Postscript Page 14

  Her eyes light up.

  ‘What’s his favourite meal?’

  ‘My shepherd’s pie.’

  My. In control in her home. Her home, her kitchen, her place. No room for Joe. ‘How about a recipe and instructions so he can cook your shepherd’s pie? A scrapbook to help him get through domestic hell without you.’

  ‘I like it!’ she exclaims, and claps her hands. ‘It’s exactly what he needs and it’s fun too, he’ll have a laugh, as well as being guided. Holly, that’s perfect!’

  ‘I think I would have benefited from a few less empowering letters from Gerry and more mundane notes about the day-to-day running of things in our life,’ I say smiling. ‘Joy’s Scrapbook … Joy’s Guidelines for Joe?’

  She thinks, smiling and eyes twinkling, enjoying where her mind is travelling. ‘Joy’s Secrets,’ she says finally.

  ‘Joy’s Secrets,’ I repeat, smiling. ‘We have it.’

  We start to make a list of the ideas we have for her scrapbook. Joy begins writing but her hand spasms and she drops the pen, and as she rubs her wrist and arm I take up the gauntlet.

  I wander around her kitchen opening cupboards and taking photographs of the contents while she sits at the table quietly, watching me, constantly pointing things out, offering a tip, a trick, a secret. She is territorial about her home, everything has a place, and a reason for the place. If it doesn’t fit, it goes in the bin. Not a single bit of clutter, labels all facing front neatly. We’re not exactly creating fireworks with Joy’s scrapbook idea, but it’s tailor-made for her life. Just as every relationship and marriage is unique and individual, the embodiment of those two individuals tangled up together, this service is representative of their union and must be bespoke.

  As I move around taking note of everything, I wonder if Gerry did the same thing when thinking of letters for me. Did he observe me and try to figure out what I needed? Was he all the time thinking of his list, enjoying the secret, while I had no idea what was going on in his mind? I’d like to think it calmed him, that in his moments of pain and discomfort he was able to distract himself and go somewhere else, escape into the pleasure of his secret plan.

  I notice Joy’s been quiet for a while and I stop cataloguing the kitchen and check to see if she’s OK.

  ‘I wonder if I could ask one more thing of you,’ she says as I meet her eye.

  ‘Of course.’

  She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and takes out a folded envelope. ‘I have a shopping list here. I wonder if you could help me. All the money is inside, cash, and there’s a list.’ Her fingers tighten briefly on the envelope. ‘I’m sorry to ask. It’s a lot to ask of you. My boys, their wives and our grandchildren. We have a tradition on Christmas Day where Joe and I stand at the head of the room, by the tree and everybody gathers around. Joe pulls a name from a Santa hat and announces the family member and we present them with their gifts. We’ve been doing it for years, our own family tradition.’ Joy’s eyes flutter closed, as if she can see it in her mind’s eye. ‘All the little ones love it. I don’t want them to miss that this year. Joe doesn’t know the little things that they like.’ Her eyes open and with a trembling hand she holds out the envelope.

  I pull a kitchen chair out and sit beside her. ‘Joy, Christmas is six months away.’

  ‘I know. I’m not saying I won’t be here, but I don’t know what state I’ll be in. You know they say that my brain will be in such decline that I will forget to swallow.’ She raises her hand to her throat and squeezes, as if imagining it. ‘The palliative care prepares me for the end, but if I’m planning a future with feeding tubes, then I need to plan not just how I feed myself but how I can continue to feed my family too.’

  I look down at the bulky envelope.

  ‘I know it’s a great imposition, but if you could also wrap and label the gifts for me, I’d like to store them in the attic for Joe to find when he takes down the decorations. As part of Joy’s Secrets,’ she says, too brightly, trying to make it sound easy when it’s not, it’s anything but. Perhaps she’s trying to screen the sadness that pummels beneath, or perhaps she’s genuinely ready for it. I’m learning about this wish for the first time whereas she’s thought about it, envisioned it, imagined it, probably lived the very moment when Joe finds the box over and over again in a dozen different ways. Perhaps she’s keeping it upbeat for me.

