I can feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I’m not surprised. Messages have been coming in thick and fast on Kayla’s Help Fund Me page. She was replying to them all herself at first, but she’s been so tired the last few days I couldn’t not help when she asked me to keep replying to some.
‘Please,’ she said, her eyes bloodshot with tiredness but dancing with excitement. ‘I really want to make sure we thank absolutely everyone who donates. No matter how big or small the donation. I want everyone to know how much we appreciate their help.’
I didn’t reply at first. I couldn’t find the right words.
‘Aiden is helping as much as he can,’ she said. ‘He’s staying up half the night to reply to people. But he can’t have his phone in school. There’s a backlog of people donating during the day who aren’t getting messages back from us.’
‘Okay,’ I said without having to think about it. ‘Of course, I’ll help.’
I can only imagine how upset Heather would be if she knew I was still involved. She wanted to shut the whole page down after the fiasco at Sports Day. She was hurt and embarrassed. But Kayla had worked too hard to let Heather’s pride get in the way. Besides, Jack told her in no uncertain terms that while she’s entitled to refuse the donation, she couldn’t shut down the page. Only the administrator could do that – and the administrator is Kayla. Well, and me, of course. But that’s Kayla’s and my little secret. For now, at least.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and get ready to reply to some of the messages.
‘Lisa in Wisconsin wrote,’ I read aloud. ‘What an amazing girl you are, Kayla. Your mom must be so proud. I only wish I could give more.’
There are more messages than I can count as I scroll down. And they’re coming in from all over the world. Mandy in New York says, ‘I think I’ll have to fly to Ireland to get me some of these buns. Kayla you are a hero.’
Anonymous in Perth simply says, ‘Good work.’
I’m replying as fast as my fingers can type. I thank everyone, adding emojis and kisses. But I pause when I come to Dermot in Leitrim’s message. Dermot has donated twenty euro. His donation is number 63,432 and his donation has brought us to target. I can’t wait to tell Kayla. I think about texting her now so the message is there for her to see in the morning. But I stop myself. I’d much rather tell her in person. This is so exciting. Kayla will be over the moon.
My eyes scroll down on the screen. Dermot has left a message too. It reads: ‘Everyone will miss you so much when you’re gone, Kayla.’
I pause. My hands are shaking and my fingers won’t cooperate as I try to thank Dermot for his kindness. Because I realise Dermot is right. Everyone will miss Kayla more than words can say. I’ve spent so long worrying about Gavin and Molly and how they will cope without Kayla I forgot to allow myself time to accept that I can’t bear to lose her either. I just can’t bear it.
Loud angry sobs shake and rattle my whole body and I don’t bother to fight them or hold them in.
‘Mammy,’ Molly says, waking.
‘Um-hmm.’
‘Why are you crying?’ she asks.
I think about wiping my eyes and I think about lying. I think about telling Molly that I have a cold. Or that the wind caught my eyes. But I don’t. I simply say, ‘Because I’m sad, Molly. I’m very, very sad.’
‘But it’s nearly Christmas,’ Molly says, and I turn over my shoulder to find my little girl smiling at me with such innocence and warmth in her heart. I know she’ll be okay.
‘Yes, sweetheart. It nearly is.’
My phone vibrates in my hand and I glance down at the screen expecting another heartfelt message from a donating stranger. I’m surprised to find Gavin’s name flashing up on screen.
‘Hello,’ I say, pressing the phone to my ear.
‘Where are you?’ Gavin whispers.
‘I’m in the car.’
‘Are you driving?’
‘No. No, I’m home. I’m sitting in the driveway. Listen, Gavin, I have the best news to share with Kayla. Is she still awake?’ I ask.
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
‘Gavin.’
I take my phone down from my ear and stare at the screen, wondering if the line has gone dead. But the light is on and the call is still active. I hold my phone back. I can hear heavy breathing.
‘Gavin are you there?’ I ask again.
‘She’s gone, Charlie.’
‘What?’
‘Kayla’s gone.’
