Paul folds his arms and his jaw works as the emotion takes over. His eyes survey the display. Ginika holds on tightly to Jewel in her arms.
Joy reaches out to touch the pages, she walks along the edge of the table, fingertips trailing the tips of the pages. She picks one up, feels it, places it down again. It’s hypnotic, watching her. Paul and Ginika don’t move, don’t dare distract her. It’s a moment. Then suddenly Joy lets out a sob and dissolves. We all rush to her and Paul gets to her before I do, she falls against him, weak in his arms. I stand back, shaken. Then Ginika too steps forward and wraps her free arm around Joy. Paul widens his arm and welcomes them into his embrace.
Tears prick my eyes.
They’re running out of time, but they’re running out of time together.
When they break up, they wipe their eyes, laughing, embarrassed, and blow their noses.
Ginika moves closer to the table. ‘Which one do you like, Jewel?’ She lowers herself to a level where Jewel can reach the paper. Jewel looks at the table, at all the pretty colours and reaches her hands out, kicks her feet excitedly at something new. She reaches for the pink, bangs her hand on the surface as though playing a drum. Then she quickly grabs the paper and crumples it, raises it high in the air, shakes it up and down.
Ginika grins. ‘You like that?’
Jewel lowers the paper from above her head and studies it, eyes wide. She crumples it in her hand, curiously feeling its texture.
‘We’ve chosen ours,’ Ginika says, confidently.
‘Job done,’ Paul says, ‘Well done, Jewel.’
It’s only paper, but it’s not. They’re only words, but they’re not. We’re only here for such a short time, the paper will outlive us all, it will scream, shout, roar, sing our thoughts, feelings, frustrations, and all the things that go unsaid in life. The paper will act as a messenger for their loved ones to read and hold; words from a mind, controlled by a beating heart. Words mean life.
17
I set up the books and papers that I have bought in preparation for Ginika’s first reading and writing lesson. I’m nervous. I’m not a teacher. I have always felt I’ve absorbed more from others than I’ve given. I’ve researched as much as I could about adult literacy, and the best books to help teach the early stages of reading. But that advice is for a beginner, I know that Ginika may have dyslexia from her own personal explanation, and for that I am completely unqualified. I don’t know the practices, tricks and tools to give her, and I would assume a test to learn her levels is the most responsible way to go. She has a year at most to learn what children learn over a few years, but I’ve given her my word.
My phone rings and I check the caller ID. I guess it’s Ginika cancelling and I’m almost hoping for that. Instead it’s Gabriel.
‘Shit.’
I watch it ringing, consider ignoring it and then decide that will be worse.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi.’
Silence.
‘It’s been a week. I miss you. I don’t like arguing, you and I never argue.’
‘I know. I miss you too.’
‘Can I come over?’ he asks again.
‘Oh. Um. Now?’
‘Yeah. You at home?’
‘Yes, but …’ I squeeze my eyes shut knowing this won’t go down well. ‘I’d love to see you, but I’ve made arrangements with someone, they’re coming over in a few minutes.’
‘Who?’
‘You don’t know her, her name’s Ginika.’
‘From the club?’
‘Yeah.’
He’s silent. ‘OK,’ he says tightly. ‘Call me when you can.’ He ends the call.
I sigh. One step forward, two steps back.
Ginika arrives at 8 p.m., with Jewel in her arms and a baby bag across her body. Jewel gives me a beautiful smile.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ I say, taking her tiny soft fingers. I welcome them into my home, leading them from the hall, through the living room to the dining room, but Ginika stops in the living room.
‘You have a nice house,’ she says, looking around.
I stand at the table, hinting at her to sit, but she takes her time nosily looking around. Her eyes rest on the framed wedding photos of Gerry and me on the wall.
‘It’s not usually so tidy, but I’m selling the house. I’ve everything hidden away, so don’t open a cupboard or my entire life will topple out.’
‘That’s Gerry,’ she says.
‘That’s him.’
‘He’s handsome.’
‘He was. And he knew it. Best-looking boy in the class,’ I say, smiling. ‘I met him in school.’
‘I know, when you were fourteen,’ she says, continuing to study his photograph. Her eyes move to the single framed photograph of Gabriel and me, on the mantelpiece.