  ‘OK,’ I say, my voice coming out as a whisper. I clear my throat. ‘But let’s make a deal, Joy, if you’re able to hand those presents to everybody by yourself, those gifts are coming down before Joe discovers them.’

  ‘Deal,’ she nods. ‘This is a lot to ask of you and I’m grateful, Holly,’ she says, taking my hand. ‘I hope it’s not too much.’

  It’s all too much. Everything. All of the time. And then not at all, sometimes, depending on which version of me wakes up.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I look at her for approval before continuing. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  She seems confused.

  ‘I know why in theory, but I want to understand exactly why. Is it because you’re afraid they’ll forget you? Is it because you don’t want to feel left out? Is it because you don’t want them to miss you?’ I take a breath. ‘Is it more for you or for them? Asking for a friend.’

  She smiles, understanding. ‘Everything you said. Everything and more. I can prepare myself for what lies ahead of me, but can’t let go before it happens. I can’t simply give up. I’m a mother, I’ve always thought ahead for the little ones. And even though they have little ones of their own, I won’t stop thinking ahead. I want them to feel like I’m there with them, and I suppose it’s because I won’t let go yet. I won’t surrender. It’s the only control I have over my life. I don’t know when my last day of quality will be, or my final day for that matter, but I’m going to make sure I’m around for more than my body could hold out for. I want to live and I’m trying everything; medicine, treatments, care, and now letters and lists. I may have lost control of my body, but I can control what happens in my life, and how life can be for others when I’m gone. It’s the last victory I have.’

  As I make my way home, I ponder Joy’s words.

  The last victory.

  Death can’t win. Life lives on.

  Life has roots, and just like a tree in its quest for survival, those roots spread and stretch to find water, they possess the power to lift foundations, uproot anything in their path. Their reach is endless; their very presence has an everlasting effect in some form or another. You can cut a tree down but you cannot kill what it started and all the life that sprung from it.

  To most people, death is the enemy, a thing to be feared. We don’t see it as the pacifier or sympathiser. It’s the inevitable fate we have feared and done our best to avoid by minimising risks, by following the rules of health and safety, and by resorting to every treatment and medicine that might save us. Don’t look death in the eye, don’t let it see you, don’t let it know you’re there; head down, eyes averted; don’t choose me, don’t pick me. By the rules of nature, it is programmed into us that we must root for life to win.

  For so very long in Gerry’s illness, death was the enemy, but as is so often the case for those dealing with a loved one suffering terminal illness, there came a point when my attitude changed and death became the one thing that could offer peace, that could ease his suffering. When the hope of a cure is gone and the inevitable is inevitable, there are moments in long nights spent listening to short ragged breaths when death is invited. Death is welcomed. Take them away from this pain, guide them, help them, be kind and be gentle.

  Even though Gerry was too young to die and he did everything he could to fight it, when he needed to, he turned to death, saw it as a friend and went to it. And I was relieved, grateful to death for taking him from his suffering and embracing him. In a strange and wonderful way, the thing you have avoided, dreaded, feared is right in front of you and it’s bathed in light. Death becomes our saviou
r.

  Life is light, dying is darkness, death is light again. Full circle.

  Death is always with us, our constant companion, in partnership with life, watching us from the sidelines. While we are living, we are also dying; every second spent living is a second closer to the end of our days. The balance inevitably tips. Death is there at our fingertips all the time and we choose not to go to it and it chooses not to take us.

  Death doesn’t push us; death catches us when we fall.

  21

  ‘I’m thinking of hiring volunteers,’ Ciara declares from the other side of the shop.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To help us out. Maybe we need security, there’s too many things going missing lately, we can’t keep an eye on everything and I can’t afford to pay somebody else. People are always asking to help out, they know we give some of the proceeds to charity. And it would help me for when you’ve got hospital appointments, or when Mathew and I are doing collections.’

  A customer at the counter picks up a wallet from the discount tray made up of items that are broken, or aged, too bad condition to offer at full price but too lovely to turn away. She turns it over in her hand.

