Postscript Page 13

  He has no idea what I’m talking about.

  ‘A shih-tzu. Shit. Zoo.’

  ‘Holly, I don’t … what are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s a joke!’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ He smiles a little, a vague one, and returns his attention to the menu.

  The arrival of the waitress to take our order is the only break in the silence. We order, hand the menus back to the waitress and then he twists his hands and fingers together, fidgeting. And then it occurs to me. He’s nervous. I pour his wine to give him a moment to collect himself, but he seems to get worse as he waits, making trumpet-like sounds as he fills his upper lip with air, then stopping to drum the counter un-rhythmically with his forefingers, before resuming his odd in-out lip movements.

  The waitress brings bruschetta and chopped tomatoes to the table while we wait for our main course. Seemingly relieved to have a new distraction, he turns his attention to the food, busies himself with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, giving it more attention than he ever has before. He starts playing with his food, separating the chopped tomatoes from the tiny pieces of basil, a wall built from crumbs in between, a precarious structure that rises and stumbles. He studies the increasingly interesting bruschetta. Basil to the left, tomatoes to the right. Crumbs down the centre.

  I lean in. ‘What’s going on, Gabriel?’

  He pushes his finger down on the crumbs on his plate, gathering them on his finger, then dusts them off, sprinkling them back to where they were.

  ‘Are you going to act like this the entire time I help the PS, I Love You Club? You don’t even know what I’m doing with them. Do you want to ask some questions? You don’t even know their names.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he says firmly, abandoning the bruschetta and pushing his plate away. ‘It’s Ava.’ He leans in, elbows on the table, hands and fingers pressed together as if in prayer, and rests them over his lips. ‘She wants to move in with me.’

  ‘Move in?’

  He nods.

  ‘With you?’

  Nods again.

  ‘Into the house?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looks confused. Of course, where else would she live?

  My head races. I’m supposed to move into the house.

  ‘She asked me a few weeks ago,’ he says, avoiding my eye, and I realise the reason for his distance. It had nothing to do with the accident, silly Holly, nothing to do with the club, he just let you think it was. So that’s what all those meetings with Kate and Ava were about.

  ‘Wow. Let me guess, you needed some time to think about it yourself first before telling me? This is familiar, isn’t it?’ And yet I feel as angry as he did when he accused me of creeping around behind him.

  He ignores my bait and sticks to the issue at hand. ‘You know there’s been trouble with her and Kate. They’re not getting along.’

  ‘They haven’t gotten along for the two years that I’ve known you.’

  ‘It has gone up a level. Many levels,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It’s like …’ He waves his hands and makes an explosion sound with his mouth.

  His eyes still won’t meet mine. He’s told her yes. It’s already been agreed. So he meant it when he said we’d just do our own thing from now on, without discussing it first. Payback for the club.

  ‘Ava living with you means you being home all the time, getting her up and out of bed, getting her to school on time. Getting her to study. Keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘She’s sixteen, Holly, not six.’

  ‘She doesn’t get out of bed, she wouldn’t go to school if she wasn’t dragged in every day, you told me that. She’ll want to go to a party every weekend. You’ll have to speak to parents, get to know her friends, collect her in the early hours of the morning, or sit up waiting for her.’

  ‘I know, I’m not an idiot, I know how to be a dad,’ he says firmly. ‘I told her I need to speak with you first before finalising everything, but then there was the accident and lately you’ve been … busy every time I call.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I sigh. There’s so much I have to tell him, about Bert, about Ginika, my secret life that he’s had no part of but only because I’ve felt like it’s off limits. Talk of it before angered him. ‘Look, it’s fine with me. She’s your daughter, I’m happy for you that this is happening, I know it’s important to you. I’m OK with her moving in with us, as long as you know what you’re getting yourself into.’

  He looks at me then, finally eye contact, his expression soft and apologetic. ‘You see, that’s the thing.’

  It slowly dawns on me.

  Ava is moving in instead of me.

