If I Could Say Goodbye Read online

I had never been in a florist’s before, but it was Mum’s fiftieth birthday and I felt that the usual box of Dairy Milk wouldn’t cut it. I remember hovering by the door and thinking how pleased she would be to have an actual bunch of proper flowers for a change.

  Remarkable thing number two: I hit a woman with a door.

  You see, such was my excitement about finally settling on a present for Mum, I had opened the door into the shop – complete with tinkling bell – with more gumption than a trip to the florist’s really warranted, so as the bell tinkled, it was immediately followed with a thud as the door connected with Jen’s forehead. She was wearing a pair of dark blue denim dungarees and had been trying to do up one of the buckles. I remember her dungarees had tiny stars on them. That was my opening line: ‘Well at least we can both see stars.’ This brings me nicely to:

  Remarkable thing number three: even after that line, the girl let me take her home.

  The florist had guided Jen to a chair while I, flustered, ran into the Co-op across the road, garbling something about concussion, grabbed a bag of frozen peas and, inexplicably, a Toblerone. Even after that debacle, by some miracle, the girl from my story let me walk her home.

  The reason I’m explaining all of this is because I never thought I’d have that gap in my life again, a life without Jen in it, but the past three months have felt like that. Like I have been waiting to see the love of my life again. And now, I think she’s coming back to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, anyone can see that she has been here the whole time, still smiling at the kids when they did something funny, still functioning and keeping the house in this perfect state that has always seemed so important to her, but it’s felt like she’s been missing, all the same.

  It was a shock to me when we first moved in together – just eighteen months after I hit her with the door – how a woman who grew up in a house filled with mismatched furniture and cupboards overflowing with board games seemed to want to create a home that looked like it was from a magazine spread. I tried to help at first, but my suggestions were always met with a look of alarm, a pull at the corner of her mouth. In the beginning, we tried to decorate as a team. She put up a shelf, I hung a mirror, both of us smiling as we created the beginnings of our home. That was until the bookshelf I had assembled collapsed, the picture I had hung remained slanted, no matter how many times I tried to straighten it, and the lamp blew the electrics out after I had replaced a fuse. The final nail in my decorating coffin was when the curtain pole bracket came away from the wall, and the curtain slid into a pool of material on the floor.

  But whereas Jen is happiest with a duster in one hand and a hammer in the other, I am happiest outside. Gardening is something she hates with a passion. She would try to convince me that she liked it as much as I did, but after the first few months of living together, I swear she developed a permanent crease between her eyebrows from the look of scorn she would throw at the weeds and overgrown borders.

  Life slipped into a routine of sorts; the inside of the house was pretty much Jen’s domain, the outside mine.

  I watch as Jennifer hums while making something involving mince. This is the first time she’s cooked in months; cooking is another thing that she loves. I can cook, don’t get me wrong – I mean, full disclosure, I did once burn a boiled egg, but that was before the Jamie Oliver cookbook – but I don’t love it, not like Jen did. Does. Like Jen does. I smile as she hums along to the radio that is on for the first time in weeks; it’s like she can finally see that our life will carry on without Kerry. She had me worried.

  I’m sniffing the air appreciatively, hoping for shepherd’s pie. Although we don’t ever have lamb mince, so it’s not really shep—

  She is talking to me.

  ‘Hmmmm?’ I question, raising my eyebrows.

  ‘What shall we watch later?’ she asks, opening the oven door and turning her head away to avoid the blast of heat.

  I didn’t think I would ever get her back but here she is, a tiny piece of her at least. One of the hardest parts of watching and helping your wife grieve is when you’re grieving yourself.

  I loved Kerry. Everyone loved Kerry: she was beautiful . . . hauntingly beautiful, inside and out. When I say this, it’s important you understand that I wasn’t in love with her – I belonged to Jen the first day I saw her – but Kerry? Kerry was ethereal: pale skin, blue eyes that were . . . almost glacial.

