Postscript

by Cecelia Ahern

  I enter Malahide village, and take a left at the church, down Old Street and towards the marina and the boat-repair facility where his dad still works. After Gerry’s death, I used to meet with his parents a few times a year; they were still family to me, I was still their daughter-in-law, but over time as the middleman to our connection had passed, so too did our relationship. Conversation was sometimes forced, sometimes awkward, hard work and draining because though we were joined by love, it was impossible to avoid the fact we were also joined by loss. As time is no one’s friend, and in my effort to move on and let go, to face the light, I suppose that fraction of my life got bumped. Christmas cards, birthday presents, at first were hand-delivered and then mailed, and so we drifted further from one another.

  Gerry’s dad isn’t expecting me; even when married to Gerry I never visited his workplace, but it must be done and it must be done today. Being involved in the PS, I Love You Club has given me new insight into why Gerry wrote his letters, and part of that lesson has been in discovering that Gerry wasn’t always right, and I wasn’t always right to follow them.

  I arrive at the boatyard and, naturally, the steel gates are shut. Behind the barrier men are busy at work cleaning, repairing, maintaining boats of various sizes mounted on steel legs. I finally catch the attention of one bare-chested worker, sweating in the sun, and I wave at him.

  ‘I’m looking for Harold,’ I call. ‘Harry?’

  He opens the gate and I follow him in. Harry is fully dressed, thankfully, hard at work by the propeller of an enormous vessel.

  ‘Harry!’ my guide yells, and Gerry’s dad looks up.

  ‘Holly,’ he says, surprised. ‘What brings you here?’ He puts down his tool, and walks towards me, arms open.

  ‘Good to see you, Harry,’ I say happily, examining his face for a trace of his son, the Gerry I knew and a glimpse of the aged Gerry he never became. ‘Sorry to drop in unannounced.’

  ‘It’s great to see you. Come to the office for a tea?’ He places a hand on the small of my back and starts to guide me.

  ‘No thanks. I’m not staying long.’ I feel the emotion gathering, as it does anytime I’m with a physical reminder of Gerry. His dad brings him to life, his life emphasises his death, and an actual acknowledgement of his death is always crushing.

  ‘What is it, love?’

  ‘I’ve taken on a new project this year. Something inspired by Gerry.’

  ‘Go on,’ he urges me, fascination in his tone.

  ‘I’ve been helping terminally ill people write letters to their loved ones. They call it the PS, I Love You Club.’

  Unlike the majority of my family who hated the idea, he immediately grins, his eyes dewy. ‘What a wonderful idea, Holly. And a lovely honour to Gerard.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve. They’ve got me thinking about his letters again, about what was right, about what was wrong.’

  The PS, I Love You Club has been a treasure trove of valuable lessons for me. I guarded the experience of the letters with my life for the past six years, but as soon as I said the words aloud for the podcast, holes appeared and questions surfaced. Were his letters for me as I assumed, or were they for his own benefit? Did I always want them to continue? Did he always get them right? Were there any letters that I would have changed? In order to help the club curate their own, I had to be honest about what worked for me and what didn’t, and that didn’t mean being disloyal to Gerry as I’d feared it would.

  ‘Anyway.’ I reach into my bag and retrieve a box, which he recognises immediately. A pained sound escapes from the back of his throat. He takes it from me and opens it. It’s the watch he gave Gerry on his twenty-first birthday; a valuable timepiece Gerry wore every day.

  ‘Gerard left this to you,’ he says, and his voice cracks.

  ‘He made the wrong decision,’ I say. ‘It was a gift between father and son. Father should get it back.’

  He pauses then nods his thanks, eyes filled, head lost in I don’t know what, but perhaps the memory of him giving it to his young son, the great moment, and all the moments they spent talking about it, huddled over it, the bond that connected them.

  Gerry left it to me because it was valuable, but it’s worth more to his dad.

  Harry takes the watch out of the box, hands the box to me and slides the watch onto his wrist, securing it closed. He wipes the tears from his eyes.

