Postscript

by Cecelia Ahern

  Ciara, dressed in black like a black widow, wearing a beret with a black net falling across half her face, smiles tightly. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ She backs away and stands at the wall, leaving me alone.

  I catch a glimpse of Paul, Joy and Ginika’s anxious faces before Rita leaves the room and closes the door gently in my face, stopping my escape. I stare at the closed door, heart drumming at the impossible task ahead of me.

  ‘What’s she doing, Mammy?’ a child asks, loudly. The child is hushed, Ciara urges me on, and I slowly swivel to face the room. All eyes are still on me. I smile politely.

  ‘Hi,’ I whisper. ‘My deepest sympathies.’

  Children are sitting on the floor, toys in hand, silently playing together. Closed fists crush tear-filled tissues, everyone is dressed in black, cups of tea and coffee in hands. These, all family members and close friends of Bert’s, are wondering who I am and what place I have being here.

  Much as I want to, I can’t turn around and leave. I’m cringing from the tips of my ears to the tops of my toes. I take the few steps forward and at least most of them have the decency to look away or avert their eyes to give me my moment. The murmuring starts up and the initial tension that greeted me disappears. I feel like an intruder who is about to steal something precious. I am here for Bert, I remind myself. He has instructed me to do something important. I will swallow my fear and pride, and follow through. I need to concentrate on the task at hand. Bert’s final request.

  Inveniam viam. I shall either find a way or make one.

  I self-consciously approach the coffin. My eyes fall upon Bert, so dapper in his best suit, navy blue, crisp white shirt and royal blue tie, with the crest of his cricket club. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, the funeral home did a good job. I didn’t know Bert very well but I know intimate things about him. The few times I met him he was struggling to breathe, now he is calm, serene.

  Tears well up. Then I look down at his hands and my eyes widen. He’s holding a bible. This was not part of the plan, Bert distinctly told me to put the envelope in his hands. He never mentioned anything about a bible.

  I look around to make sure nobody is watching, they’ve continued their own quiet conversations to give me my moment. With everybody distracted, I place my hand on Bert’s hand and give the bible a little tug to see how easily it will move.

  ‘That lady is stealing from Granddad,’ a little voice shouts.

  I jump, startled, and look down to see a boy beside me pointing right at me.

  There’s silence in the room again.

  ‘Oh, she’s only holding Granddad’s hand,’ Ciara says sweetly, with a smile, stepping forward to stand by my side.

  ‘Thomas, come here,’ his mother says, and he glares at me suspiciously before leaving my side. I look around again and the eyes are back on me. Less trusting now. There may be some truth to peeping Thomas’s declaration. I’m starting to sweat; can’t they just look somewhere else? I reach into my bag.

  The door opens and the arrival of a new mourner steals their attention from me. I use the opportunity to remove the envelope from my bag and place it on top of Bert’s hands, but my hands are shaking and its clumsily done. The letter rests uneasily on the bible for a second, then slides down to the side of the coffin where it will never be seen.

  ‘Jesus, Holly,’ Ciara mutters in my ear.

  I reach in and dig it out. I place it on the top again, trying to balance it where it can be clearly seen. The envelope slides down a second time. I open the Bible and slide the letter between the pages, making sure it can clearly be seen at the top, but I’m not too convinced. Bert wanted the letter in his hands.

  ‘She did something to Granddad!’ Thomas shouts, standing up and pointing at me.

  Thomas is not my friend.

  Stunned and completely mortified, I look around at the faces staring at me. The crowd moves forward to peer into the coffin.

  ‘Who is she?’ a woman asks quietly, but I hear her.

  ‘This is Holly,’ Rita says, behind me. ‘Bert’s reflexologist.’

  I close my eyes.

  29

  All eyes are on me. I take a deep breath.

  ‘My name is Holly,’ I say, addressing the crowd. ‘But I was not Bert’s reflexologist.’

  Cue gasp. But that doesn’t happen because this isn’t a daytime soap, it’s real life, despite the ridiculous situation I’ve found myself in. Ciara immediately reverses to hug the wall.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rita,’ I turn to her. ‘Bert made that up of his own accord – nothing to do with me, I assure you. He asked for my help arranging a surprise for you, as a symbol of his love for you. I’m sorry I fell at the last hurdle and didn’t quite deliver on his wishes in the sophisticated manner he desired. But the envelope I placed on his hands is for you, written by Bert, typed by me, because he said you think he has terrible handwriting.’