‘Who’s he?’
‘My boyfriend, Gabriel.’
I stalled the house viewings during the two weeks while I recuperated but this week viewings have resumed. I usually remove all the photographs when prospective buyers are visiting the house. I’m private by nature, despite spilling my experiences of grief over a podcast, and prefer not to have people snooping through my personal items. If Ginika is this invasive before my very eyes, then I can’t imagine what people do when I’m not here. I make a note to hide more things in better places.
‘He’s different,’ she says, her eyes moving from Gabriel to Gerry.
‘Polar opposites,’ I agree, joining her in the living room, sensing she’s going to take her time.
She examines Gabriel closely, then her eyes run slowly over Gerry. Comparison is natural, I suppose, I’m not the only one who does it.
‘In what way?’
I’m not in the mood to analyse Gabriel right now. ‘Gabriel’s much taller,’ I say with a sigh.
‘That’s it?’ She arches an eyebrow.
‘And older.’
‘Moving.’ Dissatisfied with my response, she looks around to continue her inspection.
‘It’s late,’ I say, leading her to the dining table again. ‘When does Jewel sleep?’
‘When we get home.’
‘That will be late,’ I say, concerned.
‘We always go to bed at the same time.’
‘Do you want to put her down while we work? I can get a blanket. She’s not crawling yet, is she?’
‘No. I have a baby mat in my bag but she’s OK for the time being.’
Gabriel noticed during our first dates that I kept my jacket on when I was nervous. He said he knew he could stop worrying about me leaving as soon as my jacket came off. I never noticed that, I always thought I was just cold, that my body needed a moment to adjust to the restaurant’s temperature, but he was right, it was my need to adjust to the entire situation. We had to work towards that first reveal, which I suppose is how relationships go; at some point you both feel safe enough to remove a layer, reveal a little more. For Ginika, I can see that Jewel is her jacket, her security blanket. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her in her arms and never with a buggy.
She expertly removes her baby bag from across her body while holding Jewel and walks slowly towards the dining table, eyeing it distrustfully as if it’s a ticking time bomb. I can tell she’s nervous, trying to put the moment off.
‘Are you left-handed or right-handed?’ I haven’t been able to judge, Ginika has been so adept at managing everything with both hands as she switches a busy Jewel from one hip to the other.
‘Right. Maybe I should try my left. Maybe that was the problem.’ She laughs, nervously.
I examine her for differences since I last saw her. I expected her to have lost weight but she is bloated, probably from the drugs.
‘First off, the best advice I can give you is that I could help you find a tutor.’ I’d looked into it. I’m far from having extras in my wallet but I could subsidise a lesson a week if I cut back on unnecessary online shopping spends. ‘They’d know exactly what they’re doing and could speed the process up.’
‘No. I prefer you. I’ll work really hard. I promise.’
‘I don’t doubt you at all, it’s me I’m worried about.’
‘Holly,’ she says, wide-eyed, ‘I only want to write a fucking letter. We can do this.’ She claps her hands encouragingly.
I smile, buoyed by her enthusiasm.
Jewel imitates by clapping her hands.
‘Good girl!’ Ginika laughs. ‘Clap handies!’
‘Do you want to put her down?’
I can tell the answer is no by the look on her face.
‘I bought her a little light reading too, to keep her occupied.’ I hand her My First Book, a soft padded-page book for babies. Jewel takes it in her chubby hands, her eyes wide and immediately stimulated by the apple on the front.
‘A-a-apple,’ I say to Jewel.
‘A-a-a,’ she repeats.
Ginika’s eyes widen. ‘See? You can do it. I’ve always wanted to read her a book. I can only look at the pictures and make the stories up.’
‘I think you’ll find that’s what most kids want. They like improvisation.’
‘Did you want to have children?’
I pause. ‘Yes. We did.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘We were going to start trying just before they found the tumour.’
‘Fuck.’
‘What about you?’
‘Did I want children?’ she says, amused.
‘I mean, was she planned or …?’