  ‘She needs me.’ He places his hand on my forearm, holds me tightly. I want to spear his hand with my pasta fork. ‘I can’t turn my back on her after waiting so long for Ava to come to me for help. Kate and Finbar are getting married. She can’t stand Finbar. She hates being in the house. She’s all over the place, messing up at school, failing exams, partying. I’m afraid I fucked her up and I need to fix it.’

  My heart pounds.

  He tries a gentler, more apologetic tone. ‘Ava and I need space to figure it out and find our way together. If the three of us were living together during this transition, it would be too much for us all.’

  ‘So how long will this transition take, do you think?’

  He shakes his head and looks to the distance, as if calculating the required transitional days in his virtual mind calendar.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe the best thing would be to wait until she finishes school. I think,’ he adds quickly before I bellow, ‘that I need to help her through school. And then when she’s calmed down and starts university, you and I can do what we like. You and I have lived like this for two years already, we can keep going as we were. It works this way for us, too, doesn’t it?’ He reaches for my hands, squeezes them.

  I free my hands, frustrated by his grip. ‘Two years,’ I say, looking at him in surprise. ‘Two years? I’m selling my house to live with you. You’ve been asking me for the past six months. It was your idea!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ It’s obvious from his pained expression that he doesn’t want to do this to me, and I don’t want to blame him for this situation. Any dad would do the same; choose their child over everything. But this is really screwing up my plans.

  ‘Maybe two years is too long. Maybe one year is more reasonable,’ he says, trying to keep it calm.

  ‘One year?’ I splutter. ‘What if I get an offer on the house tomorrow, where am I supposed to go? I need to make a plan. Do I search for a new place? Can I even afford one? Should I take if off the market? I mean, Jesus—’ I run my hands through my hair, suddenly realising the logistical nightmare I’m in. And of all the things I think of, I think of the holes in my wall that I now have to fix when I thought they would be someone else’s problem. Of all the things, I even have to fix my own mistakes.

  ‘Holly,’ he says, his hand brushing my cheek. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I need some time to help Ava settle. The rest of my life will be with you.’

  I close my eyes. I tell myself he is not sick, he is not dying. Plans change. That’s life. But I can’t process this.

  ‘I thought you might be a bit relieved to hear this.’

  ‘Why the hell would I be relieved?’

  ‘Because of this club you’re involved with. You’ve barely had time for me.’

  The waitress interrupts. ‘Are you finished here?’

  Oh yes. I am.

  She clears the table in a tense silence as we stare at each other, and then she hurries away.

  I twist in my chair and lean over awkwardly to pick up my crutches. I can’t reach them. I strain my side and my fingers fumble on the ground to feel for them.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to leave very fucking fast, but I fucking well can’t,’ I say through gritted teeth. I fumble again for the crutches, my fingers brush the handle but I push it away by mistake. ‘For fuck sake!’ I sn
ap. The table to the right look at me. I ignore them.

  Gabriel bends down to help.

  ‘I don’t want your help,’ I mumble. But I need it. He passes the crutches across to me, but as I take hold of one end, he keeps his grip on the crutch, holding me there, playing tug of war with a crutch.

  ‘Holly,’ he says passionately, ‘I’m not ending us. I need to hold back on the bigger plans for a while, that’s all.’

  ‘What are the bigger plans?’ I ask, interested now, raising my voice louder than I should. ‘Are we going to get married, Gabriel? Are we going to have a baby? Just so I know what I’m sitting on my ass and waiting two years for.’

  The anger in him rises, but he keeps his voice low. ‘The two years, as I said, is open for discussion. I’m trying to be honest with you. I’m trying to deal with the child I actually have. I think we can talk about that another time, don’t you?’

  It’s a funny moment to realise I want a child with him, and that I was hoping for so much more from this relationship. That two years longer places a panicked pressure on me and my body and my mind in a way that I never felt before. I’ve instantly lost something I didn’t even know I wanted. It’s being dangled in front of me, all of a sudden, this thing I hadn’t previously realised that I want, only to reveal that I may not have it.