  I remember the moment the watch stopped, two days after Gerry’s death. I had it on the nightstand, I was hidden beneath the duvet, in the dark world, eyes peering out to the other world, not wanting to be involved but keeping an eye out anyway, listening to his watch tick, watching the hands go round, the face I saw on my husband’s wrist every day of our lives. And then just like that, it stopped.

  Harry turns the crown a few times and it starts again.

  33

  ‘Pull in here,’ Ginika says suddenly, sounding panicked, as I drive her home from a lesson.

  I indicate quickly, and swing into a hard right on Drumcondra Road, thinking she’s ill, that she needs to vomit, or pass out.

  I stop the car. ‘Are you OK? Have some water.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says quietly, distracted. ‘Drive down the lane.’

  I hadn’t even taken notice of where we were, I didn’t think it mattered, but as we continue down the long drive I realise that we’re at HomeFarm FC, a soccer club. Confused, I turn the car into the space she’s pointing at, in front of a soccer pitch, which is busy with a team being taken through their drills. I look at her, waiting for an answer but none comes. She watches the boys playing and, realising she needs some time, I sit back and give her space.

  ‘I used to play here,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’ I ask happily, glad she’s opening up. ‘I didn’t have you down as a soccer player.’

  ‘I was a striker,’ she says, while her eyes don’t move from the guys on the pitch.

  ‘Of course you were.’

  This brings a small smile to her lips.

  Jewel cries out from the back seat, I turn around and reach for the rice cake she has dropped. She takes it from me with a gentle ‘ta ta’ and shoves it in her mouth to continue sucking. One hand on her rice cake, another on her big toe, which she is pulling at and lifting to her mouth, deciding which she prefers the taste of.

  ‘That guy there?’ Ginika points out a tall handsome assistant coach. ‘He’s Jewel’s dad.’

  ‘What?’ I shout so loudly I give Jewel a fright. ‘Sorry, baby, I’m sorry.’ I rub her foot and calm her. Her bottom lip trembles for a moment, and then she concentrates on her rice cake again.

  ‘Jesus, would you shut up? He’ll hear you!’ Ginika slaps my leg.

  ‘Sorry. I just can’t believe that … you’re telling me. That’s him.’ I lean over the steering wheel and examine him. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Yeah well. His name’s Conor. You wouldn’t shut up asking me about him, so, there.’

  I didn’t ask her that often but she’s changing, she’s thinking, she’s planning for the end. Transitioning. My heart twists.

  ‘We can leave now.’ She nods at the steering wheel to hurry me up, perhaps panicking that I’ll cause a scene.

  ‘No, wait. We’re not going anywhere yet.’ I continue watching him, this mysterious character I’ve wanted to know so much about for so long.

  ‘Well, we’re not getting out of the car.’

  ‘I know. OK. We won’t. But,’ I watch him, running through drills with younger kids. ‘What age is he?’

  She thinks. ‘Eighteen. Now.’

  I look back at Jewel and at Conor. She’s so close to her dad. Possibly the closest she’s ever been.

  ‘Don’t,’ Ginika warns. ‘I knew this was a mistake.’

  ‘It’s not, I won’t do anything,’ I say firmly. ‘Just tell me, does he know? Does he know about Jewel?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t, didn’t want him to get into trouble. Didn’t want to fuck up his life. C
onor’s nice, you know? I found out I was pregnant, then that I was sick. I dropped out of school. I couldn’t tell him.’

  ‘I understand, Ginika, it’s OK.’

  ‘Really?’ she seems surprised. Relieved. ‘I thought you’d judge me.’

  ‘Who am I to be the judge of anyone?’

  ‘You just, you know …’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Your house, your life, you’re so perfect.’

  ‘Ginika,’ I look at her in surprise. ‘I am far from perfect.’

  ‘Not what it looks like from here.’

  ‘Well, thank you, but … I’m very fucked up.’

  She actually laughs. And then I join in too. The two of us, emotional and delirious, share this moment.

