‘We played rock, paper, scissors.’
My mind flits through my teenage porn collection and tries to link the images in my head with a rock, a paper and some scissors.
‘Ed!’ Jen’s hand reaches for the steering wheel as I almost clip the kerb.
‘She’s really good at it.’
‘At what?’ I indicate and pull onto the main road.
‘Rock, paper, scissors. She plays by different rules.’
I bet she does.
I reach for the radio and flick through several stations before punching off the dial.
‘Ed, is something wrong?’ she asks as I pull onto the doctor’s carpark.
It’s there every time I close my eyes: the curve of her back, her dark wet hair dropping to a point along Nessa’s shoulder blade. I park the car and turn off the engine, turning towards her.
‘I just didn’t sleep very well . . . you?’
‘No.’ The images are back for a split second. ‘Kerry was worse last night. Fevered dreams . . . and I never really sleep well without you at the best of times.’ Her hand reaches for mine, which is resting on the gearstick, but I flinch. I don’t mean to, but then I’m sure she didn’t mean to take her clothes off with another woman. I look away from the hurt on her face and question, as we go into the doctor’s office, why I’m the one who is feeling guilty.
The brain scan is clear; the blood tests are clear. I should be happy but instead, I say this. ‘So how are you going to fix her?’
I sound like a twat. I know that, but I can’t seem to control my twattish behaviour. My leg is bouncing up and down. I need to be at Hailey’s science afternoon in half an hour. We’ve spent most nights this week painting her volcano. She has made tiny trees and a river meanders along the side of the cardboard. The river is made out of paint mixed with PVA glue and glitter; we made a special trip to Hobby Craft for it. I can’t miss it. Hailey tried to tell Jen about the science afternoon at the weekend but, well, Jen was having a bad day. Or Kerry was. Even I’m starting to sound mad. And it’s beginning to piss me off. You see? I’m a twat. I glance at my watch and the psychiatrist, Dr Popescu, leans backwards into his chair when I say and do these things. He’s a good-looking bastard and I’ve no doubt that he also thinks I’m a twat.
Jen looks at me like I’m something stuck to her shoe.
‘It’s not as simple as fixing her, Ed.’ He leans forward. Even his accent is cool: it’s not all full-on romantic like Italian and French; it’s more a kind of ‘hey look at my accent, it’s so sexy but I’m so cool my accent doesn’t have to try as hard as those other accents’. Jen’s always been a sucker for an accent. I glance in her direction and see that she looks flushed.
Damn it. He even smells good. The fact that this man calls me ‘Ed’ annoys me. He makes ‘Ed’ sound sexy; how can he say my name, a name that I have been learning to pronounce since I was a baby, sound better than when I say it? I run my finger around the neck of my shirt.
‘It’s Edward,’ I correct. ‘Look, man.’ Man? When do I ever call a guy man? His chiselled looks and expensive smell are having an effect on me . . . it’s like I’m trying to fit in with the cool kids. ‘Could we just cut to the chase?’ I snap. My leg continues bouncing up and down in agitation. ‘Because I have an important meeting I need to be at.’
‘But we’ve had this appointment date for two weeks, Ed, couldn’t you have asked them to change it?’
Sure. I could ask the school to change their science day to another date because my wife is having conversations with her dead sister and considering batting for the other team. I’m sure it would have been no bother at all.
‘No, Jen, they can’t just change it.’
‘But—’
I ignore her. ‘Can we just get to the part where my wife stops acting like a—’
‘A what, Ed?’ she asks.
‘I didn’t mean . . . I’m just . . . I have to go and we’ve already been here for twenty minutes and all we’ve done is talked about stuff we’ve already told the GP.’
‘Edward, I’m afraid this isn’t going to just be fixed overnight.’ He blinks slowly. Christ, his eyelashes are long . . . I wonder if he has one of those curling things that Jen uses. ‘We have to find the root of the problem.’
I try to calm myself down. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
‘I see that your GP has changed your prescription from olanzapine to risperidone?’
‘Yes, they were making . . . me sick, but these ones . . .’
Jen nods and her eyes track a movement over the corner of Dr Pepper’s shoulder. I sigh. Kerry is here.
‘And how are you finding them? Have they made any differences to your hallucinations?’
Jen focuses back on the doctor.
‘Her dead sister gets ill when she takes them and then Jen feels guilty,’ I butt in, glancing at the clock.
Jen’s head turns to me slowly and she pushes her lips together. ‘It’s more complicated than that, Ed.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. In through the nose, out through the mouth. ‘It’s just that I’ve—’
‘Got a meeting. Yes, you said. I’ll try and be more concise, more cost-effective with my responses. Would that help, Ed?’ Jen’s words sound angry but her eyes are filling.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s the alarm I have set myself so I’m not late. I apologise again and turn the alarm off.
Dr Pepper runs his hands through his hair . . . I bet he conditions. No supermarket shampoo for him. ‘How are they affecting Kerry?’ He glances down at his notes. I try to place his accent. Eastern European, maybe?
‘They’re making her ill. When she was little . . .’ Jen tracks Kerry around the room. I track the thin air that is causing my life to fall apart. ‘She would get tonsillitis, but not, you know, like a bit of a sore throat, she would get these raging temperatures and—’
My alarm buzzes in my pocket. It’s the alarm that I titled ‘Last chance, dickhead’.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.’ Jen is fighting back tears; she opens and closes her mouth, looking towards the thin air with an expression that says is he for real? I know. Ironic, right?
Dr Pepper begins to rise from his chair and stretches out his hand. I shake it hastily, kiss Jen on the cheek and drive as fast as I can to the school.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Jennifer
Ed’s slam of the psychiatrist’s door shakes the whole room, myself included. Dr Popescu leans back and points his index fingers together.
‘Ed’s not normally like that,’ I intervene. He doesn’t say anything. ‘It’s tough on him. He’s having to look after the kids in the week, juggle the school run and work. He’s not normally like that,’ I repeat.
‘Why don’t you tell me about Kerry and her tonsillitis?’ he says with a kind smile and so I begin. I tell him how since the day in The Nook I have been trying to take the tablets every day. At first, I thought that because they were making Kerry sick she would start to fade, but she doesn’t. I don’t tell him how scared I am that she might. She’s as real as she ever was but the problem is that now, every time I take a tablet, she wakes me in the night with her fever. In the daytime, she is OK, she just gets cramps every now and then, but the night fevers are stopping me from sleeping and the tablets make me feel tired.