  The in-laws always said that Kerry was their miracle; maybe that’s why she always seemed like she didn’t belong on this earth. But I often think about that, I mean, if you’ve been told that your whole life, it would make you act differently, wouldn’t it? Even though Jen was adopted, they never treated her any differently, but I often wondered what kind of effect that had on my wife. Hearing that your sister is a miracle . . . then what does that make you?

  I mean, if it was my family, right, it wouldn’t have meant much. Mum and Dad divorced when I was twelve, it wasn’t as much a shock as a relief. My childhood always felt like a bit of an inconvenience to them, as though they’d come home from work one day and a baby had been placed in their care. Like a stray dog found on the streets: look after this little thing, will you? Just until it’s old enough to look after itself? I moved in with Mum, Dad rang or visited once a week until I hit my mid-teens and after that, I just kind of got on with my life, while it ran parallel to theirs. They send birthday cards, they visit once in a blue moon, but my family was never how Jen’s is. Or was. No actually, it still is: even though we’ve lost Kerry, my in-laws – Brian and Judith – still have a roast on a Sunday, still play board games with the kids, they still ring if they have a big day at school to wish them luck. I think that’s why Jen has never wanted to track down her ‘real’ parents; she didn’t need them. I feel more a part of their family than I ever did my own . . . and Kerry was . . . God I miss her.

  ‘Ed? What shall we watch?’

  This is the first time in a long time that Jen has shown any interest in our life. Sure, she has answered our questions, robotically ironing everything – even my pants, which saddens me; it’s not a productive use of her time. I’ve tried to approach the subject of pant-ironing; I wish she’d take that time to do something for herself instead, like taking a long bath or reading a book, but, it seems, pant-ironing is a thing. A thing that helps her control yet another slot of time that she has to bear without Kerry. But asking a simple question that involves any amount of pleasure for herself is . . . new.

  I hesitate before answering her. You see, the thing is, with living with someone who is still grieving, you have to avoid ‘issues’. Take this question, for example: it’s a minefield. I’ve got to be careful with my choice. No sisters and no car crashes. I’m starting to panic because she has her hands on her hips now, a sure sign she is becoming impatient . . . or eager? It could be eagerness. Pick something. Something funny? Maybe she’s not really ready for comedy just yet. I’m taking too long; I just want my wife back, I don’t want to lose this little glimpse of her. Guardians of the Galaxy. Genius . . . and she fancies that Pratt that’s in it. Anything to keep her with me and not for her eyes to go blank and unfocused. With us but not really with us.

  She looks at me and I worry that she knows what I’m thinking, but then something about her shifts. It’s a split second, a second that nobody else would take any notice of, but it is like the haze has lifted and for the first time in a long time, I can see my wife again.

  Chapter Three

  Jennifer

  ‘Are you having an affair?’ Ed asks from the tangle of white sheets as I search the bedroom for my knickers. I laugh.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I reply, finding them flirting between Ed’s boxers and a black sock on the floor. He rakes his fingers through his dark blond hair, short at the back, curls on top.

  ‘Because I’ve Googled—’

  ‘Googled?’

  ‘Yes, I Googled: why your wife has started shagging you every chance she gets and why she has suddenly
started wearing new underwear.’ He shuffles up the bed and props a pillow behind his head as he watches me; the glassy haze that glossed over the brown eyes that drank me in just moments ago, now bright and alert – deep in the grasp of post-coital satisfaction.

  ‘Don’t you like my new underwear?’ I ask, pulling on my red knickers and standing in front of him with my hands on my hips, my nipples, which at one time would face my husband straight in the face, now starting to cast themselves apologetically towards the floor.

  ‘I LOVE your new underwear, your new underwear is my favourite, but—’

  I fasten my matching bra and sit on the edge of the bed, beginning to pull on my jeans. ‘But what?’ I glance at him over my shoulder.

  ‘Well, the last time you wore matching undies was on our honeymoon so . . . why now?’

  I reach for my hair bobble which has somehow found its way onto the doorknob and twist my heavy dark brown hair into a knot. ‘Well, I’m heading towards my forties and . . . isn’t that supposed to be when a woman reaches her sexual peak?’

