Postscript: The sequel to PS I Love You Read online

  ‘I am,’ I laugh nervously.

  ‘Ever since I started the podcast last year, I’ve been pestering my sister to take part. I’m so glad you’re doing this.’ She reaches across and takes my hand, holds it. ‘Your story has touched my life profoundly, and I’m sure that so many people will benefit from hearing about the journey you’ve been on.’

  ‘Thank you. I hope so.’

  I notice my notes quivering in my hand and I let go of Ciara’s hand to still it.

  ‘“How to Talk about Death” – it’s not an easy topic. We are so comfortable with talking about our lives, about how we are living, about how to live better, that often the conversation about death is an awkward one, and not fully explored. I couldn’t think of anyone else that I would rather have this conversation about grief with. Holly, please tell us how death affected you.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Seven years ago I lost my husband Gerry to cancer. He had a brain tumour. He was thirty years old.’

  No matter how many times I say it, my throat tightens. That part of the story is still real, still burns inside me hot and bright. I look quickly to Sharon for support and she rolls her eyes dramatically and yawns. I smile. I can do this.

  ‘We’re here to talk about grief, so what can I tell you? I’m not unique, death affects all of us, and as many of you here today know, grief is a complex journey. You can’t control your grief, most of the time it feels like it’s in control of you. The only thing you can control is how you deal with it.’

  ‘You say that you’re not unique,’ Ciara says, ‘but everybody’s personal experience is unique and we can learn from one another. No loss is easier than another, but do you think because you and Gerry grew up together that it made his loss more intense? Ever since I was a child, there was no Holly without Gerry.’

  I nod and as I explain the story of how Gerry and I met, I avoid looking at the crowd, to make it easier, as if I’m talking to myself exactly as I rehearsed in the shower. ‘I met him in school when I was fourteen years old. From that day on I was Gerry and Holly. Gerry’s girlfriend. Gerry’s wife. We grew up together, we learned from each other. I was twenty-nine when I lost him and became Gerry’s widow. I didn’t just lose him and I didn’t just lose a part of me, I really felt like I lost me. I had no sense of who I was. I had to rebuild myself.’

  A few heads nod. They know. They all know, and if they don’t know yet, they’re about to.

  ‘Poo poo,’ says a voice from the buggy, before giggling. Sharon hushes her toddler. She reaches into a giant bag and emerges with a strawberry-yoghurt-covered rice cake. The rice cake disappears into the buggy. The giggling stops.

  ‘How did you rebuild?’ Ciara asks.

  It feels odd telling Ciara something she lived through with me and so I turn and focus on the audience, on the people who weren’t there. And when I see their faces, a switch is flicked inside me. This is not about me. Gerry did something special and I’m going to share it on his behalf, with people who are hungry to know. ‘Gerry helped me. Before he died he had a secret plan.’

  ‘Dun, dun, dun!’ Ciara announces to laughter. I smile and look at the expectant faces.

  I feel excitement at the reveal, a renewed reminder of how utterly unique the year after his death was, yet over time its significance has faded in my memory. ‘He left me ten letters, to be opened in the months after his passing, and he signed off each note with “PS, I Love You”.’

  The audience are visibly moved and surprised. They turn to each other and share looks and whispers, the silence has been broken. Sharon’s baby starts to cry. She hushes him and rocks him, tapping on his soother repetitively, a faraway look in her eyes.

  Ciara speaks up over the baby’s grumbling. ‘When I asked you to do this podcast, you were very specific about the fact you didn’t want to concentrate on Gerry’s illness. You wanted to talk about the gift he gave you.’

  I shake my head, firmly. ‘No. I don’t want to talk about his cancer, about what he had to go through. My advice, if you want it, is to try not to fixate on the dark. There is enough of that. I would rather talk to people about hope.’

  Ciara’s eyes shine at me proudly. Mum clasps her hands together tightly.