Fifty-Five
Heather
Three days later
I stand in front of the antique, free-standing mirror in the guest bedroom in Gavin’s house. A reflection I barely recognise stares back at me. I see a thin woman, with big black circles under her red puffy eyes. This woman needs to dye her roots and maybe wear some make-up. And she needs to change out of the pyjamas she’s been wearing for three days straight. This woman doesn’t belong in this room. She’s not even sure she belongs in this world anymore.
I hate this woman. I turn away so I can’t see her. I never really took the time to stop and look around the room that I’ve been sleeping in before now. Previously it was just somewhere to lay my head when I was too exhausted to go on. I’d fall into the bed late at night, sometimes without even bothering to turn on the light, or undress. And I would get up again the next morning and leave the room within a moment of waking in my rush to get to the hospital. But there is no more rushing. Time is standing still now.
The bedroom is decorated to be calm and soothing. There are cream walls, cream carpet, cream curtains with a spiral pattern in duck-egg blue. There’s a duck-egg-coloured satin throw on the end of the bed, too. It’s all very elegant and charming – very Charlotte.
There’s a gentle knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ I find myself saying. Even though what I really want to say is, Go away. Please, please go away.
The door creaks open and Gavin’s head appears followed reluctantly by the rest of him. He’s tall and handsome in his dark suit but his eyes are red and puffy like mine.
‘They’re asking if we have a photo we’d like to use in the church,’ Gavin says.
‘They’re asking?’ I echo. I know he means the funeral directors but he can’t bring himself to say it.
‘Aiden has some really lovely ones on his phone. All very recent. Maybe we could use one of those,’ Gavin suggests.
‘Yeah. Okay. Whatever,’ I say.
‘People are starting to arrive,’ Gavin says. ‘Some of your neighbours from Cork are here. They’re asking for directions to the church.’
‘Have they never heard of Google Maps,’ I snap. ‘Sorry. Sorry. I don’t mean that. People are good to come. I’ll be down soon.’
‘Do you need any help?’ Gavin looks at my favourite black pencil dress hanging on the wardrobe door. ‘I can ask Charlotte to come in.’
The knot of Gavin’s tie is slightly different to usual. Chunkier, less symmetrical. I can only imagine Charlotte had to tie it for him. If his hands are shaking even a fraction as badly as mine there’s no way he’d have managed alone.
Gavin takes a deep breath. ‘I can still feel her,’ he says, ‘around me, you know. It’s as if she’s at home in Cork with you and I’ll see her at the weekend. And then suddenly reality hits me. And…’
I don’t have words. I wonder if I should hug Gavin, but my feet seem cemented to the spot and even if I tried to walk over to him, I don’t think I could.
‘Aiden’s here too. With his parents. They arrived a few minutes ago,’ Gavin says, pulling himself together again, as if changing the subject somehow helps him.
‘Okay,’ I say, glancing at my dress hanging on the wardrobe door. I know that I have to put it on and face today but I desperately want to stay in my pyjamas and never face the world again. ‘Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be down in a few minutes.’
Gavin nods and slowly closes the door and I fall to the floor, my heart
in a million tiny pieces.
Fifty-Six
Heather
In the churchyard people shake my hand and tell me they are sorry for my troubles. As if Kayla is a favourite handbag I’ve misplaced. Or an expensive watch that’s been broken.
‘How are you doing?’ people ask.
I answer them. But I honestly have no idea what I say. Maybe I lie and tell them that I’m okay. Or maybe I open my mouth and no sound comes out at all. I really don’t know.
I feel a hand on my back and someone guides me inside. Kayla’s coffin is in front of the altar. It’s white with shiny purple handles. I didn’t choose it. Gavin must have. There are photos of Kayla framed on top. There’s one of her on her last birthday. She’s smiling so brightly after getting a new phone she’d been pestering me about for ages. There’s another that must have been taken just days ago. She’s gaunt and pale but her blue eyes still sparkle and her personality shines through. Of course, there is one of her in her basketball gear, and she has a shiny medal around her neck. I haven’t seen most of these before. Aiden must have had them on his phone. I hope he’ll share the rest of his photos with me. I’d love to see them all.