  ‘Is this real leather?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘For two euro?’

  ‘Yes, everything in the tray is two euro,’ I say, distracted, turning to Ciara. ‘I’ve tried to get the hospital appointments on Mondays, Ciara, but they keep insisting on Fridays, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know, I’m not blaming you. I think it would be helpful for us, that’s all. To keep an extra eye on things, have extra hands.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ the customer says, happily.

  I take the coin and give her a receipt. She leaves the shop.

  ‘And you’re a little … distracted, with not moving in with Gabriel, or currently on speaking terms with Gabriel, not selling your house, helping out with the club, and oh my God I have to sit down, I’m so stressed just thinking about your life right now …’

  ‘I’m not distracted, Ciara,’ I say, snapping. ‘Everything is under control.’

  ‘Well, that’s a lie if ever I heard one,’ she mumbles.

  The bell over the door rings out as a customer arrives. Flustered, she hurries to the cashier’s desk. ‘Hi, I was in here around fifteen minutes ago and I think I left my wallet by the till.’

  My eyes widen.

  Ciara throws me a menacing look. ‘Find. It,’ she says, through gritted teeth.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say, polite but panicked, grabbing my crutches and hobbling out of the shop. I look left and right, see the woman who bought the wallet disappear around the corner and I yell after her.

  That evening, Ginika sits with me at the dining table for our lesson. True to her word, she has immersed herself in learning how to read and write, and has shown an interest in taking a lesson every single day. And though it’s impossible for me to manage a daily meeting with her, she never tires of asking, and I’m inspired by her energy and her desire to learn. She tells me she practises during Jewel’s naptime, when Jewel sleeps at night, while waiting for hospital treatments, she has barely watched TV in two weeks and when she does, it’s with subtitles. I need to match the strength of her determination.

  Jewel sits on Ginika’s left knee, moved as far away from the table as possible, chewing on a teething ring between pulling at her mother’s pencil, the object that is stealing her mother’s attention away from her. Jewel has learned to despise these pencils and papers and knows that in their destruction lies attention from both the women who stop their work to scold her.

  Ginika’s learning ‘OW’ ‘OU’ sounds, along with images. I quickly realised her reading ability sped up when it was accompanied by the visual. Her mind prefers to learn in images, not words, but together they complement each other. All she needed was another way to learn, and more time. Always, more time.

  There are four words in the textbook, she needs to identify the word that doesn’t have the OU/OW sound and circle it. The options are Clown, House, Cloud, Cheese. Cheese is written in yellow with holes through the letters, the ‘o’ in clown resembles a red nose. Hearing OW and House in the same sentence trigger my sensitivities. Ow, indeed. I still haven’t called the estate agent and put a halt to the house sale. After spending so long putting it on the market, it’s taking an equally long amount of time to remove it. Doing so would require focus of thought on my personal life which I’m incapable of right now. My eyes well and I look in the opposite direction, and blink frantically to dispel the tears. When I’ve managed to chase the emotions away, I turn back to her work.

  Ginika and Jewel are both watching me.

  ‘Well done!’ I say, jollily. I turn the page.

  Ginika looks again at the naked wall scarred with holes where the wedding photo used to hang. She hasn’t yet enquired, but I know she’s going to. She’s not one to hold back, always says what she thinks, seeming not to care about the emotion it will evoke in her companion. She seems to think that holding back is for fake people who ‘aren’t real’. I tell her it’s called being polite.

  ‘What happened?’ she finally asks.

  ‘It fell.’

  She raises an eyebrow, not believing me.

  ‘What’s the foster family like?’ I ask tentatively, taking Jewel’s little foot in my hand.

  She groans and shifts in her chair. ‘A woman named Betty takes her for my hospital appointments or when I’ve no energy. She’s got three kids of her own. And a country accent. I don’t want Jewel to have a country accent.’

  I smile at her. ‘You’re not sure?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘I’m sure nobody is going to feel good enough for you.’

