‘I panicked.’
‘But you’re not scared of spiders.’
I reach up and pull down my underwear. ‘We’d been watching a scary movie.’
‘Mummy doesn’t like scary movies.’
‘Who wants pancakes and chocolate spread for breakfast?’ Jen grins from the doorway. Oscar punches the air; Hailey’s eyes widen but are then replaced with a wary expression. I think of the last time she cooked with Jen and see that my daughter is thinking the very same.
Jen picks up on this and bends down in front of Hailey, tucking her hair behind her ears, and tracing the ‘H’ with her finger. ‘Do you know that the doctors in Greece think I might have had that nasty bug before I went on holiday? That it was making me act a bit strange?’ Hailey pulls at the edges of her dressing gown. ‘But I’m all better now, sweetheart, I promise.’
Hailey throws her arms around Jen’s neck and kisses her cheek. Jen glances up at me and stares over my shoulder.
My heart doesn’t stop but it feels like it does: that look in Jen’s eyes is back; it’s a second but it’s there.
Hailey skips into the kitchen with Oscar in tow. Jen stands, still staring past me, and I want to cry out loud, I can’t go back there. She passes me; I turn to watch, even though I’d rather not see her gaze go back to how it used to be.
I’m trying to think of the word that explains how I feel when I notice what she is actually doing: that she isn’t looking at her dead sister, she’s not acting like the woman who pretended to be my wife for a few months . . . because Jen is reaching up to where, hanging from the corner of the dining-table edge, is her bra. She hooks her fingers through the material and launches it in my direction like a catapult.
‘It must have been one hell of a spider,’ she whispers, leaning in and kissing the corner of my mouth.
Relief. That’s the only word I can think of . . . but it’s not the right word. I wonder if there even is a word that can explain how, for a moment, I thought my life was going to be turned upside down, only to realise that it is in fact stable and safe. If I live the rest of my life without a glimmer of anything out of the ordinary, I will die a very happy man.
Chapter Seventy
Jennifer
I sit opposite Dr Popescu and take a deep breath. I’m about to lie to him, tell him that the medication has worked, that Kerry has gone, but before I can, he begins.
‘I’d like to talk to you a little bit about some research I’ve been doing into complicated grief, if I may?’
‘Shoot,’ I say.
Kerry blows the top off her imaginary gun and holsters it. An imaginary imaginary gun: I don’t know whether to be impressed by my subconscious or scared by it.
‘So, I’ve found out from my research that there are many reports of “grief hallucinations” in patients who suffer from complicated grief. Some studies have used MRIs to analyse the subjects’ brains while they’re shown pictures reminding them of the loved ones they’ve lost. The scans show normal responses in the areas of the brain linked with the hurt of losing someone. But the parts of the brain that show reward are also lit up, which might explain why the brain then begins to make these hallucinations. Does that make sense to you?’
I nod slowly. ‘My brain is making me see Kerry to keep me happy?’
‘Yes, I think it might be. The studies also showed that people who have some kind of conflict over the death of their loved ones are often more susceptible to these visions.’
‘So, someone who feels they are to blame for their sister’s death, for example?’ I give him a shy smile.
He nods.
‘It may feel to you that you have only been struggling with your mental health for these past few months, but if I’m right, you have been battling with complicated grief for almost a year.’ He pauses, giving me time to process his thoughts. ‘There is a silver lining to this though . . . in most cases, the hallucinations stop after around twelve months of the loved one’s death.’
‘That soon,’ I say, quietly allowing myself to glance in her direction.
Kerry is looking out of the window, not meeting my eye.
‘So Kerry will . . . move on?’
‘That’s what the research would suggest, yes.’
We fall silent for a moment as I process the implications of his diagnosis.
‘I’ve stopped taking the medication.’ The words fall from my lips abruptly, the weight of their lie releasing like a sigh.
‘Why?’ His tone is inquisitive not reproachful.
‘Because they weren’t working, because they made me and her ill, because . . .’ I don’t finish. Instead I start crying.
He passes me a tissue. ‘If this is complicated grief rather than a—’
‘Psychotic episode?’ I interrupt, smiling from behind my tears as he shrugs his shoulders apologetically.
‘Maybe we should consider a different path. If I’m right, if this is complicated grief, then you’re going to find losing Kerry again a very anxious time. Let’s go back to the antidepressants; I’ll see you three times a week for the foreseeable future and we’ll reassess in a few months. How does that sound?’
I nod, and blow my nose.
‘There is another kind of support you need, Jen . . . your family. Let them help you too.’
Tears start forming again and falling from my eyes, each tiny droplet filled with a different emotion: pain, grief, relief . . . they pour from me.
I imagine ripping up the pages of my notebook and throwing the plans for my own demise through the window. But as I picture the indentations of the blue ink, the peaks and descents of my handwriting, still visible beneath my scribbles, the curled edges of the paper rising and falling as they’re carried away by the breeze, I also know that soon . . . I will have to say goodbye to my sister.
‘Not long now then?’ Kerry says as we sit down next to the river. She blows over the rim of her hot chocolate.
I grip my own cup of coffee and take a sip. My eyes settle on the river, tracking a leaf gliding lazily downstream, while beneath, a furious current is dragging away everything that isn’t strong enough to hold on to its place. A couple walk past; they smile good morning at me. Me. Jennifer Jones, who looks like any other woman in her thirties, sitting on a bench, cradling a cup of coffee, her shoulders folding slightly against the chill the November midday sun can’t relieve. They don’t see the current beneath, pulling away the things that I can’t hold on to. I give Kerry a small nod; she’s leaving soon, I feel like I should offer her a small amount of acknowledgment.
‘So what shall we do?’
What do you want to do?
‘Come on, Jen, this is your chance to give me a good send off! Let’s make a plan!’
Life is what passes you by while others are too busy making grand plans.
‘Ooh, get you and your arty film quotes . . . I would have thought Blow was a bit too heavy for your tastes.’
It is, but Johnny Depp looks hot in it. I’m going to miss this . . . talking to you . . . or not talking to you, I suppose.
‘I know . . . but you’ll be able to get on with your life, Jen, without me holding you back.’