Postscript Page 10

  ‘I’m not getting back together with Kate, if you’re jealous.’

  ‘And I’m not getting back with Gerry, if you’re jealous.’

  He calms and smiles at that. He runs his hand through his hair.

  ‘But why?’ he asks simply. ‘Why do you choose to be surrounded by so much … death?’

  ‘I’m not going to run away from it and pretend that it hasn’t affected me. I see this as a positive way of dealing with it. Gabriel, I’m not going to let this club affect us, if that’s what you’re worried about?’

  ‘Yet we’re arguing. Now. About us. Because of them.’

  But an argument is never really over just one thing. It’s the creature that feeds off its host, and it leaves me wondering what exactly we are arguing about.

  15

  Back at work, I move more slowly around the shop but I’m still able to function. Though I can’t cycle, I’m able to drive, and I’m thankful that my car is automatic as my left foot is in a cast but I can still use my right on the pedals. I’m ready to get back to business. It’s been over a month since I spoke to or heard from the PS, I Love You Club and I have the overwhelming urge to begin as soon as possible. It was Bert who had a clear idea of what he wanted to achieve with his letters and Bert in my opinion who was the most misguided. Hearing the kind of things he was going to do for his wife reminded me exactly what it was that Gerry did for me and it made me feel angry that he was getting it wrong. I feel if I have any chance of helping the club, Bert is first on my list.

  I call Bert and nervously wait to see if the gang I cast aside when they needed me, are willing to take me back. I would pace, but the cast hinders me, it slows me down in so many different ways.

  ‘Hi, Bert, it’s Holly Kennedy.’

  ‘Holly Kennedy,’ he wheezes.

  ‘From the podcast, I met your group some time ago.’

  ‘PS, I Love You, Holly,’ he says.

  ‘How are you holding up, Bert?’

  ‘So-so,’ he wheezes. ‘Had an … infection in my lung … just home … for as long as … I can.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Better to be home,’ his words are a raspy whisper.

  ‘Did you write your PS letters?’

  ‘Yes. We decided to continue.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I let you down.’

  ‘You have nothing to be sorry for.’ He coughs. It’s so loud and violent that I have to remove the phone from my ear.

  ‘I wonder if you’d still like me to help?’ I realise, as I wait, that I really really want him to say yes.

  ‘You’ve had a change of heart.’

  ‘Maybe I just grew one.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t be so hard on yourself,’ he says breathlessly.

  ‘I didn’t express myself clearly when we met in Joy’s house. I was out of sorts, uncomfortable with what was happening. I wasn’t supportive and I apologise. I think I sounded defensive or that I wasn’t happy with Gerry’s letters. That’s not true. So please allow me to redeem myself. Maybe I could cast my eye over your letters and offer some advice? I could think of it from the perspective of your loved ones.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ he whispers.

  Relieved, I grow in confidence. ‘Gerry’s letters were special to me for many reasons. I’ve come to realise that what Gerry did for me was to create a conversation between us. Or more importantly, continue it. Even after he passed, we continued to have a relationship and a connection that went beyond revisiting memories. We were making new moments after his death. That’s the magic. Perhaps that’s what you should focus on. Your letters to Rita are not for entertainment purposes – well, not exclusively for entertainment purposes – and it’s not a test of her love for you either. I’m sure that’s not what you were planning on achieving.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does Rita like history?’

  ‘History? No.’

  ‘Do any of the questions for her relate to a private joke or hold a private meaning between you both?’

  I wait.

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. What you should do, if you would still like to take my advice, is ask her questions that relate only to you two, that only you could both know. Personalise your quiz so that it means something to her, so that it unlocks a special memory and then physically brings her to that place to make it even more intense. Bring Rita on a journey, Bert, make her feel like you’re right by her side and you’re doing it together.’

  He’s silent.

  ‘Bert?’ I stop pacing. ‘You still with me?’

  He makes choking sounds.