‘Did I plan to get pregnant at fifteen and have a baby at sixteen? No, Holly, I didn’t. It was a one-night stupid mistake. When my ma and da found out, they wanted nothing to do with me. I brought shame on our family.’ She rolls her eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’
She shrugs. Whatever. ‘They found the cancer when I was pregnant. They wouldn’t give me treatment because it would harm her.’
‘But you started treatment after she was born?’
‘Radiation. Then chemo.’
‘What about Jewel’s dad? Is he around?’
‘I don’t want to talk about him,’ Ginika says, turning to Jewel. Jewel responds by touching her mother’s lips, and then pulling at them. Ginika pretends to gobble them and Jewel giggles.
I straighten the baby mat on the floor beside us. A quilted play rug with mirrors, zips, tags, squeezy things that squeak, and enough to keep her occupied. At the sight of the mat, Jewel becomes agitated.
‘I told you,’ Ginika says, nervously. ‘Honestly, she’ll become a different baby as soon as I let her go.’
I wonder if it’s more that Jewel is picking up on how Ginika’s body has tensed at the idea of placing her down. As soon as Ginika sets her on the floor, the easy and happy-go-lucky beauty transforms into a bomb that instantly explodes and screams with such ferocity that even I want to pick her up, anything to stop the sound and her apparent pain.
I lift her and the crying continues, torture to my ears. Jewel wriggles and pushes, such strength for someone so small, arching her back and throwing herself backwards, practically out of my arms. As soon as Ginika takes her, she quietens, her shaking breaths and sniffles the only giveaway to her ordeal. She buries her head in Ginika’s chest, not looking anyone in the eye for fear she’ll be moved again.
I look on in amazement.
‘Jewel!’
Jewel ignores me. She knows what she’s done.
‘I told you,’ Ginika says, consoling her. ‘Possessed child.’
Which is putting it politely.
‘OK,’ I take a deep breath. ‘So we do this with her on your lap.’
It’s almost 9 p.m. and Jewel is content again but she yaps, babbles, reaches for the paper, the pens, pulls everything within reach to the floor. She rips a page from Ginika’s notepad. But every time Ginika places her down on the mat, the legs-being-sawn-off sound starts up again and it doesn’t stop even when we wait. Two minutes, three minutes, five minutes is our maximum, she is as stubborn each time. I’m no super-nanny but even I know that putting her down and rewarding her with cuddles to silence her is the wrong message. She’s winning every time. She’s a tough cookie, and as much as she’s her mother’s comfort blanket she’s also her weakness. With someone pulling at her physically and emotionally, Ginika understandably can’t concentrate. I can barely think. We finish at 10 p.m., further behind than even my most negative thoughts had forecast. I’m exhausted.
As I open the door into the dark night, I try to keep a positive spin on it.
‘Practise everything we’ve done tonight and go over and over the sounds.’
Ginika nods. There are dark circles under her eyes; she can’t look me in the eye. I’m sure she’s about to cry as soon as I close the door.
It’s late. It’s dark. It’s cold. The bus stop is a walk away. She has no buggy. I long to have a bath and go to bed, hide my head from the scene I’ve just lived. Cringe in private. If anyone had seen me – Gabriel, Sharon, anyone – they would have told me I was fighting a losing battle, nothing at all to do with Ginika’s abilities and everything to do with my own lack thereof. But I can’t close the door on them. I grab my keys and tell her I’m driving her home.
‘Can you drive with that thing?’ She looks at my cast.
‘I’ve found a way to do everything with this thing,’ I say with an irritated grimace. ‘Except cycling. I miss cycling.’
I drive Ginika home to North Circular Road. It takes twenty minutes in light traffic at the late hour. Ginika would have had to get two buses, and be home after 11 p.m. Suddenly my plan of slotting other people in at a time to suit me seems less angelic and more selfish. I’m embarrassed that I’ve asked this trek of her. Though we all have to take responsibility for our own lives, I’m not sure I can allow a sixteen-year-old extremely ill young mother to make these decisions for herself.
I stop at a terraced house, minutes from Phoenix Park, minutes from Phibsboro village. It’s a period-style house but it lost its glory a long time ago. It’s dirty and damp-looking, the garden has an abandoned look, with grass rising so high the building seems derelict. A group of boys hang around the entrance steps.
