The florist had guided Jen to a chair while I, flustered, ran into the Co-op across the road, garbling something about concussion, grabbed a bag of frozen peas and, inexplicably, a Toblerone. Even after that debacle, by some miracle, the girl from my story let me walk her home.
The reason I’m explaining all of this is because I never thought I’d have that gap in my life again, a life without Jen in it, but the past three months have felt like that. Like I have been waiting to see the love of my life again. And now, I think she’s coming back to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, anyone can see that she has been here the whole time, still smiling at the kids when they did something funny, still functioning and keeping the house in this perfect state that has always seemed so important to her, but it’s felt like she’s been missing, all the same.
It was a shock to me when we first moved in together – just eighteen months after I hit her with the door – how a woman who grew up in a house filled with mismatched furniture and cupboards overflowing with board games seemed to want to create a home that looked like it was from a magazine spread. I tried to help at first, but my suggestions were always met with a look of alarm, a pull at the corner of her mouth. In the beginning, we tried to decorate as a team. She put up a shelf, I hung a mirror, both of us smiling as we created the beginnings of our home. That was until the bookshelf I had assembled collapsed, the picture I had hung remained slanted, no matter how many times I tried to straighten it, and the lamp blew the electrics out after I had replaced a fuse. The final nail in my decorating coffin was when the curtain pole bracket came away from the wall, and the curtain slid into a pool of material on the floor.
But whereas Jen is happiest with a duster in one hand and a hammer in the other, I am happiest outside. Gardening is something she hates with a passion. She would try to convince me that she liked it as much as I did, but after the first few months of living together, I swear she developed a permanent crease between her eyebrows from the look of scorn she would throw at the weeds and overgrown borders.
Life slipped into a routine of sorts; the inside of the house was pretty much Jen’s domain, the outside mine.
I watch as Jennifer hums while making something involving mince. This is the first time she’s cooked in months; cooking is another thing that she loves. I can cook, don’t get me wrong – I mean, full disclosure, I did once burn a boiled egg, but that was before the Jamie Oliver cookbook – but I don’t love it, not like Jen did. Does. Like Jen does. I smile as she hums along to the radio that is on for the first time in weeks; it’s like she can finally see that our life will carry on without Kerry. She had me worried.
I’m sniffing the air appreciatively, hoping for shepherd’s pie. Although we don’t ever have lamb mince, so it’s not really shep—
She is talking to me.
‘Hmmmm?’ I question, raising my eyebrows.
‘What shall we watch later?’ she asks, opening the oven door and turning her head away to avoid the blast of heat.
I didn’t think I would ever get her back but here she is, a tiny piece of her at least. One of the hardest parts of watching and helping your wife grieve is when you’re grieving yourself.
I loved Kerry. Everyone loved Kerry: she was beautiful . . . hauntingly beautiful, inside and out. When I say this, it’s important you understand that I wasn’t in love with her – I belonged to Jen the first day I saw her – but Kerry? Kerry was ethereal: pale skin, blue eyes that were . . . almost glacial.
The in-laws always said that Kerry was their miracle; maybe that’s why she always seemed like she didn’t belong on this earth. But I often think about that, I mean, if you’ve been told that your whole life, it would make you act differently, wouldn’t it? Even though Jen was adopted, they never treated her any differently, but I often wondered what kind of effect that had on my wife. Hearing that your sister is a miracle . . . then what does that make you?
I mean, if it was my family, right, it wouldn’t have meant much. Mum and Dad divorced when I was twelve, it wasn’t as much a shock as a relief. My childhood always felt like a bit of an inconvenience to them, as though they’d come home from work one day and a baby had been placed in their care. Like a stray dog found on the streets: look after this little thing, will you? Just until it’s old enough to look after itself? I moved in with Mum, Dad rang or visited once a week until I hit my mid-teens and after that, I just kind of got on with my life, while it ran parallel to theirs. They send birthday cards, they visit once in a blue moon, but my family was never how Jen’s is. Or was. No actually, it still is: even though we’ve lost Kerry, my in-laws – Brian and Judith – still have a roast on a Sunday, still play board games with the kids, they still ring if they have a big day at school to wish them luck. I think that’s why Jen has never wanted to track down her ‘real’ parents; she didn’t need them. I feel more a part of their family than I ever did my own . . . and Kerry was . . . God I miss her.
‘Ed? What shall we watch?’
This is the first time in a long time that Jen has shown any interest in our life. Sure, she has answered our questions, robotically ironing everything – even my pants, which saddens me; it’s not a productive use of her time. I’ve tried to approach the subject of pant-ironing; I wish she’d take that time to do something for herself instead, like taking a long bath or reading a book, but, it seems, pant-ironing is a thing. A thing that helps her control yet another slot of time that she has to bear without Kerry. But asking a simple question that involves any amount of pleasure for herself is . . . new.
I hesitate before answering her. You see, the thing is, with living with someone who is still grieving, you have to avoid ‘issues’. Take this question, for example: it’s a minefield. I’ve got to be careful with my choice. No sisters and no car crashes. I’m starting to panic because she has her hands on her hips now, a sure sign she is becoming impatient . . . or eager? It could be eagerness. Pick something. Something funny? Maybe she’s not really ready for comedy just yet. I’m taking too long; I just want my wife back, I don’t want to lose this little glimpse of her. Guardians of the Galaxy. Genius . . . and she fancies that Pratt that’s in it. Anything to keep her with me and not for her eyes to go blank and unfocused. With us but not really with us.
She looks at me and I worry that she knows what I’m thinking, but then something about her shifts. It’s a split second, a second that nobody else would take any notice of, but it is like the haze has lifted and for the first time in a long time, I can see my wife again.
Chapter Three
Jennifer
‘Are you having an affair?’ Ed asks from the tangle of white sheets as I search the bedroom for my knickers. I laugh.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I reply, finding them flirting between Ed’s boxers and a black sock on the floor. He rakes his fingers through his dark blond hair, short at the back, curls on top.
‘Because I’ve Googled—’
‘Googled?’
‘Yes, I Googled: why your wife has started shagging you every chance she gets and why she has suddenly started wearing new underwear.’ He shuffles up the bed and props a pillow behind his head as he watches me; the glassy haze that glossed over the brown eyes that drank me in just moments ago, now bright and alert – deep in the grasp of post-coital satisfaction.