“Jenna,” I say and my fingers twitch to reach for her. “How old were you?”
“Fifteen,” she says. “By suicide.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” She looks down and finds something to pick at on her dress.
“That must have been so very hard. It must still be hard.”
She breathes in deep before speaking. “It was, and yes, sometimes it still is. But it was over twenty years ago. That’s a lot of time, Marty. Time is not a healer itself – like they so annoyingly say – but it can still be kind to you as you heal. It can still bring you joy and happiness.”
“Can I ask what happened?” I speak cautiously.
“She was very depressed for many years before she died,” Jenna says with an ease that surprises me. “Very severe depression. The kind you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. So, even with all the loss and sadness and grief when she did die, I still remember feeling relieved. I still feel that relief baked into my sense of loss when I think about her. That can't compare to what you and Arnie and his family experienced.”
I shake my head. “We are not going to do the Grief Olympics. Please, no.”
“No, I'm not doing that.” Her smile is kind and her eyes soft. “I'm simply acknowledging the irrefutable tragedy of Arnie's death. He wanted to live. He was young. He had so much ahead of him.” Her hand is on mine as she says this. “But my poor mother. Life was unbearable, sometimes. I'm not convinced she always wanted to die either. But I know that life was very, very hard for her. And that was hard on my brother and me too.”
“What about your father? Were they still married?”
She rolls her eyes but it’s anything but flippant. “Yes, but barely. Their marriage was a shambles. My father had something of a double life.” She pulls in another breath. “He had a long-running affair with the woman he is now married to, Carol. I'm still not sure exactly when they got together, but I know it was for a long time before Mum died, and we all knew about it. She would even tell us when he was 'at Carol's' although they didn't explain what that meant to us. It just was. And then, after Mum died, Iunderstood much clearer. Him and Carol were married within six months. She became my stepmother.”
“My God,” I whisper.
“Yeah. It's a bit fucked up, isn't it? Honestly, I'm just grateful it happened when I was fifteen and not five. Carol didn't want kids, so we were a big inconvenience, messing up this fantasy life she wanted with my dad. The thing is, what makes ita bit easier to look back on now, I do believe she and my father genuinely loved and still do love each other, so yes, they should have always been together, but that’s not easy to think about either. I think I'm at peace with how my mum and dad weren't in love at all, but it was still hard to not see my father really grieve for the mother of his children. And of course, Jake and I have always wondered how much of a role my father played in Mum’s depression. Not that it was his fault, we understand that. But did he support her enough? Did he even understand it? Was it his affair that made her feel so utterly hopeless? I don't think it was just that.” She pauses and looks down at the sand, and I let her take her time. “I know she loved us, but I also always felt like there was somewhere else, orsomeoneelse, she’d rather be. I’ve always wondered if we could have managed it better if she'd had more support and more...” She sighs but this seems to create space for a small smile. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I wish my mother had had more love in her life.”
I let silence fall so I can also lock those words away somewhere, although where I don't really know. Then I ask her the one question that I always want people to ask me when they find out I’ve lost someone I love.
“What was her name?”
“Catalina. Cathy,” she says, and her dazzling smile makes me so glad I asked. I commit the name to memory. “Her mother, my grandmother, was Spanish. I never met her sadly, but I always loved my mum’s name.”
“Jake's older than you?” I ask.
“No, three years younger. It was much harder on him,” she says, picking up a slice of watermelon.
“It must have been hard on you both.”
She chews for a while before replying, thinking. I like how she does that. “I think at fifteen, I already knew quite a bit about myself. I knew I wanted to be a writer. I knew what I liked - boys, clothes, books, boys, music, my friends, and did I mention boys? - and so I had those things to focus on, and I really did.” She sitsup straighter and laughs at herself. “I was obsessed with having a boyfriend but then I got bored pretty quickly and would dump him and try another one, and repeat. I kept myself busy and even had fun, despite what was happening at home. Dad gave me a lot of freedom and honestly, for a few years after Mum died, life felt easier. Carefree, almost. Now, I know I was just postponing my grief, and that caught up with me once I hit my twenties. But even then, I was okay. Jake wasn't so lucky.” Her smile drops completely. “Jake and Mum were really close. He didn't mind being around her when she was in her worst episodes. Me, I wasn't so good at that. It drained me. I'd rather be reading alone, with my boyfriend at the time, or out with friends. But Jake would often just curl up in bed next to her and stroke her back or comb her hair. He'd stay there for hours and hours listening toThe Archersor reading theRadio Timeslistings to her.”
“Shit. He was what, twelve?”
“Yeah, when she died. Jake always had more patience than me. But he also needed more from my parents than I did; reassurance, validation, encouragement. And sadly, Dad wasn't the best at giving that.”
“What's he like now? Your father?”
She rolls her eyes again. “Living in Edinburgh with Carol and three sausage dogs. I haven't seen them for over two years.”
“And Jake? He seems to be so well put together and sort of larger than life,” I say, thinking about all the banter I've had with him in the last few days. “Does he see your dad?”
“Jake's amazing. He's my best friend. I'm so lucky to have him,” she says, her smile firmly back. “But no, he also hasn't seen them for just as long. I think he’d like to change that, actually.”
“So that's your big before and after, the first big dividing line in your life.” I nod, understanding now what she means. I can't help thinking how her having this, that grief, is something we have in common. It maybe explains why I feel so comfortable with her.
“Yeah, it is. But you know, the older I get, the more the before feels like a dream. Not a totally unpleasant one, I have to say. I think I've put those memories through a heavy rose-tinted filter, but I also know that who I am now is not definedby that single event and for a long time in my twenties - when I finally did grieve my mother - it felt like it would be the axis my whole life would turn around. But now, it isn't.” Jenna tilts her head up and pushes air through her nose and then it stops, as if a thought has just popped into her head. “Maybe that's because of my divorce. Maybe all it takes is another dividing line to appear for the other one to fade in comparison. My divorce certainly didn't feel as dramatic or tragic or confusing - it was what I wanted - but it definitely felt like it had just as much, if not more power. It really stopped me in my tracks, made me question everything.”
“You were the one who asked for a divorce?” I ask, unsure if I'm surprised or not.