  ‘Bert?’ I panic.

  He starts laughing, wheezy rasps. ‘Just … joking.’

  I curse his humour.

  ‘Sounds like I’ll have to start again.’

  ‘I’ve to get back to work now, but I can drop by your house later this week so we can plan it, is that OK?’

  Pause. ‘Tonight. Time is … of the … essence.’

  I visit Bert’s house after work as promised. His carer shows me into the house, and I share the obligatory story that follows the observation of my crutches and cast, and I sit on a chair in the hallway, as if I’m in a waiting room while the family gathers in the living room. As was the case in my house during Gerry’s illness, it has been turned into a bedroom, so that Bert doesn’t have to go up and down the stairs. It meant that I could be with Gerry at all times, even when preparing the food that he inevitably wouldn’t eat, and he felt more connected to the world instead of hidden away in the bedroom, but he preferred to have a bath instead of the shower we installed downstairs. The bath was upstairs. We installed a stair chair. Gerry hated using it, but he hated leaning on me more and so he swallowed his pride. He would close his eyes and relax in the bath, while I sponge-cleaned him. Bathing him, holding him, drying him, dressing him, were some of the most intimate moments we ever had together.

  The door to Bert’s room is closed but I can hear that it is filled with people, young children being the loudest. The PS, I Love You Club is a secret to add to the element of surprise after death, and I don’t know what Bert has told his family about me, if anything at all, but the idea of a book club is thankfully a good cover and so I’ve brought a sports memoir with me to pretend I’m recommending our next read.

  Suddenly there’s a rise of beautiful music as a choir of young voices sing ‘Fall on Your Knees’. The sounds of his grandchildren to lift his spirits, they probably don’t know that they’re saying goodbye but their parents do. Bert does. He probably looks at them all one by one as they sing and wonders about their future, hoping they’ll be OK, guessing who will become what, wishing he could see it. Or perhaps it’s his own children he worries about, as they watch their singing children with strained smiles and pain in their hearts, and he feels their pain, their struggles, knows the hurdles they have overcome in life and worries about how they will cope in the future. Because he knows their characters, even on his deathbed as they’re worrying about him, he’s unable to stop worrying about them. Their dad, forever. And perhaps he thinks of Rita, who will be faced with it all alone when he’s gone. I envisage it all as the sweet young voices drift through the walls.

  The door opens and cries of ‘Goodbye, Granddad,’ ‘We love you Granddad,’ drift out the door. The grandchildren stream excitedly from the room, hopping and skipping, chattering happily; they’re followed by children and in-laws, who smile at me as they pass and leave through the front door, pausing to hug Rita on the way. Bert’s wife is a small woman in a pair of pink golf trousers and sweater, with a set of pearls and lipstick to match her outfit. I stand as she closes the door behind the last of them.

  ‘Sorry for the wait,’ she says warmly. ‘I’m afraid Bert didn’t tell me you had an appointment. Oh goodness, you poor thing, what happened?’

  She doesn’t seem the slightest bit emotional after the scene I witnessed, not as moved as I am, but I remember the feeling of always being the stronges
t person in every room, because if you weren’t, everything would be impossible. High emotions, goodbyes, and talk of the end becomes the norm and the soul builds up a super layer of armour when faced with it. When alone, it was a different matter; alone was when everything was free to come crashing down.

  ‘Cycling accident,’ I reply. ‘It will be off soon, thankfully.’

  ‘He’s waiting for you,’ she says, guiding me into his room. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please. Thank you.’

  Bert is lying in a hospital bed in the living room. The couches have been pushed to one side. He’s hooked up to his oxygen, and when he sees me he motions for me to close the door and sit beside him. I obey.

  ‘Hi, Bert.’

  He signals to the tubes in his nose and rolls his eyes. The energy from our first meeting in Joy’s conservatory is gone, but there is life and a twinkle in his eye for our project.

