I walk behind Jen into the bathroom; I pee while she brushes her teeth, intermittently continuing the conversation between brushes and spits. ‘Can you imagine what must have been going through the writer’s mind? I bet she didn’t sleep for months.’ Jen puts her toothbrush under the running tap as I shake, flush and wash my hands.
She is still chatting about it as we climb into bed. I spoon behind her, pulling the duvet tightly around us and tucking her fleecy-bottomed legs towards me.
‘Ed . . . do you think Hailey is too young for us to tell her about stalker types?’
‘Yes. Go to sleep, we’ve got loads to do tomorrow.’ I yawn and close my eyes. My lids are heavy, my eyes gritty and sore after a day looking at spreadsheets. But Jen is fidgety and rolls over to face me. I open one eye.
‘If . . . if say, something happened to me, you know like I got cancer or something, you’d tell her about stuff like that, wouldn’t you? And Oscar too?’
‘Yes. Now go to sleep, woman.’
‘Did you get the crisp packets out of the oven?’
I groan. ‘No . . . I’ll get them out tomorrow.’
Our life has become filled with the oddities of Kerry’s notebooks. We do a challenge a weekend; this weekend is to shrink various crisp packets to see which ones are the best brand. I’m betting on Walkers, Hailey on Monster Munch, Oscar has gone for Skips and Jen is abstaining as she admits to remembering the winner. Tomorrow we are hole-punching them and adding them to keychains – already ordered from Amazon and waiting patiently inside a jiffy bag.
Working through Kerry’s books has often made a normal day into an extraordinary one. If I’m honest, at first I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing for Jen, you know, to be so absorbed in Kerry’s world, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Dr Pepper came up with a good suggestion that Jen keeps these activities to once a week; I mean I don’t like the guy, but it was a good idea. It gives Jen focus, gives her time to absorb the memories of whatever mad obsession Kerry was having that week. Most things we can keep to a weekend, but the Making Daddy Scream one, that lasted for the whole week.
My first was a solid seven (Hailey hiding in the cupboard under the stairs wearing a ‘Scream’ mask we had from Halloween). The second, I’d give a five . . . clued into their plans, I was on my guard as Jen put two ice cubes into my boxers; the third was a nine, no doubt about it: a bucket of iced water over my head while I dozed on my favourite deckchair in the last of the autumn sun.
Porridge testing was a good week. Double cream and maple syrup won hands down over the salt version preferred by our neighbours in the highlands.
The assault course week was . . . interesting. I did my back in trying to shimmy beneath Brian’s old fishing net, Jen got her foot stuck in a plant pot, and Oscar gave Hailey a black eye when he tried to push past her on the slippery slip (a piece of plastic laid down and covered in washing-up liquid).
We’re getting to the ends of the notebooks now. I’m not sure how Jen will cope with more of Kerry’s absence after we do. So I’ve planned a few of my own memories of Kerry to help ease the transition . . . like the first time I went to watch her skating with Jen, how she jumped and spun across the ice while I hung on to the edges. I thought we could do that a few times a month; maybe Hailey or Oscar would want to join skating classes. In the meantime, we have the Christmas holiday of a lifetime to ease our way into a life without Kerry.
Today has not been an extraordinary day . . . it’s been an ordinary Friday. We’ve had breakfast, I’ve been to work, Jen’s taken the car for its MOT, picked the kids up, ordered a curry, drunk a bottle of wine, watched an – admittedly – creepy box-set, washed up, locked doors, brushed teeth. Today hasn’t been extraordinary, but thinking back to my wife a few months ago . . . for her to have overcome the things she was going through, that is extraordinary.
She sighs and rolls over. A smile fixes itself onto my lips; it broadens as I wait for her to rub her feet together three times before she settles, as she sneezes twice – little cat-like whispers of sound. I wrap my arms around her tightly as we drift into sleep.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Jennifer
I wait until I know Ed is asleep, until his arm around me loosens its grip and I extract myself from the warmth of the bed. Kerry is waiting in the garage as I knew she would be.
It’s getting easier not to speak to her, not to react to something funny she says . . . not that she talks much any more. She promised to help me; she loves Ed and the kids; she can see how well they’re doing, how well I’m doing. But every night I make my way down here, so we can talk.
‘So . . . Lapland.’ Kerry pulls her navy-blue fluffy sock-slippers up, wraps her dressing-gown belt tighter around herself.
‘Yep!’ I run my fingers over the pile of thermal vests that are stacked up on top of the tumble dryer.
‘Our last hurrah?’ She tilts her head, the question loaded with sadness.
‘Our last Christmas together . . . I’ll remember this for the rest of my life. My family will remember this for the rest of their lives too.’
As I say these words, anxiety tugs at them, like there is a loose thread. It’s been a while since I’ve felt it, that little nick, that dragging feeling that reminds me that I shouldn’t really be here.
‘I wish I was really here, that we had done this when I was alive.’ She examines a small gathering of batteries curiously, picking it up for me to explain.
‘Torches,’ I reply.
I sink down onto the step ladders, still open ready for me to reach up and pull down the cases that I will pack tomorrow, and draw my knees up to my chest. My eyes reach out to the old board games, the broken sledge that we used last year, the old baby swing that would rock a fretful Oscar, kept just in case we had another child, the box marked Easter, filled with plastic eggs to be filled with chocolates, the signposts for the egg hunt, the fake tulips and daffodils that would replace the poinsettia.
Kerry grins and pulls a Christmas jumper over her head: the Grinch’s green face is stretched into a grin. Kerry presses a knitted gift-wrapped box stitched into the belly-button area and battery-operated lights begin flashing as a tiny rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ begins playing.
I laugh quietly, stand, smooth down the pile of gloves and scarves that await the cases, and turn off the light.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Jennifer
We’ve been on the sleeper train from Helsinki for a couple of hours. Kerry and I went through an Agatha Christie stage when we were teenagers and always wanted to go on the Orient Express, so this is the next best thing. ‘It’ll be an adventure!’ I’d told Ed. Kerry has been with me the whole time but she’s not here right now, not in this cramped compartment; it’s a good job because there wouldn’t be enough room.
Hailey is asleep with me in the top bunk, Oscar with Ed in the bottom. Sleeping/not sleeping on a train is a surreal experience and so far, me and Ed have spent most of the night talking in whispered tones so’s not to wake the kids. It’s the best way I could have spent tonight; the idea of seeing Kerry’s death from behind my closed lids is something I’m happy to stay away from . . . tonight of all nights. Oscar, we have since discovered, snores louder than a truck driver and fidgets constantly in his sleep, whereas Hailey mumbles, often saying random sentences, making us dissolve into giggles.