Why are you here?
It’s a question, not spoken out loud, because she isn’t on my sofa. Half of her is buried beneath a headstone, the rest of her released on the crest of a hill that we used to have picnics on when we were kids: nothing but microscopic pieces of ash being carried on the breeze like a bird.
‘If I’m a bird, then you’re a bird.’
I roll my eyes at her as she misquotes from The Notebook.
‘That, Jen.’ He points his finger at me as if saying you’ve hit the nail on the head. ‘That is what I’m talking about. You keep looking off into space.’
‘I’m not looking into space . . . I’m just . . . thinking about when you were trying to convince me to go back to work after I’d had Oscar, do you remember? Kerry told me to hear you out. So, go on, I’ll hear you out.’ I do my best not to look in the direction of where she was standing when we’d had that conversation.
‘Talk to me, Jen.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ I look at his face and it is as though he is in physical pain.
‘Just get it off your chest, Ed, tell me what you think is going on.’
‘OK.’ His shoulders lift, like his body is filling with all of the things that he needs to say, like the things he needs to say have been hiding inside the cavities of his chest, lurking in the chambers of his heart, skulking about. ‘You’re not yourself, and I know that you have had a lot to deal with, but Jen, I think it’s more than that. Your behaviour is erratic, you’re happy one minute, like euphorically happy and I think, you know, she’s fine, she’s back to normal but then . . .’ he clicks his fingers, ‘like that and you’re on your ass. You don’t speak, you don’t dress, sometimes I don’t think you even know what day it is.’
‘It’s those tablets from the doctor, they make me feel sleepy and sick, I’ve stopped them now—’
‘I know that, Jen.’ He swallows, trying to keep the words inside under control, but I can see they are fighting to get out. ‘I’ve been using that excuse myself, she’ll be better once she’s slept, she’ll get better if I help more with the kids . . .’ He doesn’t meet me in the eye when he says this. ‘But you’re not getting better, Jen, you’re getting worse. You’ve stopped obsessing about making the house look nice . . . you haven’t lit a Yankee Candle in weeks.’ He throws his hands up defensively. ‘Don’t take that the wrong way, you know I don’t give a crap about the state of the house, or Yankee Candles . . . although I do like the smell of the Black Cherry one; anyway, the thing is, you do. Well . . . you did. Being organised, being tidy, is as much a part of you as the colour of your eyes.’
‘The colour of my eyes? What are you going on about?’
He drags his hands through his hair agitatedly. ‘I’m trying to say that you’re different, Jen . . . When was the last time you washed your hair?’
My head is filled with the things he is talking about and I shake it to try and clear the thoughts, the way I try to get water out of my ears when I’ve been swimming. ‘My hair? My eyes? Ed, I don’t—’
‘You’re ill, Jen. You need help.’
‘This is ridiculous! You think I’m going mad because I haven’t hoovered and washed my hair?’
‘Yes!’
‘You can’t be serious?!’
‘That’s not what I meant, I—’
‘I am not going to listen to this any more.’ I get up and go to walk out of the room.
‘The kids know, Jen.’ His voice is low and serious. It stops my movement. Kerry’s hand is on mine, stopping me from pulling down the door handle. I feel Ed’s movements coming towards me, I can feel the breath on the back of my neck. ‘Do you know what Oscar has just asked me?’
I shake my head. I don’t know because I didn’t put the kids to bed. What was I doing when it was bedtime? Then I remember I was talking to Kerry in the garden.
‘He asked me when you would be happy again.’
I bite my lip, picturing his face, pink from the bath, his Spider-Man pyjamas warm from his body, his hair smelling of Matey bubble bath.
‘He wanted to know if he could learn more jokes, if he could make you happy again.’
My breath is shallow, my chest rising and dipping with the strain of it. Ed’s voice continues even though it cracks in places.
‘And Hailey . . . Hailey has changed, Jen. She has no friends; she worries all the time about Oscar and you. She hardly eats . . . I watched her walking across the playground and not one person spoke to her. Not one, Jen. They need you, they miss you. I miss you.’
I turn to face him. ‘I’ll do better. I’ll go back to the doctor’s. I’ll fix it.’ I kiss the corner of his mouth, stroke the side of his chin, and leave the room.
Chapter Forty-One
Jennifer
‘So!’ Kerry rubs her hands together and pulls on a pair of rubber gloves. ‘Let’s get cracking, where shall we start?’
She’s not here. I know she isn’t . . . I haven’t completely lost my mind. Not yet. My talk with Ed has made me realise this can’t go on. I’ve made an appointment with the doctor. I know I can’t tell them the truth, that sometimes I’d rather live in my memories of Kerry than be in the real world: it would hurt them too much. But I can tell them that I feel lost, that I keep losing concentration. That’s all it is, isn’t it? When I see Kerry, it’s just me losing concentration.
I’ve got up early, just like I used to. I’ve cleaned the inside of the bin and bleached the sink so far. Just ignoring Kerry for five minutes has let me see how much has changed. I throw the dishcloth away with pinched fingers and open a new packet, pour bleach down the drain, throw open the window, turn on the radio, make a pot of coffee and sing along to the radio as I plug in my phone charger.
The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #6
Death by Phone Charger
Jennifer Jones is watching the busy café-goers with interest. It is the last rush before the Bank Holiday and there is a feeling of defeat and exhaustion about the room. But it is not the coffee drinkers and the pastry eaters that Jennifer Jones is interested in. She knows her phone battery is almost dead. Towards the back of the café, there is a slow trickle along the wall. Jennifer hasn’t yet noticed how the water from the ceiling above is running directly towards the plug socket. She orders an iced latte and makes her way to the back of the room. For a second the lights flicker. But Jennifer Jones is too busy looking around for a free table, to notice. She finds the perfect spot and draws the chair back from beneath the table. From her bag, she unwraps a lead, then crouches down to where the water drips towards the socket and goes about the business of plugging in her phone charger; there is a bang, a flash and then . . .’
I blink and bring myself back into the kitchen. Christ, I hope that’s not how I die . . . and just think about the state of my hair.
Oscar bounds into the kitchen. ‘Can I have Choco Pillows for breakfast please?’
I kiss him on the cheek, pull back and smile at him, noticing that he has begun to put on a little puppy fat. ‘How about Fruit ’n Fibre?’