  I awkwardly manoeuvre my way through the tables and chairs, my crutches getting caught on chair legs, people having to move out of the way so I can get by. It is anything but a graceful exit.

  Perhaps he’s done me a favour, perhaps we are better off cleaning up our messes alone. Ava back in his life, exactly as he wanted. And in a way, Gerry is back in mine. My life is so full, I think angrily, maybe there’s no room for Gabriel any more.

  20

  I sit with Joy in her kitchen. We are alone, for the first time. Sunlight streams through the patio doors casting light on the table and floor. I’m bathed in scorching sun while the rest of the kitchen is in darkness. The dog lays in the sunlight, hogging the heat, curled in a ball, ears pricked, watching outside, occasionally sitting up and growling when a bird lands on his garden.

  ‘Ginika tells me you’ve been spending a lot of time with her,’ Joy says, stirring the peppermint teabag in the pot.

  ‘We’ve met four times in the past two weeks. Has she told you what we’re doing?’ I wonder how secret these letters are supposed to be, if in sharing the concept with the group makes it less of a treasure for their loved ones. Bert had been open and confident to share his ‘quiz’ with them in the early stages but I don’t know if the finalised contents are sacred. I recall how Joy had taken to the altar at Angela’s funeral to lead the presentation, but it is unclear to me how involved they wished to be in each other’s gestures. I’ve witnessed the support group as a sharing of ideas, an encouragement and way to lift one another up on each other’s shoulders, then they part and think, return and share again. Perhaps my arrival to the club has meant that I am the one who is the sounding board and keeper of the secrets.

  ‘No,’ Joy shakes her head. ‘Ginika likes her privacy. She’s quiet, but formidable.’

  ‘She is,’ I agree. ‘She chooses her moments and when I least expect it, she lands a clanger.’

  ‘She does,’ Joy laughs. ‘She’s a smart girl. A wonderful mother. I don’t think I’d have had the gall to do what she does at sixteen, and alone.’

  ‘I don’t think I do now.’

  She smiles. ‘You’ve been through it, Holly.’

  ‘Nothing made me feel more like a charlatan than being called a hero for surviving someone else’s death. Gerry was the one that suffered.’

  ‘Everyone suffers,’ she says gently.

  We leave a silence. She tries to grip the teapot to lift it and I see how she struggles. I place a hand over hers to stop her, and take over. Silent, she withdraws her hand and rubs at her wrist, a motion I’m familiar with.

  ‘And you, Joy, how are you?’

  ‘My condition, you mean?’

  ‘I mean everything. You’ve been so thoughtful at organising everybody else, you make me forget that you are suffering too.’

  She takes a moment, and I wonder if it’s to decide how much to tell me. ‘What do you know about Multiple Sclerosis?’

  ‘I know that it’s a neurological condition, but that it’s different for everybody.’

  She nods. ‘MS is a progressive disease of the nervous system. It can cause a variety of symptoms, which may continue or worsen as the disease progresses. Fatigue, walking difficulties, changes in brain function, vision, depression, mood swings. There’s no cure. Not currently. Just palliative care, which helps prepare us for what lies ahead in the end stage.’

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘Muscle spasms, nerve pain. Antidepressants for the neuro-pain spasms. I hate taking drugs, I never even used to take headache tablets. I do physiotherapy for the muscle spasms.’

  ‘You were diagnosed nine years ago,’ I say, looking at the dog and remembering how his age represented the time of her diagnosis.

  ‘Yes, and you’re right, MS is different for everyone, Holly. Someone can be stable for long periods of time. I was convinced I was fine even after diagnosis, that it was manageable, that my life wouldn’t change, but then it advances and comes back with a stronger force. The stick helps me for the time being, but we have that on standby.’

  I look across to the folded wheelchair by the door.

  I reach out and hold her hand. ‘I’m sorry we’ve lost time, Joy, but I’m here for you now, what can I do for you? How can I help you?’