  ‘You look worse than me,’ he gasps between words.

  ‘I’ll heal. Only four more weeks left. I brought you this book, for our book club.’ I wink, and place it on the locker beside him.

  He chuckles. Then coughs, angry coughs that rip him of life. I stand and move closer to him, hovering, as if that will help.

  ‘I told Rita something else.’

  ‘Oh God, do I want to know?’

  ‘My feet,’ he says, and I look to his toes that are wiggling at the end of the blanket his coughing has pulled up. Crusty flat feet with long tough yellow nails. I am not touching those feet for love nor money.

  ‘Foot … massage … therapy.’

  ‘Bert,’ I look at him wide-eyed, ‘we’re going to have to come up with a better cover story.’

  He chuckles again, enjoying this.

  I hear cups and plates rattling in the kitchen as Rita prepares.

  ‘OK,’ I shake my head, ‘let’s get down to business. Have you thought about the new questions?’

  ‘Under my pillow.’

  I stand and help him lean forward. Laughing, I retrieve the papers from beneath his huge stack of pillows and hand them to him.

  ‘Ever since I was a boy I’ve always wanted to plan a heist.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly been busy scheming.’

  ‘Nothing … else to do.’

  He shows me a map with coloured circular stickers in the exact locations. To my absolute relief, all are Dublin-based but his writing is so erratic I can barely read it.

  ‘It’s rough. You’ll have to write it again,’ he says, possibly noticing my struggle.

  The sound of a rattling tray and footsteps nears the door. I hide the papers under my coat on the chair and open the door for Rita.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says brightly.

  I help her wheel the tray table closer to Bert. Pretty teapot and mismatching cups and saucers, with a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Will this be in the way of your work?’ she asks, concerned.

  ‘Oh no, it’s OK,’ I reply, hating the lie. ‘I can slide it across easily.’

  We shuffle it around and she leaves us. I’m sure she’s relieved to have an hour to herself. I remember that I did. In the depths of a difficult reality I would watch home make-over shows, transforming gardens, cooking shows, everything to do with transformation and crying, surprised guests. I got lost in their sorrow and then was lifted by their hope.

  Bert chuckles. He loves the intrigue. I don’t, but wonder if Gerry was the same, when his body and mind was being analysed and owned by everyone else, if he was enjoying keeping something to himself.

  I retrieve the papers again and study them.

  ‘You wrote poems?’

  ‘Limericks. Rita is the poetry fan, she hates limericks,’ he says, a look of devilment in his eyes.

  ‘Bert,’ I keep my voice low. ‘One of the reasons I loved Gerry’s notes was because they were handwritten. I felt like he’d left a part of him behind. His words, from his hand, from his mind, from his heart. I think it’s best if you write these notes yourself.’

  ‘Oh?’ He looks up at me and it’s impossible to think that this big man, with enormous hands and broad shoulders, could ever lose a battle against anything. ‘Rita’s always hated my handwriting, insisted on writing greeting cards herself. She has lovely handwriting. You should do it.’

  ‘OK. Or I could print it out. So that it’s not from me, exactly.’

  He shrugs. He’s not too bothered about how the message is relayed, so long as it is. I blink. I need to learn to take this into account: that each person will disregard what I felt was important and place great importance on an aspect that I never contemplated. There can be nothing generic about these letters; their desires and not mine must be accounted for.

  ‘And we need nice paper. Do you have stationery?’ Obviously he doesn’t. ‘I can get you that.’

  He doesn’t touch the biscuits, he doesn’t touch his tea. There is a plate of sliced fruit beside his bed, also uneaten.

  I look at his notes and the map, not seeing anything, but thinking fast in my head. It is too much to ask him to do this all again, he has done what he can, as quickly as he can.

  ‘Bert. Just so I don’t get any words wrong when I’m transcribing it, I need you to do one thing for me.’ I take out my phone to record. ‘Read them for me.’

