have told the doctor more about me, you know, about how much of the time you think about us.’
‘I know,’ I answer as the force of my movements sends my hair flying backwards. The sky rumbles, the slate roof cracking open, releasing thick rich droplets of warm rain. I continue swinging; Kerry’s laughter fills my ears as the rain sticks my cotton summer dress to my legs, plasters my loose hair to my head. I find I am laughing with her, laughing at the way my body is flying higher, laughing because it feels good to be alive, laughing because I know she is dead and yet it’s almost as if I can hear her laughter behind me as my body swings forwards and backwards. I can hear hysteria licking the ends of my laughter, because I know, deep down, that spending so much time with my memories is wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ed
You know that feeling? That feeling when you look at your wife, husband, whoever, someone you know better than yourself but instead of seeing what everyone else sees, you see something else? If you were to look out of this window, this window with blue flowery curtains held back in those tie-back things and see a grown woman swinging on a swing, laughing and smiling, it might even look like something out of, I don’t know, Pride and Preji-bollocks but without the period clothing, or the tyre swing for that matter, you know what I mean; anyway, what I’m trying to say is that to anyone else it might look OK. It might look almost romantic how she’s enjoying herself so much that she hasn’t even noticed that it is raining. But. When you’ve noticed that the woman you love is starting to behave differently, irrationally, this woman swinging and laughing in the rain, wet hair flying behind her looks like something else. She looks . . . wrong.
Brian joins me beside the window. He glances up at his daughter; he watches her actions with unblinking scrutiny, his actions calm.
‘Judith, grab a towel will you, Jen is getting soaked.’ He throws me a sideward glance: we need to talk about this, we both know what we can see. Brian washes his glass and dries it with a tea towel.
Jen appears at the doorway to the kitchen. Her face is pale, like she’s seen a ghost, and she is soon wrapped up in a towel by her mother and guided upstairs to take a shower. Her mother is fussing, and berating her, telling her she should have come in sooner and what was she thinking? Jen avoids my eyes throughout the exchange.
‘She’s still grieving,’ I begin, filling the silence as Brian continues to look at the tyre swing, the last of Jen’s momentum hanging on. ‘And I think the guilt of Kerry’s death is harder for her to cope with than any of us thought. Jen has so many questions: why Kerry died and not her, why Kerry saved her, why she’s even here in the first place.’
Judith joins us as I explain about the erratic behaviour, the insomnia, my worries. I look away from their faces. They stay silent, looking at each other with raised eyebrows.
‘Maybe now she has something to help her sleep . . .’ I can’t help but let my gaze slide away from Brian’s as I say, ‘and if she could, you know, get some answers, she might be able to control it.’
‘Control it?’ Brian asks sceptically.
‘She can’t control her grief; she couldn’t control Kerry’s death . . .’ I shrug my shoulders, embarrassed at the psychobabble coming out of my mouth. ‘I just think if we can give her some power back, give her something to focus on, then she can start to get better.’
‘But she is getting better,’ Judith says.
Brian, I notice, looks away from his wife and meets my eyes, understanding clear in his expression.
‘She’s much better than she was after Kerry died,’ my mother-in-law enthuses. ‘She didn’t talk or get dressed for days and there was that time when she wasn’t eating . . . she’s much better now.’
‘What answers?’ Brian pulls the conversation back, just as Jen walks into the room, but I can tell by his expression that he knows what I’m about to say.
‘Jen wants to know why she is alive when Kerry is dead . . . why Kerry saved her.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jennifer
It’s another Monday morning, another normal day where I am here and my sister isn’t, but it’s