  ‘Oh, Holly, you being here is a gift to us all. You have re-energised us, given us a goal. Spending time with each of us and listening to us, and guiding us is more precious than you’ll ever know, and you wouldn’t be human if you didn’t need time to think about it. I don’t think we considered how life-altering asking you to be involved would be. I hope we haven’t up-ended everything for you, have we?’ she asks, her brow furrowing.

  ‘Any problems I have are all my own doing.’ My smile twists, thinking of Gabriel.

  ‘Angela was a very resilient woman,’ Joy says. ‘She was convinced she could achieve anything she put her mind to and getting you on board was a mission she took on with gusto. I only hope I didn’t take up her challenge too selfishly.’

  I agree, remembering how Angela had gripped my arm so tightly at the charity shop, her eyes boring into mine as she urged me to continue telling my story as if her life depended on it.

  ‘The last thing you need to worry about is my life,’ I say brightly. ‘So, more importantly, have you decided what to write in your letters?’

  ‘I think about them all the time but I’m no closer to knowing what to do. My boys will be OK, they have wives, families. My main concern is Joe. I’m worried about him. He’ll be lost.’

  I recall him fumbling around the kitchen on the first day I met him, trying to locate simple items, being hit on the head by a broom in search of milk. I try to imagine his home without his wife at the helm; despite his years living here, to him it will seem an alien environment filled with mysterious storage spaces.

  ‘I’ve noticed he’s a little lost domestically,’ I say, as tactfully as I can.

  Joy surprises me with laughter. ‘You’ve noticed that already in the short time you’ve spent here. The children always tease him, but I take full responsibility for him being “lost domestically”. I’m sure we seem very old fashioned to you,’ she says, smiling. ‘My sons are equal in everything in their homes, and with their children. But Joe and I always liked the way we are. While he was at work, this was my territory. I was never good at sharing. I wash and clean his clothes, iron, make the dinners, do the food-shopping, cook, everything. I never used to let him do anything – not that he tried, because he had no interest. Since he retired, he’s been under my feet. He means well, but it takes him a lifetime to find anything.’ She grabs my arm, and leans in conspiratorially. ‘Don’t tell him, but some
times when the pain is bad and I can’t stand it, I ask for things that I know he’ll take an age to find just so I can have some peace and to make him stop fussing. God forgive me.’

  We laugh, a clandestine pair.

  She ponders. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told us about your letters from Gerry, about them not being reminders of death but about how they enabled you. I want to give Joe a boost after I’m gone. We’re not sentimental, Joe and I. I don’t think slushy mushy love letters will be what he wants. I’ve tried to write them …’ She shudders. ‘It’s not our style. If anything, he’ll think I must have lost my marbles. I want him to read them and feel as though it’s me. But I’m not a writer, Holly,’ she shakes her head. ‘I don’t have the imagination.’

  ‘Gerry wasn’t a writer either, believe me, but he was thoughtful. He knew me, he understood me, and that’s all you need. I think you need to imagine Joe’s life from his perspective and then try to decipher what gesture or words of comfort can make his tough times easier. We’ll think of something, don’t worry,’ I say, mind wandering.

  I recall how useless I felt after Gerry’s death when the heating broke down in the house or a bulb went. It’s not that I was incapable, it’s that we all have our duties in a household. We find our niche and we stay in it, and often, in the everyday busy-ness of life, we’re unaware of what role the other plays, exactly what it is they do. In the case of Gerry and me, I always felt I was doing more than him, the same internal argument over and over. Only when he was gone did I realise the gaps, the extra things that I had never done and didn’t know how to do. The phone numbers I didn’t know, the codes, the accounts. Little things, normal, mundane, everyday acts that aided the flow of life. A Rentokil account. The Sky customer password. The phone number for a plumber. We each had our roles and Joy’s role is changing considerably, of great consequence to Joe. I sit up, feeling inspired.

  ‘You don’t want grandiose declarations of love, so what if your letters were simple but effective? Guidelines for Joe. A map of where everything is in the kitchen. A list of what’s in the cupboards. Where the ironing board is, how to iron his shirts.’