  ‘They have to. Somebody will feel good enough. I’m not going until I’ve that at least.’

  The doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone and I don’t have the type of neighbours who call by unannounced. I hope that it’s not Gabriel. I’ve avoided his calls, not because I’m being dramatic but because I’m trying to determine how I feel. Sometimes I think the mind is a petri dish of accumulated information, all mushed together, and if I leave it to stew long enough I might find it doesn’t actually bother me at all, despite the fact it should. I’m waiting for that to happen. But I don’t want to have the conversation with him now and especially not in front of Ginika. Nor do I want to hear his reaction when he discovers that, in addition to guiding people on their letters, I’m teaching them how to write too. It’s one thing to help, it’s another for it to take over your life. And it’s the taking over my life that would be the debate, is the debate.

  I open the door and find Denise, holding a bag wrapped in a dust cover.

  ‘Hey,’ she sings. ‘Just wanted to return the clutch you loaned me.’

  She hands it to me, and steps into the house.

  I look inside. ‘From last year?’

  ‘You should consider yourself lucky,’ she says, going straight into the living room. ‘I was going to keep it. Oh hello,’ she says, seeing Ginika and Jewel. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company.’

  ‘You didn’t ask. Denise this is Ginika. Ginika is a …’ I look at Ginika for permission and she nods ‘… member of the PS, I Love You Club.’

  Denise succeeds in hiding the inevitable sadness she must feel on hearing that. She settles on a gentle smile. ‘Hi, Ginika. Nice to meet you.’ She goes over and hunches down to Jewel’s level. ‘And who is this beautiful girl? Hello!’ She makes all kinds of baby noises and Jewel grins. She offers her teething ring to Denise. ‘Oh thank you very much!’ Denise takes it and pretends to munch on it. ‘Yum yum yum.’

  Jewel giggles.

  ‘You have it back,’ she hands it back to Jewel. Jewel takes it, slobbers on it and hands it back to Denise. Denise repeats the gesture. And this goes on.

  ‘Are you the Denise who had to be rescued in the sea on holiday in Lanzarote?’

  Deni
se grins and flicks her hair. ‘Why yes I am. I was topless in a leopard-print thong. My finest hour.’

  ‘I think I left that detail out of the podcast.’

  ‘She left all the best bits out.’

  Ginika smiles. A rare thing.

  ‘Denise—’

  ‘I’d love to hear about the karaoke night,’ Ginika continues. ‘Was it really as bad as Holly described?’

  ‘Bad? It was worse because I had to listen to it. Holly is as tone deaf as they come.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I clap my hands, trying to get their attention. The only person who takes notice is Jewel, who claps along, her new favourite sport. ‘I’m sorry to break you girls up but we’re in the middle of something very important here, Denise, and Ginika has to leave in an hour.’

  Denise looks at her watch, ‘That’s OK. I can wait. Will I make you both tea or coffee? Coffee for you, munchkin?’ she says to Jewel and tickles her. Jewel dissolves in giggles. ‘Do you want me to mind her while you guys work?’ Denise eyes the papers on the table.

  ‘Oh no,’ Ginika says, tightening her grip around Jewel’s waist. ‘She doesn’t go to anyone but me.’

  ‘Trust me,’ I say, backing her up. ‘She’s all sunshine and light, but as soon as you put her down, the darkness appears.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t believe that,’ Denise says, back on her knees again. ‘Will you come with Denise? Dee Nee? Jewel come to Dee Nee?’

  ‘Dee Nee?’ I ask, amused.

  ‘No, it’s OK, really,’ Ginika says, pulling Jewel away.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask Ginika. I wink at her conspiratorially. ‘Denise really loves babies.’ There is only one way to make Denise shut up and back off and that’s by her experiencing the full force of Jewel.

  ‘Um … OK,’ Ginika says, loosening her grip.

  ‘Yay!’ Denise says, holding her arms up and cheering. Jewel giggles. ‘Yay for Dee Nee!’

  Jewel lifts her arms up in the air. The teething ring slams Ginika in the face. Then she lowers her arms again.