  ‘The path that I took was to focus on the gift he gave me, and that was the gift that losing him gave me: finding myself. I don’t feel less of a person, nor am I ashamed to say that Gerry’s death broke me. His letters helped me to find myself again. It took losing him to make me discover a part of myself that I never knew existed.’ I’m lost in my words and I can’t stop. I need them to know. If I was sitting in the audience seven years ago, I would need to hear. ‘I found a new and surprising strength inside of me, I found it at the bottom of a dark and lonely place, but I found it. And unfortunately, that’s where we find most of life’s treasures. After digging, toiling in the darkness and dirt, we finally hit something concrete. I learned that rock bottom can actually be a springboard.’

  Led by an enthusiastic Ciara, the audience applauds.

  Sharon’s baby’s cries turn to screams, a high-pitched piercing sound as though his legs are being sawn off. The toddler throws his rice cake at the baby. Sharon stands and throws an apologetic look in our direction before setting off down the aisle, steering the double buggy with one hand while carrying the crying baby in the other, leaving the older two with my mum. As she clumsily manoeuvres the buggy to the exit, she bumps into a chair, mows down bags sticking out into the aisle, their straps and handles getting caught up in the wheels, muttering apologies as she goes.

  Ciara is holding back her next question until Sharon has gone.

  Sharon crashes the buggy into the exit door in an effort to push it open. Mathew, Ciara’s husband, rushes to assist her by holding the door open, but the double buggy is too wide. In her panic, Sharon crashes time and time again into the doorframe. The baby is screaming, the buggy is banging and Mathew tells her to stop while he unlocks the bottom of the door. Sharon looks up at us with a mortified expression. I mimic her earlier expression and roll my eyes and yawn. She smiles gratefully before fleeing.

  ‘We can edit that part out,’ Ciara jokes. ‘Holly, apart from Gerry leaving letters for you after his death, did you feel his presence in any other way?’

  ‘You mean, did I see his ghost?’

  Some members of the audience chuckle, others are desperate for a yes.

  ‘His energy,’ Ciara says. ‘Whatever you want to call it.’

  I pause to think, to summon the feeling. ‘Death, oddly, has a physical presence; death can feel like the other person in the room. The gaps that loved ones leave, the not being there, is visible, so sometimes there were moments when Gerry felt more alive than the people around me.’ I think back to those lonely days and nights when I was caught between the real world and trapped in my mind. ‘Memories can be very powerful. They can be the most blissful escape, and place to explore, because they summoned him again for me. But beware, they can be a prison too. I’m grateful that Gerry left me his letters, because he pulled me out of all those black holes and came alive again, allowing us to make new memories together.’

  ‘And now? Seven years on? Is Gerry still with you?’

  I pause. Stare at her, eyes wide, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I flounder. No words come to me. Is he?

  ‘I’m sure Gerry will always be a part of you,’ Ciara says softly, sensing my state. ‘He will always be with you,’ she says, seeming to reassure me, as if I’ve forgotten.

  Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Dissolved, besprinkled particles of matter around me.

  ‘Absolutely.’ I smile tightly. ‘Gerry will always be with me.’

  The body dies, the soul, the spirit lingers. Some days in the year following Gerry’s death, I felt as though Gerry’s energy was inside me, building me up, making me stronger, turning me into a fortress. I could do anything. I was untouchable. Other days I felt his energy and it shattered me to a million pieces. It was a reminder of what I’
d lost. I can’t. I won’t. The universe took the greatest part of my life and because of that I was afraid it could take everything else too. And I realise that all those days were precious days because, seven years later, I don’t feel Gerry with me at all.

  Lost in the lie I’ve just told, I wonder if it sounded as empty as it felt. Still, I’m almost done. Ciara invites the audience to ask questions and I relax a little, sensing the end is in sight. Third row, fifth person in, tissue squashed and rolled up in her hand, mascara smudged around her eyes.

  ‘Hi, Holly, my name is Joanna. I lost my husband a few months ago, and I wish he had left letters for me like your husband did. Could you tell us, what did his last letter say?’

  ‘I want to know what they all said,’ somebody speaks out, and there are murmurs of agreement.

  ‘We have time to hear them all, if Holly is comfortable with that,’ Ciara says, checking with me.