  She lets out a laugh, a surprised, high-pitched little yelp that escapes her, and her hands go to her mouth. It’s as if the handwriting piece of information was a secret code that unlocks her belief in me, and Rita’s acceptance causes everyone else to back down.

  ‘What has he done? I knew he was up to something! Oh Bert!’ she looks at him with a smile, tears filling her eyes. And then her face crumples.

  ‘Read the letter, Mum,’ her daughter says, stepping forward to her side, arm around her. Daughter of Bert and Rita, mum of peeping Thomas.

  I wring my hands, a nervous wreck. The eyes are on me again. I back away from Rita and her daughter, no longer centre stage, and creep towards the door beside Ciara. She takes my hand supportively and holds it tightly, pulling me back from leaving. Joy, Paul and Ginika form a wall at the door, ganging up to block me from escaping. I slowly swivel towards the coffin, a spectator to Rita’s new adventure.

  Rita lifts the envelope resting on the bible and Bert’s hands, runs her fingers over the gold shiny paper.

  I’m instantly transported back to the moment I read the first note that Gerry wrote for me, how my fingers traced his letters, looping and swirling, my fingers reliving his words, in an effort to resurrect him.

  Gerry’s opening words of his first letter come back to me. ‘My darling Holly, I don’t know where you are or when exactly you are reading this …’

  Rita opens the envelope and slides the card out. ‘My darling Rita,’ she reads.

  ‘Oh Daddy,’ a woman gasps from the group. I’m frozen. Frozen in time. Stuck in a memory. You whispered to me not long ago that you couldn’t go on alone …’

  Rita continues reading.

  ‘Our adventure together isn’t over. Dance with me one more time, my love. Hold my hand and take this journey with me. I’ve written you six limericks.’

  ‘Limericks!’ she looks up. ‘I hate limericks!’ she laughs, and reads on.

  ‘I know you hate limericks,’ she continues reading, and everyone laughs.

  I am just a chapter in your life, there will be many more.

  ‘Each limerick is a clue. Each clue leads to a place. Each place holds a special memory and meaning in our hearts. Each place contains the next clue.’

  Thank you for doing me the honour of being my wife. For everything, I am eternally grateful.

  And then, a shiver envelopes my body. A warm feeling, starting at my chest, reaching out to my stomach, my legs, my toes, my head. A wave of something odd overtakes me. Not dizziness, but clarity. Not clarity of this moment in this room, but it takes me elsewhere, lifts me up and all I can think of is Gerry. I feel him. He’s in me. He’s filling every part of my soul. He’s here. He’s here. He’s here in this room.

  Trembling, I phase out Rita’s words. She’s reading the limerick. All eyes are on her, they’ve forgotten about me. The crowd are smiling, it’s happening. Bert’s wish is coming true, but I am shaking, my whole body is rattling. Joy, Ginika and Paul have moved closer to Rita. Everyone has moved in, the circle tight and close. Eyes and noses are streaming. Smiles
decorate every face. I’m squeezing Ciara’s hand as I move away from them all and quietly open the door.

  My body is trembling, I can only look at the floor. A burst of adrenaline has shot through me, as though I’ve had multiple shots of caffeine. Everything in me is triggered, my senses heightened, connecting me to something else.

  I feel a strong arm around my waist.

  ‘Are you OK?’ a whisper in my ear.

  I close my eyes. It’s Gerry, I feel him again.

  Suddenly I feel like I’m floating from the room, through the hallway, out the front door. Gerry’s arm is firm around my waist, his breath is on my head. He takes my hand.

  Gerry. It’s Gerry. He’s here.

  He opens the front door and sunlight hits my eyes and the fresh air fills my lungs. I drink it up.

  I realise I’m still holding hands and I look at him.

  It’s not Gerry.

  It’s Ciara, of course it’s her, but she’s doing the same thing as me. Taking deep breaths. Smaller ones.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I whisper. ‘That was … weird.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she agrees, seeming shaken. ‘Did something happen?’

