‘Just a minute,’ Ed says into our coats, ‘I just want to remember this.’ I know exactly how he feels.
‘Kids . . . we’re going to take a memory picture, OK?’ I say.
‘A what?’ Oscar replies.
‘A memory picture, it’s where we all take one minute to take a picture, but a picture in our minds.’
‘You’re weird, Mummy,’ Hailey replies, taking off her glasses and rubbing the lenses with her mittens to clear the steam created by Ed’s embrace.
‘Well, I think Mummy is a genius,’ Ed replies. ‘You can’t smell and listen to a photo, can you?’
‘I s’pose. Can we stroke the doggies now?’ Oscar is impatient.
‘Just a minute, buddy. But first, memory picture. Are you ready? I’ll count three, two, one, and then you take the picture with your brains. Remember the smell, the sounds, the feel of your clothes, the . . .’
‘Hurry up, Daddy!’ Hailey interrupts.
‘OK, OK, ready? Three, two, one!’ We’re all silent for a moment. The guide has pulled out his phone and is taking a snapshot as we all sit there, Ed and I looking into each other’s eyes and the kids looking confused but happy, their noses red and their eyes glassy.
‘My memory picture is done, Daddy. NOW can we stroke the doggies?!’
‘OK, buddy, oof, off we get.’ Ed picks up Oscar, and takes hold of Hailey’s hand, shooting me a cheeky grin over his shoulder that tells me how lucky we are.
I jump.
Kerry is standing next to me. Her voice is loud in my ear; I can smell the hot chocolate vapour rising from her cup.
‘This is why I saved you.’
She leans in and kisses my cheek; the warmth of her lips stays with me for the rest of the day.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Jennifer
It’s Christmas morning. All around the world families have been arranging presents, cooking special meals, meeting up with loved ones, remembering the ones who are no longer here.
I don’t really remember last Christmas. I vaguely remember the kids opening presents, the smell of burnt potatoes as Ed tried to cook the dinner, the Queen’s speech that sounded so far away, Mum and Dad perched on the sofa. They were wearing brightly coloured paper hats from the Christmas crackers, the colours brash and insulting against their stark faces, both as blank and expressionless as my own.
But today has been different. Today, we’ve been up since half-five; Santa has been and gone; we’re home after our magical trip, tired but happy. The remains of Christmas lunch are lying bloated and tired on the kitchen side – not a sniff of a burnt potato – and we’re all slumped on the sofas, Nat King Cole crooning away on the soundbar as the kids retrieve their presents for us. Kerry would always help them choose something for us; Mum and Dad took them on their shopping trip this year.
‘Do you like it, Mummy?’ My fingers are stroking the calendar. It’s a family planner, the months and days dissected into rows and columns, waiting to be filled with the year’s activities: the after-school clubs, dentist appointments, birthdays, anniversaries . . . appointments that won’t revolve around my sister.
I can’t talk.
The air inside my body has gone; the air around me has evaporated. I grip on to the stem of my glass, wine sloshing over the rim. The indulgent smile on Ed’s face is falling rapidly as he puts down his own drink and rushes to my side. There is no room; the sofa is piled high with clothes, toys and wrapping paper. He moves Hailey’s new keyboard to the floor, sits beside me and rubs my back.
‘Mummy?’ Hailey’s voice is worried.
I force my mouth to open to gulp down the oxygen that must be there; it must be, because look at how my family are still breathing. I drag it in, and release it, I grapple again, again I manage to hold on to it, swallow it, breathe it in.
‘Jen?’
I wave my hand, my muscles obeying my instructions, manipulating my features into a smile and somehow, I manage to speak.
‘Look at how organised we’re all going to be next year!’ I cough a few times, take a long sip of my drink, carefully place it onto the coffee table and peel away the cellophane, revealing a navy-blue cover framed by butterflies and flowers. My fingers stroke it, open the first page and extract the pen that is hiding between the wire spirals. January stands tall and proud; I run my fingers along the days that lie ahead until they land on the eleventh.
‘Hmm . . . something about that date rings a bell.’ I tap my head in mock concentration. ‘I wonder if Daddy can remember why that day is special?’
He shakes his head, looking perplexed. ‘Nope, no idea why that date should ring a bell.’
‘Oh, Daddy, you are silly.’ Hailey rolls her eyes at me. ‘That’s the date you married Mummy, Grandma and Grandpa said it was all smudgy.’
Oscar wrinkles his nose and looks at his sister for an explanation.
‘It’s when snow has melted and looks all dirty.’
‘Sludgy,’ Ed corrects, his fingers twirling the bottom of my hair around his fingers. ‘It could have been raining cats and dogs and I wouldn’t have noticed, because your mummy looked like an angel.’
I shake my head at him, but can already feel that my face is betraying how much I love his words.
‘Did you look like an angel too?’ Oscar asks Ed, who straightens an imaginary tie.
‘No. The bride looks like an angel, the groom looks dapper.’
‘What’s a dapper?’
‘He means that he looked very handsome . . . he would have looked even more handsome if he didn’t have a black eye.’
Hailey’s eyebrows rise towards her fringe. ‘Why did you have a black eye? Robbie in class five had a black eye because Luca in class three punched him. Did you get punched at the church, Daddy? Did the vicar punch you?’
‘The vicar?’ I laugh. ‘No, the vicar didn’t punch Daddy, Daddy fainted on his stag do because he had his ear pierced and hit a cupboard door on the way down. His friend from school convinced Daddy that he could do it there and then with a needle and a bottle of . . . what was it, Ed?’
‘Tequila.’ Ed’s face blanches at the thought.
‘But he still looked very handsome. Right, I’m going to put this up in the kitchen, then shall we open the Quality Street and watch Santa Claus the Movie?’
I take myself into the kitchen, place the calendar onto the counter and grip the edges. I’m still shaky. I put my hand on top of the numbers and feel the days disintegrating beneath. The days I will have without her.
Kerry puts her hand on top of mine. I don’t look up; I just watch the silver thumb ring that I never found rubbing across mine.
‘You OK?’ Ed asks from the doorway.
I look up and wipe away the moisture around my eyes. ‘Yeah, I just . . . it’s been a busy couple of weeks, and I was just thinking about Kerry, about how it’s going to be another year without her.’
He folds me into his chest, his lips kissing the top of my head.
‘But you’re still here,’ he whispers. ‘We’ve still got you.’
‘You’re welcome!’ Kerry kisses Ed on the cheek.
I pull away, unwrap a purple-wrapped chocolate and pop it into his mouth.