  ‘Women have a sexual peak? Men are always peaking.’ He smirks, the right side of his mouth always a fraction higher than the rest of his lips. I’d forgotten about that. How could I have forgotten the part of him that I first found attractive? That and the way he appeared to saunter through life with ease, seemingly startled to find himself the main character in his own life.

  I crawl across the mattress on all fours and kiss the right side of his lips, running my tongue over their familiar shape.

  He pulls away from me. ‘You’re not dying, are you?’

  ‘What? No! Of course not, why? Do I look ill?’

  ‘That was the next thing on the Google list.’

  Illness.

  We’re all going to die someday, and this is something that keeps playing on my mind. I know it’s morbid, but I can’t stop thinking about how it might happen.

  I have been replaying the possible scenes over and in minute detail. The most obvious – and most likely – accident to cause my death would be by car crash, as I am, quite honestly, a terrible driver. When I picture myself on The Day of My Death, I see myself wearing a green top, as apparently green is blood-red’s complementary colour, at least that is what it said in Bella. Ideally, my nails and lips will be painted in matching red too: I may be dead, but I want to look my best. My hair shall be held back from my head in either a ponytail or a chignon – if time has allowed – so that the paramedics have no trouble finding that I have no pulse behind my ear, and I shall wear the pearl studs in my ears that Ed bought me for our wedding.

  The Imaginable Death of Jennifer Jones – #1

  Death by Car Crash

  Jennifer Jones’s red nails hold tightly to the steering wheel as they try to swerve the car out of the way: the dog came from nowhere. Through the windscreen, the road, the shops, the faces of the families out for a daytrip all revolve: a kaleidoscope of colour and life blurring as the glass shatters. The car flips over and rolls two times. It stops moving: the sound of screeching metal is silenced. Her body is hanging upside-down by the seat belt, a small trickle of blood escaping the corner of her mouth, and the only sound other than the gentle tocking of the indicator will be the sirens in the distance.

  Illness hasn’t really occurred to me. I scramble from the bed and face my bedroom mirror; leaning forward I begin to examine myself. I pull the skin back from around my eyes, open my mouth, turn my head this way and that, but nothing seems amiss. The laughter lines around my eyes remain happy, the bags beneath them are not holding any excess weight; my blue eyes certainly don’t hold the same innocence as Oscar’s and with what I’ve just been up to with Ed neither should they, but is there something hidden? I whip off my bra and begin feeling around.

  ‘You were not joking about your sexual peak!’ Ed says, throwing the covers back.

  ‘Shut up. I need you to feel my boobs.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ he says reaching for the discarded sailor hat and putting it onto his dirty-blond-coloured hair.

  I frown at him. ‘Not now, Ed. Feel. My boobs.’

  ‘OK, OK, but you’re going to have to clue me in a bit, Jen, is this like, Fifty Shades? Do I need a safe word, because, I’m all up for a bit of—’

  I reach for his hand and he grabs my right breast. ‘Can you feel anything?’

  He glances down at the tent that is emerging between himself and the bed sheets. I laugh but then straighten my face. ‘I mean in my boob, is there a lump?’

  Ed pulls himself into a sitting position, his eyes narrowing, his expression changing into something more serious. ‘No . . . shall I check the other one?’

  I breathe a small breath of relief as I turn myself towards the left so he can continue examining.

  ‘Nope. All clear. What is this about, Jen?’

  ‘Nothing . . . I’m just being silly that’s all.’

  He lies down and I rest my head on his chest, listening to the reassuring thump, thump of his heart beating. How would he cope without me here? The image of me hanging upside down emerges behind my eyes: the trickle of blood escaping my red lips . . . what if he finds me? Ed pushes his way into the scene, calling my name, reaching in through the broken window, blood on his white shirt, panic across his face. I close my eyes and push the image away.

  ‘Do you remember the first day we met?’ I ask, my fingers circling the dark blond hairs on his chest.

  ‘I remember the first day I saw you.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  I know I’ve heard this story a million times, but I love hearing him.

  He looks down and shifts his position, so I am lying in the crook of his arm. ‘I saw you on the train platform. It was just a split second. The doors opened and a bloke with a bike got off. You were waiting on the platform.’