  He reaches for his glasses but the effort is too great. I go to the side table and hand them to him.

  He looks at the page, breathes in and out, fast short breaths. He reads them quietly, his words whipped away by his breath. He stalls. His eyes go misty. Then he starts to weep as though he is a small boy. I stop the recording and I hold his hands tightly. As his cries intensify, I wrap my arms around him and this old man cries on my shoulder like a boy. He’s exhausted when he’s finished reading and weeping.

  ‘Bert,’ I say gently. ‘I really don’t want to say this, but have you got lotion?’

  He wipes his wet eyes, confused.

  ‘If we’re going to keep up this cover story I’m going to have to leave those feet looking happier.’

  He chuckles again. And in one second, sorrow can mutate to joy.

  16

  In the stationery shop, I stare at the shelves of writing paper. So many different types: coated, uncoated, laid, bond or woven. Gloss, silk, matt, patterned or parallel lines. Smooth or textured. Pastels or strong primary colours. Which size? My mind blurs. It’s only paper, what does it matter? Of course it matters. It matters more than anything. Bert has six notes for Rita. One pack of fancy cards contains four. Why four? Why not five? So I need two packets. But will the extra four allow for enough mistakes? Perhaps I should buy three packets. The envelopes come in packs of seven. Why seven? And can I print on this paper?

  My hands tremble as I scour the shelves, trying to find matching envelopes. Self-adhesive, or folded; two versions of myself. A challenge, a dare. Choose this and it defines you. Which is best? To stick myself together again, or fold and admit defeat?

  Gerry would have done this. He would have gone shopping for the small cards that contained his notes and letters, knowing it was for me to read after his death. Did he choose just any paper or did he care? Was he pragmatic about it? Was he emotional? Did he request assistance or was he sure? Organised? Excited, or sad?

  Suddenly my mind is full of questions I’d never considered before. Did he grab the first packet of notecards that he saw? Did he have a practice round? Did he make mistakes and rip them up angrily? Did he have other options that never made it to the final ten? Did he make a list? How long did he plan it? Was it all in one day? A spur of the moment decision, or did he take his time? There were no errors in his notes, he must have taken his time, or made a few attempts. I never did find the attempts. He wrote with blue pen, did he experiment with other colours? Did the blue mean something to him? Should it have meant something to me? Did he even care what colour or what paper he was using, did he know how much I would analyse every single part of his gifts?


  Did he stand here, crying, a cane keeping him upright, as my crutches do now, feeling dizzy, scouring the shelves of paper, just fucking paper, trying to find a way to communicate to ensure he’ll be remembered. Worrying about not being remembered. Grasping at every last straw to lengthen his life when he ran out of treatments, terrified of being forgotten. Thinking his whole life has come to this moment, choosing paper for his final words for a person he’ll never see again.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asks the sales assistant.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, angrily, wiping my eyes roughly. ‘Superglue. I also need superglue.’

  I call Joy and apologise for deserting them. I reveal my change of heart. She is gracious and appreciative, despite my abandoning them for such a long time when time of all things is most precious in their lives. I arrive early for the club in Joy’s home, before everyone else turns up, and ask her to give me time alone so that I can set up the conservatory.

  I remove the stationery from the shopping bags, discard the packaging and lay the paper, cards and envelopes out neatly and in line on the table. I place a bunch of fresh flowers and light some candles between the little piles of stationery. I sprinkle petals around the stationery. The room smells of fresh avocado and lime. When I’m finished, I step back. It’s like a papyral sacrificial offering; a handwritten note for a life.

  They’ve all arrived, minus Bert, while I’ve been working, and they wait patiently in the kitchen. It’s taking me longer to set up than I expected. It’s more of a moment than I ever could have imagined, and now that I’m feeling it, I want to make it as good as it can be. I call them all into the room, Joy leading the way. She halts when she sees the display.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, hand going to her chest, her open palm across her heart.