Things I Want My Daughters to Know_ A Novel - Elizabeth Noble [70]
The last time Jennifer had spoken to her mum was about thirty-six hours before she died. She was taking the early morning shift. Hannah was at school, and Mark was returning some calls in the study downstairs.
It hadn’t been profound, or deep, or long-lasting. Barbara had opened her eyes and seen Jennifer sitting there. She’d smiled. Radio 2 was playing Haircut 100’s “Fantastic Day.” Because it was—for everyone else out there listening; it was 70 degrees already, cloudless and perfect. They’d been playing happy summer songs all morning. Jennifer had asked if she’d wanted some water, and her mum had given a slight shake of her head. She turned toward the breeze, letting it play across her face. Gesturing at the radio with her hand, she’d smiled again, and said, “Ironic, huh?” Then she’d put her hand back down on the blanket, and Jennifer had covered it with her own. She’d said, “I love you” and acknowledged Jennifer saying it back with the merest nod effort allowed. Then she’d closed her eyes and drifted off again.
That had been it.
Jennifer had gone home that afternoon, for some clean clothes. The nurse said she didn’t think it was going to happen then, although she thought it would be soon. She’d come back that night and slept next door in the guest room with Lisa. Mark had kept Hannah home from school the next morning when she got up. He must have had a feeling. They were all there, except Amanda. Mum had died at lunchtime the next day, her breathing shifting slightly, catching in her throat once, and then gently stopping. They hadn’t even been sure, until the nurse said so, that it was finally over. It didn’t seem possible that you could die so quietly. The nurse said it was often that way. Mark had finally switched off the radio.
JENNIFER HAD CRIED THEN, AND SHE STARTED TO CRY NOW. SHE couldn’t hold it in. Her eyes filled with tears, and her shoulders began to shake, racking her with huge, desperate sobs. She knew Kathleen had never seen her cry before, nothing more than a little misting around the eyes brought on by something on the telly, and was afraid she would be discomfited. This was ugly, uncontrolled crying. But Kathleen threw her arms around her daughter-in-law, murmuring words of comfort as though she were a child, and let her cry for long minutes against her body, stroking her hair and telling her it would be all right.
“You poor, poor girl,” she said at last, when Jennifer’s sobs had quietened, and she was blowing her nose, rubbing at her eyes.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be daft. You have to cry on someone.”
“I shouldn’t be in this state. She’s been dead for months. I shouldn’t still be falling apart over it, like some kid who never grew up and grew away. I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”
“Do you know, that’s half your trouble, if you ask me, Jen.” Her voice was gentle. “You make these rules for yourself, and they’re…they’re just impossible. You spend the whole time beating yourself up for not being perfect. And you don’t realize how great you are. Crying for your mum doesn’t mean you’re not strong. It doesn’t mean you’re not coping. And anyway, who put a time limit on grief? Did you expect to wake up one morning and be over it? That isn’t going to happen, honey. That’s not how it works. Loving someone, and losing them—it isn’t neat.”
“It’s just that I’m so unhappy, Kathleen.”
“About your mum?”
She paused. “About everything.”
“About Stephen?” She didn’t sound shocked.
“Yes, about Stephen. And I need to talk to someone about it, and I needed to talk to my mum, and she tried, she tried to get me to talk to her, but I wouldn’t. And I don’t have anyone else. I don’t talk to my friends about stuff like this. I never have. It’s not who I am. I have my sisters, but I can’t. I can’t talk to them. They all think I’m the one who’s got it all sussed. I’m the one who is happily married.” She was as much wailing as talking. Kathleen fetched a box of tissues from the windowsill and handed her a couple. Jennifer blew her nose.
“And would it be the end of the world if you told them you hadn’t? That you