Gavin shuffles into the seat beside me and the church begins to fill with people. It isn’t long before it’s heaving with friends and family from both Dublin and Cork. I see the school principal and a lot, if not all, of the teachers. Kayla’s old teachers from primary school are here too. The students are all here in their uniform and sit to the side of the church to form the choir. They whisper among themselves as teenagers do. Some are crying. Some are simply talking and some look bored as if they’d rather be anywhere else. I doubt they realise I would most certainly rather be anywhere else too. Kayla’s close friends wear their regular clothes and are dotted among the congregation. Most sit with their parents in silence with their heads low and their hearts breaking.
Kayla’s favourite song begins and Gavin takes my hand and whispers, ‘It’s time to say goodbye.’
I close my eyes and think about the day I told Gavin he was going to be a father. I didn’t know then that I was giving him the most wonderful gift in the world and that our daughter would make us so incredibly happy for fifteen amazing years.
‘Hello,’ a shaky voice I recognise says. I open my eyes to find a very dapper Aiden in a fine tailored suit standing next to Kayla’s coffin with a piece of paper in his hand.
There’s some shushing and some coughing from the huge crowed crammed into every nook and cranny of the church. And then there is silence and I know all eyes are on Aiden.
‘My name is Aiden. I am… er… I was…’ Aiden says, before he pauses and clears his throat. He’s shaking but he’s doing well to hold back tears. ‘I am Aiden and Kayla is my best friend. She’s asked me to read this letter to you all.’
Aiden shakes his head and lowers the page. This is too much for him. Too hard. His teary eyes find mine and I nod, encouraging him, letting him know without words that it’s okay to stutter or cry or even fall completely apart, but he needs to read Kayla words. She trusted him. And no one else. She needs him now. She needs him one final time.
Aiden nods, and pulls himself a little straighter as he steps closer to her coffin.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘This is from Kayla. They are her words.’
He takes a deep breath and begins.
As you know I can’t be with you all today. I’m a little busy being dead. Funeral humour – sorry. Anyway, because I can’t speak myself I’ve asked my best friend, Aiden, to read this to you all. Thank you, Aiden. Try to keep it together, man. Pretend this is English class and you’re after an A for public speaking. Mrs Quinn, if you’re here, I think you should give Aiden an A this year. This eulogy business is hard! I’m finding writing it tricky, I can’t imagine how hard it must be to stand in front of you all now and read it.
So, here goes…
When I found out that there was nothing more the doctors could do, I began to think about my funeral. Well, actually, that’s not exactly true. The first thing I did was cry and freak out. Because it just seemed so unfair that I had no control over my own life. But I slowly realised that I had control over my last goodbye. So, this might be a little long-winded or go off point, but please bear with me. It’s the very last time I’ll have a chance to speak to you all and I have a lot to say.
I know this is a little weird. People told me that writing your own eulogy is not what normal people do. You’re right, everyone, it’s not normal. But neither is dying at fifteen – yet here I am. And you know what I say? I say, fuck normal. Sorry, Father Clancy – I’m not sure if you’re allowed to curse in mass. Also, sorry, Aiden if reading that part out loud has just gotten you in trouble.
I bet right now my mam is blushing because I’ve just mortified her with my bad language in front of all these people. But if you look over at my mam I hope you see the black dress that she’s wearing – I know the one. It’s her pencil dress with a silver zip up the back. She likes it because it makes her look smart for her work meetings. But she doesn’t know that I like it too. But it’s not the dress, I like, it’s the way she feels when she’s wearing it. It’s her smart dress. My mam is smart – always. This dress just reminds her of that. I hope you’re feeling smart today, Mam. You’re the most amazing mother. You made me. Shaped me. Hugged me when I needed to feel you close. Corrected me and gave advice when I made silly mistakes, and most of all you taught me how to be loved and how to love. I’m so incredibly grateful for the gift of our relationship. Every kid should be lucky enough to have a mother like you. I love you.