  ‘So why are we here?’ I ask gently. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe after, maybe when I’m, you know … whatever. Maybe he can know then. Maybe he’ll want to know, maybe he won’t. But I’ll be gone and whatever happens, happens.’ She looks at me. ‘No one knows he’s her da. I thought I should tell someone. I trust you.’

  ‘Fuck,’ I say, breathing out.

  She looks at me in surprise, and laughs again. ‘I’ve never heard you swear before and you’ve done it twice.’

  ‘OK,’ I try to get a handle on the situation. ‘Let’s think. Seeing as we’re talking, can we really talk now?’

  She braces herself. ‘Sure, but can we get out of here first?’

  We settle in Ginika’s basement flat and I discreetly survey the connected bedroom and kitchen, the single bed and cot. A pink lamp beside the bed, pink cushions and duvet cover, pink fairy lights twisted around the rail of the headboard. I didn’t have Ginika down as a pink girl. It is young and feminine and makes who Ginika and Jewel are and their situation all the more sorrowful. I peek out through the drawn curtains and see a long garden with grass that hasn’t seen a lawnmower in years. It makes a great place to hide the sodden ripped mattress, old stove, and rusty broken bicycle and car parts that previous tenants or even the landlords themselves have discarded.

  ‘It’s not exactly a palace,’ Ginika says, self-consciously, watching me take it in.

  It’s not for Ginika’s lack of trying, it’s the lack of maintenance that’s responsible for the decay, the mould and musty smell. There’s more in this home for Jewel than for Ginika, another giveaway sign of her character. Every sacrifice has been for her daughter. Ginika places Jewel in a high chair and reaches for one of the many baby food jars on the open shelf.

  ‘Can I feed her?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure, but watch out, she’ll grab the spoon.’

  As warned, Jewel reaches for the incoming spoon of food. We struggle over it, Jewel’s pudgy grip stronger than I thought, while food splashes around. Finally, I win. I’ll be faster next time.

  ‘So,’ Ginika says nervously, twisting her fingers around each other, waiting for me to pick up where we left off in the car park.

  So focused on this impossible task of feeding feisty Jewel, who despite already ingesting three rice cakes is eating faster than I can reload my spoon, I’m reminded of why we came here.

  ‘I have avoided this conversation for a long time, probably too long, because I felt it was absolutely none of my business. But now it’s different. As your friend – and I consider you my friend, Ginika – I wouldn’t be doing a good job if I didn’t share with you what I think, or at least hear what you think. I don’t want to put ideas in your head, or confuse your thought process or—’

  ‘Jesus, quit with the disclaimers, I get it,’ she interrupts, rolling her eyes. ‘Go on, spit it out. You think Conor should get custody of Jewel.’

  ‘No, actually,’ I say, surprised. ‘Well, it’s not that I don’t think that, but I had something else in mind. Someone else. I wondered if you’d considered Denise.’

  ‘Denise!’ her eyes widen and she thinks for a moment. ‘Denise,’ she says softly. ‘You like Dee Nee, don’t you, baby?’

  Jewel has her mouth wide open and is leaning forward to the filled spoon I paused in the air while I spoke. I grin and feed her and quickly follow it up with another, giving Ginika some time to think.

  ‘Actually, Denise and Tom,’ I add.

  ‘Aren’t they split up?’

  ‘It won’t last.’ I wonder how much to share or how much Denise has already shared with her. ‘They really want a baby, but they’re struggling. To conceive, I mean.’

  ‘Oh,’ she seems interested, focused.

  ‘That’s probably all I should say about it, it’s up to you to discuss with them. And your social worker, and foster family, and whoever else you’d need to speak with. I just want you to know that it’s a possibility, it’s worth thinking about. And at least Denise doesn’t have a country accent,’ I add, with a smile.

  ‘No,’ she replies, seriously. ‘But does her fella?’

  I laugh and continue feeding Jewel.

  ‘I’d have to meet him first.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say you wanted Jewel.’

  ‘Me?’

  From the way I snap my surprised response, she realises she’s off by a long shot.