  I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I haven’t thought about the letters for so long. As a concept I have, but not individually, not in order, not exactly. Where to start. A new bedside lamp, a new outfit, a karaoke night, sunflower seeds, a birthday trip away with friends … how could they understand how important all of those seemingly insignificant things were to me? But the last letter … I smile. That’s an easy one. ‘His final letter read: Don’t be afraid to fall in love again.’

  They cling to that one, a beautiful one, a fine and valiant ending on Gerry’s part. Joanna isn’t as moved as the others. I see the disappointment and confusion in her eyes. The despair. So deep in her grief, it’s not what she wanted to hear. She’s still holding on to her husband, why would she consider letting go?

  I know what she’s thinking. She couldn’t possibly love again. Not like that.

  3

  Sharon reappears in the emptying shop, flustered, with the baby asleep in the stroller and Alex, her toddler, holding her hand, red cheeks and flushed.

  ‘Hello, buster.’ I lean towards him.

  He ignores me.

  ‘Say hi to Holly,’ Sharon says gently.

  He ignores her.

  ‘Alex, say hi to Holly,’ she growls, channelling the voice of Satan so suddenly that both Alex and I get a fright.

  ‘Hi,’ he says.

  ‘Good boy,’ she says ever so sweetly.

  I look at her wide-eyed, always amazed and perturbed by the double personality that the mother role brings out in her.

  ‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a disaster.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I’m so happy you came. And you’re amazing. You always say the first year’s the hardest. A few more months and this little man will be one. You’ve almost made it.’

  ‘There’s another one on the way.’

  ‘What?’

  She looks up, tears in her eyes. ‘I’m pregnant again. I know, I’m an idiot.’

  She straightens up, trying to be strong, but she looks broken. She’s deflated, all wiped out. I feel nothing but sympathy for her, which is an emotion that has increased with each pregnancy reveal as the celebration levels have reduced.

  As we hug we speak in unison. ‘Don’t tell Denise.’

  I feel stressed just watching Sharon as she leaves with the four boys. I’m also exhausted after the nervous tension of today, the lack of sleep last night and from discussing a personal story in depth for an hour. It has wiped me out, but Ciara and I must wait until everybody has left to return the shop floor to the way it was and lock up.

  ‘That was nothing short of wonderful,’ Angela Carberry says, interrupting my thoughts. Angela, a great supporter of the shop who donates her designer clothes, bags and jewellery, is one of the main reasons Ciara can keep Magpie going. Ciara jokes that she thinks Angela buys things for the sole purpose of donating them. She’s dressed stylishly as always, a jet-black bob with a blunt fringe, a bird-like frame, and a set of pearls around her neck over the pussy bow tie on her silk dress.

  ‘Angela, so good of you to come.’ I’m taken aback when she reaches for me and hugs me.

  Over her shoulder, Ciara’s eyes widen at the surprising display of intimacy from this usually austere woman. I feel Angela’s bones beneath her clothes as she hugs me tightly. Not one for impulsive behaviour or physical contact, she’s always seemed quite unapproachable on the occasions she personally delivered boxes of her clothes to the shop, shoes in their original boxes, bags in their original dust covers, telling us exactly where we should display them and how much we should sell them for without expecting a cent in return.

  Her eyes are moist as she pulls away from me. ‘You must do this more often, you must tell this story to more people.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I laugh. ‘This was a one-off, more to silence my sister than anything else.’

  ‘But you don’t realise, do you?’ Angela asks, in surprise.

  ‘Realise what?’

  ‘The power of your story. What you have done to people, how you have reached in and touched every single heart in this room.’

  Embarrassed, I look to the queue that has formed behind her, a queue of people who want to talk to me.

  She grabs my arm and squeezes it, too tightly for my liking. ‘You must tell your story again.’

  ‘I appreciate your encouragement, Angela, but I’ve lived it once and told it once and I’m finished with it all.’