  I think about it. Whatever it was that filled my body, my soul and my mind is gone, but I’m still high from what I experienced.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I was watching you. Your face just changed. I thought you might pass out. You looked like you’d seen a ghost.’

  It’s as if she knows that Gerry was in the room.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Did I what?’

  ‘See a ghost?’

  She’s not laughing, not teasing.

  ‘No.’

  She seems disappointed.

  ‘Why, did you?’

  ‘I felt like Gerry was there,’ she whispers. ‘I got this … feeling.’ She lets go of my hand to rub her hand up and down her arm where I can see goosebumps. ‘Does that sound crazy?’

  ‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘I felt him too.’

  ‘Wow,’ her eyes widen and fill up. She wraps her arms around me. ‘Thank you, Holly, you’re right. That was the greatest gift.’

  I hold her tight and close my eyes, wanting to relish and remember every single part of that experience. He was there.

  I’m on a high. Floating on love and adrenaline and peculiar new energies, I feel possessed. Not by Gerry – that feeling is gone – but from the lingering connection to him. Ciara drives us back to the shop and tells me to take the rest of the day off; she’s pretty shaken up too. On the way there I receive a phone call from the estate agent. An offer has been made on the house, not for the full asking price, but as close as she thinks we’ll get. There is a sign in Ciara’s shop, above a gleeful beaming Buddha, that says, ‘You can only lose what you cling to.’ I can hang on fiercely to the past, to all my things, or I can let go and hold them in my heart.

  After a quick consultation with Ciara, I call the estate agent and gleefully accept the offer on my house. I don’t need the house to feel Gerry’s spirit. I was in a house with no physical link to him, surrounded by people with no physical or emotional link to him, and he was present. This house has acted like a chain around my neck, letting it go gives me power. I can recreate the beauty of us elsewhere, in endless locations in the world, I can take him with me, while I’m creating something new. It’s time for me to leave. I’ve already said my goodbye to it. I was never supposed to stay for so long. It was a starter home for Gerry and me, but then it became the place where we ended.

  I get on my bike and speed through the streets, I should really be concentrating on the road but I can’t. I shouldn’t really be cycling on my newly healed leg at all, particularly not with such gusto, but I can’t stop. I feel like I’ve wings and I’m flying. As I near my house I can’t recall the journey to this point. I want to ring somebody, I want to dance, I want to shout from the rooftops with joy that life is wonderful, life is great. I feel drunk.

  I cycle up the driveway outside my home. Denise’s car is gone, she’s at work, or maybe never coming back. I hope the latter. Then as I step down from the bike I feel a searing pain in my ankle. I pushed myself too much. I thought I was invincible. I feel heavy as I lean the bike against the wall in the side passage. My high has come crashing down and my head pounds with the full and immediate effect of a hangover. I step inside the house to silence. I lean my back against the front door and look around.

  Nothing.

  Stillness.

  Silence.

  The final words of Gerry’s letter.

  PS, I Love You.

  I come crashing down.

  I have pushed my ankle too far. It’s round, swollen and throbbing, I place it on a pillow, with a bag of frozen peas on top. I lie on my bed and I do not move for the evening, not even when my stomach growls, when it feels empty and hollow, as if it’s starting to eat itself, and I’m nauseous. I need to eat but I should keep the weight off my foot. I watch the clouds rolling by, blue to white, large plumes followed by thin stragglers, I watch as the daylight eventually turns to darkness. I don’t, can’t get up to pull my curtains. I am numb, immobile, feeling frozen. I can’t move, I don’t want to move. My ankle throbs, my head throbs, this enormous come-down after such dizzying heights.

  I start to think and I think too much. Of before, of ago, of the very beginning, of old times. Of first times.

  The front doorbell rings and in my bedroom I pull another dress over my head in absolute frustration and throw it on the floor. My head is so hot my make-up is melting off my face and ruining every item of clothing that smudges against my skin. Even if they were once an option, now soiled, they no longer are. My bedroom floor is hidden by outfits that I’ve scattered in panic and anger. I can’t see the floor for clothes, but I’ve nothing to wear. I whimper, then, hating how weak I sound, I grunt. I study myself in the full-length mirror, examine my body in my new lingerie from every angle, studying what Gerry will see.