‘How many people live in there?’
‘Don’t know. There’s four studio rooms and three single rooms. The council sorted it for me. Mine’s the basement flat.’
I look to where the steps lead to darkness.
‘Nice neighbours?’ I ask hopefully.
She snorts.
‘Are your family close by?’
‘No and it wouldn’t matter if they were. I told you: we’ve hardly spoken since the day I told them I was pregnant.’
I had been watching her in the rear-view mirror but now I turn around.
‘They do know that you’re ill, don’t they?’
‘Yes. They said that I made my bed and now I have to lie in it. My ma said it was punishment for having a baby.’
‘Ginika,’ I say, utterly disgusted.
‘I dropped out of school. Hung out with the wrong people. Got pregnant, got cancer. They think it’s God’s way of punishing me. You know Ginika means “What can be greater than God?”’ She rolls her eyes. ‘My parents are very religious. They moved here twenty years ago to give me opportunities and they say I wasted them. I’m better off without them.’ She opens the car door, struggles to pull herself out with the bag and the baby, and as I sit there, stunned, it occurs to me that I should have helped her, but she moves faster than I’m able to with my cast.
I open my door. ‘Ginika,’ I call out firmly and she stops. ‘They’re going to care for Jewel though, aren’t they?’
‘No,’ she says, her eyes flat. ‘They never cared for her from the second they knew about her, they’re not going to start caring about her when I’m gone. They don’t deserve her.’
‘So who’s taking Jewel?’
‘Social have sorted a foster family. She goes to them when I’m in treatment. But you don’t have to worry about that bit,’ she says. ‘You only need to wor
ry about teaching me to write.’
I watch her walk across the courtyard to the steps. The gang part just enough for her to squeeze through and she pushes past them. Words are exchanged. Ginika has enough attitude to beat them away. I glare at the gang angrily, the best suburban middle-class idiotic scare that I can muster, and contemplate attacking them with a crutch.
Then I quickly lock the doors.
It would be a lie to say that I did not lie in bed weighing up whether I should offer to take care of Jewel for Ginika, to promise her a life of love, comfort, support and promise of a safe future. I should have heroically made the gallant gesture of offering to be her guardian. But I am not that person. I am not that pure. I thought about it, entertained the notion and all of its possible angles for at least seven minutes in a detailed daydream where all versions were analysed comprehensively. But no matter how I altered the daydream, this terribly lucid daydream, my final decision was still no. I worry about Jewel, I worry about her future, who will care for her, who will love her, whether she will be placed in safe and loving arms or whether her life will be terribly impacted by a series of foster homes and a feeling of displacement in the world, a loss of identity, like a feather blowing in the wind with no one to lift or anchor her. These haunting thoughts dominate my mind far longer and with greater intensity than the daydream of caring for her myself.
But all thoughts lead to the same conclusion. Just because I’ve had my share of problems, I cannot become a fixer. Gabriel is right on one thing: that behaviour would be unhealthy. If my involvement in the club is to be a success, I can’t become too involved. I have to rein myself in and be realistic. I agreed to help the PS, I Love You Club with writing their letters, not their lives.
My mission – my gift to Jewel and Ginika – will be for Jewel to have a letter, handwritten to her, by her mother, to have and to hold, wherever in the world Jewel may end up.
18
Richard, my eldest and most dependable brother, arrives at my house twenty minutes early. We greet, awkwardly, as if we’ve just met, the only way you can ever greet my socially challenged brother. This half-hug is made awkward because of the large toolbox in his hand, weighing him down on one side, and even more so because I’m dressed in a bath towel, dripping with water from the shower that I had to abandon midway through to go down the stairs on my behind to answer the door because he’s early, and with the cast on my ankle, showering is no easy feat. I’ve covered my cast with plastic wrap and sealed it at the top and bottom with elastic bands to prevent the water from dripping down my leg. The itching in my leg is intensifying and I wonder if I should have been more careful the past few weeks to protect the cast from water. To add salt to my wounds, my lower back is paining me from the pressure I’m placing on it with the crutches, and I can’t sleep properly, though I don’t know if that’s solely because of my ankle or because of everything else going on.
Postscript Page 11