  My words aren’t harsh but there’s a toughness to me that I didn’t expect. An edgy, prickly outer layer that springs into existence in an instant. As though my thorns have pierced her hand, she immediately loosens her grip on my arm. Then, remembering where she is and that there are others who want to speak with me, she reluctantly lets go.

  Her hand is gone, my prickles disappear, but something of her pinching grip stays with me, like a bruise.

  I crawl into bed beside Gabriel, the room spinning after drinking too much wine with Ciara and Mum in Ciara’s flat above the shop until far too late.

  He stirs and opens his eyes, studies me for a moment and then grins at my state.

  ‘Good night?’

  ‘If I ever have any notions to do anything like that again … don’t let me,’ I murmur, eyes fluttering closed and trying to ignore the head spins.

  ‘Agreed. Well, you did it. You’re sister of the year, maybe you’ll get a pay rise.’

  I snort.

  ‘It’s over now.’ He moves close and kisses me.

  4

  ‘Holly!’ Ciara shouts my name again. Her tone has gone from patience to concern to sheer shrill anger. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  I’m in the stockroom behind boxes, perhaps crouched down behind them, perhaps with some clothes draped over the top like a little den. Perhaps hiding.

  I look up and see Ciara’s face peering in.

  ‘What the fuck? Are you hiding?’

  ‘No. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  She throws me a look; she doesn’t believe me. ‘I’ve been calling you for ages. Angela Carberry was looking for you, she was insistent that she speak to you. I told her I thought you’d stepped out for a coffee. She waited for fifteen minutes. You know what she’s like. What the hell, Holly? You made me look like I didn’t even know where my own staff member was, which I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh. Well now you do. I’m sorry I missed her.’ It’s been a month since we recorded the podcast and Angela Carberry’s advocacy for me sharing my story has developed into stalking, in my opinion. I stand up and stretch my legs with a groan.

  ‘What’s going on with you and Angela?’ Ciara asks, worried. ‘Is it something to do with the shop?’

  ‘No, not at all. Nothing to do with the shop, don’t worry. Didn’t she just deliver another bag full of clothes?’

  ‘Vintage Chanel,’ Ciara says, relaxing, relieved. Then she’s confused again. ‘So what is going on? Why are you hiding from her? Don’t think I haven’t noticed – you did the same thing when she came by last week.’

  ‘You’re better with her o
n the floor. I don’t know her. I find her very bossy.’

  ‘She is very bossy, she has a right to be: she’s giving us thousands of euro worth of stuff. I’d display her necklace on my own naked body on a mechanical bull, if that’s what she wanted.’

  ‘Nobody wants that.’ I push past her.

  ‘I’d like to see that,’ Mathew calls from the other room.

  ‘She asked me to give you this.’ She holds out an envelope.

  There’s something about this that makes me uncomfortable. Me and envelopes have a history. It’s not the first time in six years that I’ve opened an envelope, but there is a sense of foreboding about this one. I expect it to be an invitation to speak about grief at a ladies’ lunch or something like it, organised by Angela. She has asked me several times if I’d continue my ‘talk’, or if I’d write a book. With each visit to the shop she has given me a phone number for a speaking events agent, or a contact number for a publishing agent. The first few times I politely thanked her, but on her last visit I shut her down so directly I wasn’t sure if she’d ever come back. I take the envelope from Ciara, fold it and shove it into my back pocket.

  Ciara glares at me. We have a stand-off.

  Mathew appears at the door. ‘Good news. Download statistics reveal ‘How to Talk about Death’ was the most successful episode to date! It had more downloads than all the others put together. Congratulations, sisters.’ He enthusiastically lifts his two hands for high-fives from both of us.

  Ciara and I continue to glower at each other; me angry because her podcast has made me the target of Angela’s almost obsessive attention, her angry that I’m annoying her greatest donator for reasons unknown.

  ‘Ah, far out, don’t leave me hanging.’

  Ciara slaps his raised palm half-heartedly.

  ‘Not what I was expecting,’ he says, looking at me with concern and lowering his hand. ‘I’m sorry, was that insensitive of me? I wasn’t high-fiving Gerry, you know—’