  I hear Gerry’s voice downstairs and Jack’s laughter. The ribbing has probably already begun. You better keep my sister safe, the same thing that’s been said for the past year since we started going out properly, officially, instead of stealing moments before school, at school lunch and afterwards on the walk home. Two years together, one year full-on, Gerry has become a member of the family, one that my mum and dad keep a watchful eye over.

  Dad always says about his favourite brother Michael: ‘He’s a gentleman but he still cheats at Monopoly.’ He uses the same phrase for Gerry.

  ‘Gerry doesn’t cheat at Monopoly,’ I always retort with a roll of my eyes. ‘We don’t even play Monopoly.’

  ‘Well you should.’

  But I know what Dad means.

  Tonight I’m hoping that Gerry will cheat at Monopoly and, as the self-designated bank, I’m ready to aid and abet. I chuckle quietly at my hilarity, giddy with excitement and anticipation, but a knocking at the door silences me. Even though the door is locked, I grab a dress to cover my body.

  ‘Holly, sweetheart, Gerry’s here.’

  ‘I know!’ I yell back to my mum, irritated. ‘I heard the doorbell.’

  ‘OK!’ she responds, wounded.

  I know that if I’m not careful this night could be ripped from me before it has even begun. It has taken a lot of parent persuasion to allow me to this party tonight. It’s the first twenty-first party I’ll have been to without parental supervision, and the deal is that I’m allowed to have one drink. The secret unspoken understanding is that this isn’t a realistic target for anyone, especially a sixteen-year-old who has a seventeen-year-old boyfriend who is allowed to drink, and so two drinks will be acceptable. I will aim to not have more than four. A fair negotiation, I think.

  It’s Gerry’s cousin Eddie’s twenty-first birthday; a disco at Erin’s Isle, the GAA club he plays with. And while Gerry’s family and extended family will all attend, the rule is that the adults leave at 11 p.m. when the DJ starts.
It’s Eddie’s rule – at twenty-one he does not consider himself among the adults, which says a lot about Eddie’s character. Gerry hero-worships Eddie. Four years older than him, he’s always been his favourite cousin; he plays for Dublin’s under-21s and looks good to reach a senior level. Eddie is cool, and confident. I find him intimidating, the kind of person who’ll pick you out in a crowd to make a joke, ask you a question, fire a smart comment, sometimes at your expense if he thinks it’s extra-funny. Gerry says it’s ‘banter’, they all talk like that, but nobody as loudly as Eddie from what I see. Everyone always laughs at what he says – and he is funny, a natural comedian – but as a quiet person, not exactly shy, being around unpredictable people like Eddie makes me nervous. Sometimes it annoys me just how much Gerry idolises Eddie, sometimes I think he’d rather be with him than me, because he often chooses to be with him rather than me. Gerry’s parents are less strict with him than mine are with me. At seventeen, Gerry is driving his dad’s car and he goes to clubs with his older cousin whenever asked. He kind of follows him around, at his heels like a little dog, which is true of most people who like being around Eddie. But then Eddie does make me laugh a lot, he has never said a cruel word to me, he just shines a spotlight on me when I don’t want lights shone, and I am jealous of how Gerry spends so much time with him, and Gerry’s sidekicky little doggy following around act is so uncool, so I hold it against Eddie.

  I survey the bomb site that’s my floor, eyes putting outfits together locating and mixing, discarding, rearranging the slush piles.

  There’s another knock on the door.

  ‘I said I’ll be ready in a minute,’ I yell.

  ‘It’s me, hissy fit,’ says my little sister Ciara. At eleven years old she has mastered sarcasm, and can buy and sell everyone, including my parents. As she shares this room with me, I’m obliged to unlock the door.

  She steps in and quickly takes in the room, and me standing in the middle of it all in my underwear.

  ‘Well, that works.’

  She steps over the mounds of clothes, tiptoeing in the cracks where the carpet appears to get to her bed. She holds a tub of Häagen-Dazs, and a large spoon, and sits cross-legged on her bed watching me.