  ‘I had a vile blue dress on.’

  ‘That’s not what I said. I said I didn’t know how someone could look so beautiful in such a hideous dress.’

  ‘I don’t remember that part,’ I say, my eyes filling with tears and goose bumps running across my arm like a swarm of ants. Another memory to cherish.

  The sound of the key in the door startles us and we both bolt out of bed.

  ‘Nuts!’ I say, trying to reattach my bra.

  ‘We’re home!’ Dad shouts from downstairs.

  ‘Mummy!’ Oscar’s voice clambers up the stairs, his elephant-like step stampeding behind. Ed kicks his feet into his tangled jeans, leaning back on the bed in a flurry of denim and tanned torso.

  ‘Just a minute!’ we shout in unison.

  ‘Oscar?’ Dad’s voice booms from the landing as the door flies open.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy?’ He clenches his fists by his side ‘Why are you in bed?’

  I do an over-exaggerated stretch and yawn, leaning my head backwards. I try to reply but in my exaggerated stretch I have leant back just enough for my hair to become snagged on my bra clasp. And so my red-lace-encased bosoms are now more vertical than they have been for the last ten years.

  ‘We were just having a little snooze, now go downstairs with Grandpa while—’

  This is the position I am in as my dad crosses the threshold to my bedroom.

  ‘Brian!’ Ed exclaims.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ is Dad’s awkward reply as I twist and turn, trying to untangle myself. Oscar jumps onto the bed and reaches for the sailor hat.

  ‘Aye, aye, captain!’ he shouts, putting the hat onto his curls.

  ‘Good grief!’ Dad replies.

  ‘Dad, could you take Oscar downstairs, please?’ I ask, addressing the ceiling as Ed lets out a yelp under his breath which coincides with the sound of his zip closing.

  I tear a piece of my hair away from the clasp and my chin lowers just enough for me to witness Dad shielding his eyes.

  ‘Oscar? Come downstairs with Grandpa—’

  ‘What’s this?’ Oscar reaches for a ‘toy’ that has revealed itself from between the sheets.

 
; ‘Noo!’ I screech as Ed limps over and takes the offending item out of Oscar’s reach.

  Dad marches over to him, picks him up and takes a perplexed five-year-old down the stairs, the door closing behind him. Ed and I look at each other and burst out laughing.

  ‘Help me get this untangled, will you?’ I ask. He stands behind me, his fingers working intricately as he pulls the rest of my hair free. We stand opposite the mirror, his arms folding around my waist, my head leaning back against his chest.

  ‘I meant it, you know . . .’ he says to our reflection as he kisses my shoulder. ‘You are beautiful.’

  ‘You’re not bad yourself,’ I smile back, the mirror framing this moment in time.

  Chapter Four

  Jennifer

  I select the photo icon on my phone, taking time to make sure I can get the letters engraved on her black granite headstone to fit into the shot along with the daffodils that are just starting to bloom. They are arranged alongside the plastic sunflowers – Kerry’s favourite – which remain in the glass urn. I hope using fake flowers is OK; Kerry always had fake flowers around her house, she could never keep anything alive . . . including herself.

  I get myself back into position and tap the screen. The fake shutter sound sends a flock of pigeons scattering on their way.

  ‘You did not just do that?!’ Kerry exclaims as she drains the last of her coffee from the Starbucks travel cup that I bought her for her birthday. This memory is from when I had taken the time to arrange a bunch of flowers for Mum and Dad’s anniversary picnic and been so proud that I had posted a photo of them on Facebook. Kerry had been appalled by my actions. She had grabbed her phone from her ripped-jeaned pocket and insisted we pull funny faces: me cross-eyed and cheeks puffed out, her gurning with her tongue sticking out to post immediately in case people thought I had actually turned into our mother.

  What? I reply defensively. When I say reply, I mean in my head. I’m not talking out loud to a memory of my sister . . . that would just be weird. I think the flowers look nice. Just because it’s a grave, doesn’t mean it can’t look nice.