‘Do you feel guilty taking the tablets?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I feel like, like . . .’ I glance over to where she is tracing the diagram of the brain on the wall with her finger. ‘Like I’m killing her. Again.’
‘Let me ask you a question, Jennifer; there is no judgement here, that’s not my job. My job is to listen and to try and find the right type of therapy that will help you. Do you believe that your sister, that Kerry is standing in this room?’ He nods over to the picture of the brain and I realise that I must have given myself away.
‘No.’
‘Then how can you kill her?’ He smiles, rises, fills a small watering can from the tap and tips it into the base of a spider plant. The water that escapes look softer, as though pouring it through the watering can alters it somehow. I think to this morning, when I had tipped water from a cup into the sink. How it had landed with a violent splash, the noise it made like a slap. It’s the same water, the same action, but maybe . . . if it’s broken up into pieces, it will change into something easier to control.
He gently places the can on the draining board and rejoins me.
‘I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to say the first thing that pops into your head.’
I give him a ‘really?’ look.
‘Indulge me,’ he replies and puts out his hands as though he’s carrying a tray.
‘OK.’
‘Ready?’ I roll my eyes good-naturedly. ‘What do you want?’
‘To be happy,’ I reply. ‘Sorry,’ I immediately add. ‘That’s a bit of a rubbish answer, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. Some people say “thin”, some people say “marriage”. Happiness is something I can help you with, fixing up blind dates isn’t my area of expertise.’ He grins and opens a packet of Rolos, offering me one.
‘Ooh, I wonder if he’s going to save you his last one.’ Kerry is bending over in the crab position and her face is turning red.
He catches me looking at her. ‘What does Kerry think?’
‘She’s wondering if you’re going to give me your last one.’ I gesture to the Rolos with my hand.
‘My last one?’ he asks, confused.
I shake my head dismissively. ‘Never mind.’
‘When was the last time you felt truly happy?’
‘Before Kerry died.’
He shovels another Rolo in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Give me a specific day.’
I breathe out of my pursed lips; they vibrate against each other like the sound Oscar makes when he’s playing with his toy cars. I close my eyes: memories of birthdays and Christmas mornings, of Ed hitting me with the door in the florist’s, of Hailey being passed into my arms for the first time. Big Red Letter days, I suppose, but then another flashback slides into focus. A week before Kerry died, I came home from the supermarket, my bags filled with snacks for the movie we were going to watch later that night; ‘Shotgun’ by George Ezra was playing on the radio in the kitchen. I landed the bags onto the kitchen floor and followed the sounds of whoops and ‘nooos’ coming from the lounge. Kerry, Ed and the kids were at the table, playing a game of Snakes and Ladders; Ed was clutching the side of his hair, leaving it sticking out like a pair of horns as Hailey gleefully slithered his counter down a snake. Kerry looked over her shoulder at me and winked.
‘Does anyone want a drink?’ I asked and took their orders. I returned to the kitchen, singing to George and feeling like someone; I can’t remember making the drinks or who won the game, but I remember this feeling of happiness.
I open my eyes again and meet Dr Popescu’s, retelling the moment, the way Ed’s hair was sticking up and the sounds of laughter as I walked into the house.
‘I can’t ever imagine feeling that happy again,’ I say quietly once I’ve finished.
He stays silent, turning his focus to the piece of gold foil rolling between his thumb and forefinger.
‘I can’t imagine never feeling guilty for killing her.’
‘Were you driving the car that hit her?’
‘No, but—’
He changes the subject. ‘Do you think it might be your guilt that is making Kerry ill rather than the tablets themselves?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve really looked at it that way.’ My phone vibrates but unlike Ed, I ignore it.
‘Do you think you could be that happy again?’ he asks.
I look over at Kerry, who is perched on the edge of his desk, helping herself to a Rolo. She winks at me, just as she had that day.
And then I know.
I can’t be happy again . . . I won’t kill my sister this time.
Our time is up; I gather my things and head towards the door.
‘Jen?’
I turn just in time to catch the foil missile heading in my direction.
‘Aw . . . he gave you his last Rolo!’ Kerry laughs as I smile, thank him and follow her out into the corridor.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Ed
I’ve shaken my twattishness on the drive over. And as I step inside the school hall, I’m sure they all see School-science-fair Dad. That is who I need to be right now; that is who Hales needs. Parents and children stand with plastic cups filled with weak tea and cheap squash. Desks are pushed up against the walls, displaying science projects of all shapes and sizes: the volcano seems to be a popular choice, but as I push my way through the crowds, I feel a glow of pride that Hailey’s beats these other attempts hands down. I mean. Hands. Down.
I spot her standing awkwardly behind the desk. She is chewing the end of one of her fishtail plaits that I totally rocked this morning. Hailey pulls the plait away from her face, which splits into a wide grin when she sees me. A teacher arrives at the desk at the same time as me and is telling her what a great job she has done. Her cheeks go pink at the praise.
‘Thank you,’ she replies quietly. ‘Daddy helped.’
The teacher turns to me. ‘Well you’ve done a brilliant job, both of you!’ He claps me on the back, sips from the plastic cup and goes on to the next table, where what looks like a giant penis is perched precariously. I feel smug that there is no longer even a hint of the phallic about ours.
‘Yours looks awesome, Hales . . . way better than the rest.’ I look towards where another volcano is belching something that looks like wallpaper paste onto pieces of newspaper; other miscellaneous pieces of debris are sticking to it as it puddles beneath the desk amongst a flurry of teaching staff brandishing blue paper towels.
She giggles and covers her mouth. ‘When are you going to set it off?’
The little plastic vial containing vinegar sits neatly inside a papier-mâché rock, waiting for its big moment. ‘I was going to wait until Mr Newton comes over.’
She leans forward and whispers, ‘I heard that he gives out big chocolate bars to the ones he thinks are the best.’
We fist bump and the room hushes as the headteacher taps the microphone and announces that it’s time for the budding scientists to leave their own stations and go and see their fellow scientists’ work. Hailey skips from behind her desk and leads me around the room. I notice as we do that her voice is much quieter than at home. Each time a teacher or an adult asks her a question, her shoulders fold inwards, like she’s trying to make herself smaller than she already is; her replies are barely audible above the din.