and hanging on to a tall, well-kept man, who is a complete stranger, is Jen. And she’s bleeding.
Again. And again, fear spikes inside my chest.
There is a diagonal cut along her cheek lying parallel to her cheekbone, like some perfectly marred damsel in distress.
‘What happened?’ I reach for her, taking her out of the arms of the stranger as he ties his dog’s lead around the trellis.
‘Nothing, I’m fine, I just tripped, that’s all.’
‘I found her by the monument.’ His voice is rich; it suits the clothing and the perfect designer stubble.
‘On Hayworth Hill? What were you doing up there at this time in the morning?’ I guide her into the lounge. She is leaning her weight on me and limping, there is blood on her white vest and she is wincing every time she puts any weight on her foot.
I position her onto the sofa and thank the stranger.
‘It’s no problem at all . . . it was a good job that my dog is incontinent, that’s all I can say. She was out pretty cold for a few seconds.’
‘Out cold?’ My voice shoots up a couple of notches. ‘What do you mean she was out cold?’
‘I’m fine, Ed, I just need a coffee—’
‘She’s had a can of Coke on the way. My guilty pleasure, I’m afraid, but don’t tell the missus.’ He winks, laughs and pats me on the back as if we’re making small talk at a bar. ‘Speaking of which, I’d best be off. She’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ Jen interjects, looking up at this stranger as if she doesn’t want him to leave. ‘For everything.’
‘Take care, Jennifer.’
I find myself looking from one to the other and back again like a spectator. I thank the man who seems to have some kind of understanding with my wife, and see him out the door.
I take a deep breath and head into the kitchen, robotically turning on the coffee machine and reaching for the first-aid kit in the top of the cupboard before returning to Jen. My stomach is clenched into a knot. What am I missing? I mean, she’s doing everything that WikiHow says she should be doing: time outside, talking to people . . . but I’ve got to be missing something.
I don’t meet her eyes while I wipe her cheek with an antiseptic wipe; she flinches but I still don’t look her in the eyes. I don’t look because I’m scared of what I’ll find there.
‘So,’ I begin, ‘you went for a run?’ It sounds like I’m trying to make conversation, like this is normal behaviour, for her to leave the windows wide open while we sleep upstairs, like it’s normal for her to go for a run – a pastime that she hasn’t practised for years – at what must have been about half-four in the morning.
‘I needed to clear my head,’ she says, pulling her cheek away as I dab the wound.
‘So, what happened?’ I discard the bloodied wipe, open another packet with my teeth and continue. There is a fly behind me, I can hear it buzzing and see that Jen is tracking its movements up and down the lounge.
‘I think I was probably a bit dehydrated, that’s all. It’s been a while since I went for a run.’
‘It has,’ I agree and then take a piece of gauze and tape it over the cut with microporous tape. I’m about to get up when she grabs on to my hand.
‘I need to know why, Ed.’
‘Why what?’ I ask.
She stares over at the sofa as if she’s talking to someone else. ‘I need to know why.’
‘Why what?’ I repeat again.
‘Why my life was more valuable than hers.’
‘None of that matters.’ I kneel down in front of her until she turns her face to me. ‘It doesn’t matter why you’re here, what matters is that you are here.’
‘It’s not enough.’
She looks off into the distance again, her face twitching and frowning while she thinks it over. It’s starting to scare me, this looking off into the distance thing.
‘It’s not enough?’ I say, bringing her focus back to me. ‘Me and your kids aren’t enough?’
She blinks a tear away. ‘It’s not that, it’s just . . . I feel like part of me died with Kerry, like I’ve got a hole inside of me . . .’ she clenches a fist to her chest, ‘and it’s filling up with all these questions. Why am I here and Kerry isn’t? And . .