Dad. Hey, you. Are you wearing your grey suit with your blue tie? I hope so. The blue brings out your eyes. The same eyes you gave to me. The same eyes that see me. Know me. Seem to understand me even when I don’t understand myself. Thank you for everything. Thank you for getting drunk when you were eighteen and sleeping with Mam. Again – apologies, Father Clancy! And Aiden. Oh, don’t try to play it cool, Aiden. I know you’re blushing. Sorry!
I love you, Dad. And Charlotte. And Molly. Little Molly. I adore you – do you know that? Do you know that you are the best little sister in the whole wide world? No one can sing Beyoncé like you. No one can hula-hoop like you. Or wear a tutu and a tiara quite like you. And no one can own a piece of my heart like you.
I’m so sorry I won’t be around as you grow up. I’m sorry that I won’t get to read the rest of Fantastic Mr Fox with you. You have to keep reading it by yourself now. I know you can. The ending is sooo good. Trust me. Mr Fox had courage when he needed it most. Be like Foxy, my beautiful little sister. Find your strength.
Aiden. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Or at my wooden box like that. ’Cos I know that’s where you’re eyes are wandering to. We talked about this. We knew my time was up. Get your arse out there and get yourself a girlfriend. You’re a catch, just because you are my best friend and it would have been super weird to kiss you doesn’t mean I didn’t think about it. There I admit it. I will miss you. A lot. But I’m also expecting you to cop on and talk to Sarah in our science class to tell her you like her. Oh, and if Sarah is here… By the way, Aiden likes you. Oh, what, Aiden? I’ve just done you a favour, trust me. Sarah, take good care of him. He’s in need of a new best friend.
At this point, I want to say something really intelligent and profound to make my English teacher proud, although profound is a pretty big word so maybe I can get some points for effort with that. But, as it turns out, words don’t really matter in the end. I bet most of you have fallen asleep listening to this already. To be fair, I started writing this yesterday and I’ve come back after some sleep, drugs and jelly that was yellow and smelt like wee. Heads up – if you’re ever in hospital and they offer you jelly, don’t eat it.
So, all I really want to say is: live your best life. Live it every single day. Don’t make bucket lists you won’t stick to. Don’t feel you need to jump out of a plane or bungee jump into a canyon. If living your best lif
e is simply going for a walk with your dog every day – do that. If living your best life is drinking white wine that you haven’t bothered to chill. Do that. Hug your family. When you’re finished telling your family how much they annoy you, be sure to tell them how much you love them, too. And every morning when you wake up, take a big, deep breath and be grateful for the air in your lungs. Don’t just be alive. Live. I did.
Aiden lowers the page as everyone claps and he bursts into tears and hurries down the centre aisle to slide into the seat beside his mother. Mary wraps her arms around him and cradles him close.
‘Thank you, Aiden,’ Father Clancy says, beginning the mass.
But I’m not listening. I run my hands over my favourite black dress – Kayla’s favourite – and I make a promise to my daughter to live.
Fifty-Seven
Charlotte
Christmas Day
Molly bounds into our bedroom with squeals of excitement.
‘Santa came. Santa came,’ she says.
I open my reluctant eyes and try to shake myself awake. I have no idea what time it is but it’s still dark outside. My eyes adjust to the light shining in through the open door from the landing. I roll over to find Gavin is already sitting up and I wonder if he’s been asleep at all. He’s been so restless the last few nights. I know Christmas is weighing heavy on him.
‘Get up. Get up,’ Molly commands as she climbs into bed beside me. I yelp when she puts her icicle toes on the backs of my calves.
‘Okay. Okay,’ Gavin says, throwing back the duvet on his side and sliding his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up.
‘Come on. Come on!’ Molly shouts, unimpressed that I’m not moving as quickly as Gavin. ‘Ugh,’ she grunts, climbing out of bed again.
The Forever Gift Page 27
