearing a face mask. ‘Fancy a kiss?’ I ask him with the same face-mask-blunted words; I pucker my lips ever so slightly so as not to shed my fake skin. I take a step forward as Ed backs away. My hands form themselves into monster claws, charcoal mask blackening my palms, as I threaten to grab him. Ed looks down at his white shirt and mutters a warning, ‘Jen . . .’ But I don’t care about his white shirt; I care about the way he is looking at me, the relief that is relaxing the muscles between his eyebrows, that he knows that behind this mask is the old me, that the woman in the mirror isn’t taking over this body. I advance, small cracks appearing in the mask as I make suggestive eyebrow wiggles in his direction; he retreats down the stairs, glancing over his shoulder at me as I follow his descent.