  ‘I adore Jewel, but …’ It feels terrible having this conversation in front of her, I’m pretty sure this wise little one is taking everything in. ‘I’m not … I wouldn’t … I don’t know how to …’

  ‘You’d be a great ma,’ she says softly.

  I don’t know how to respond to that. I self-consciously spoon another mouthful into Jewel’s mouth.

  ‘You’re around the same age as my ma. And look how good you’ve been with me. I’m not saying, like, that I think you’re my ma, but you know what I mean. You’ve been there for me, you’re helping me in a way a ma would. I bet you were really good with your fella’s daughter.’

  I wasn’t. I should have been. I realise I could be.

  ‘Jesus Christ, are you crying?’

  ‘Just got some food in my eye,’ I say, blinking back the tears.

  ‘Come here, you softy,’ she says, and we embrace.

  While my back is turned, Jewel has grabbed the jar of food and the spoon and she’s shaken them both ecstatically up and down in the air, so that it’s splashed on her face and hair and all over the table.

  ‘Actually,’ Ginika adds in her usual dry tone, ‘you are a bit shit.’

  I laugh.

  ‘What are you going to do when we’re all gone?’ she asks, removing the food from Jewel’s hair.

  ‘Ginika,’ I say softly, shaking my head. ‘I don’t want to talk about that. You’re here now.’

  ‘I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about you. What are you going to do when the three of us are gone?’

  I shrug. ‘Keep working at the shop. Sell the house. Find a place to live.’

  ‘Move in with your fella.’

  ‘No. That’s over. I told you.’

  She studies me. ‘Nah,’ she says, nudging me. ‘It’s not. He’s a tasty one. Just tell him,’ she laughs, ‘tell him to think of you like you’re a tree. He works with broken ones, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Tell him to climb your branches and instead of cutting you down, to give you a bit of mending.’ She chuckles. ‘I’ve been watching that fella Dr Phil every morning, I think it’s catching.’ She looks at me. ‘Full of shite, isn’t he, most of the time. But, sometimes, there does be kernels of knowledge,’ she says grandly, waving the spoon around. ‘Call him, ye eejit.’

  I laugh. ‘We’ll see, Ginika.’

  On the drive home it pains me to think about Ginika’s question, to imagine a world without Ginika, Paul and Joy being in it, for them not to be a constant consideration. I tell myself that there is lots of time before I need to worry about that. But Ginika’s illness is choosing its own pace and a mere two weeks after sitting in her kitchen, giddily laughing and joking, and talking about the fut
ure, her future decides to slow down, to come and take a closer look at her.

  I sit with Ginika at her bedside in hospital. If she was fire, now she is embers, but she continues to glow and give out heat, proof of fire, symbol of life.

  ‘I wrote my letter last night,’ she says, dark rings around her eyes.

  ‘Did you?’ I take her hand.

  ‘It was so quiet here. Nurses were around but it was calm. I FaceTimed Paul. Have you seen him?’

  I nod.

  ‘He looks like shit. All bloated. Says he can’t see out of his left eye. I couldn’t sleep after that, thinking about him, about everything. The sentences came into my head and I couldn’t get them out so I started writing.’

  ‘Do you want me to read over it for you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Your work is done. Thanks, miss,’ she attempts a joke, but it lacks her usual zest.

  My eyes fill and overflow, and this time she doesn’t tell me to stop. She doesn’t tell me I’m an idiot or a softy, because she’s crying too.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she whispers so quietly I can just about make the words out.

  I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight. ‘I know. I’m here for you. Joy is here. Paul is here. Denise is here. We’re all here for you. You’re not alone.’

  ‘Was your husband scared, in the end?’ she asks, tears streaming from her face. I can feel them soaking my neck.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘He wanted me to hold his hand, the entire time. But then something happened, he slipped away. It was calm. It was quiet.’

  ‘Peaceful?’

  I nod and cry. ‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘So so peaceful, Ginika.’

  ‘OK,’ she says, and pulls away. ‘Thanks.’

  I reach for the tissues beside her bed and hand her one, take one for myself.

  ‘Ginika Adebayo, you are a precious amazing woman and I have nothing but respect and love for you.’