Postscript

by Cecelia Ahern

  This is the problem with loving and losing, with holding on and letting go, with being held and then released, reconnecting and then disconnecting. There’s always another side to the coin, there is no middle ground. But I must find it. I can’t lose myself again. I must rationalise, I must locate myself, ground myself, put everything in perspective. I must not make everything about me, my feelings, my needs, my desires, my losses. I must stop feeling so deeply but I must not be numb; I must move on but I must not forget; I must be happy but not reject sadness; I must embrace, but not cling; I must deal with but not dwell on; I must confront but not attack; I must eliminate but not annihilate; I must be gentle with myself but I must be strong. How can my mind be at one when my heart is in two? So many things to be and not be; I am nothing but I’m everything, yet I must, I must, I must.

  There’s more I can do, more that I should do. Letters are not enough. I must learn from Bert, I can do more for Ginika and I owe it to Jewel. That is where I’ll start and this throbbing, this pain from my head to my toe will surely, eventually go. It must, and I must make it so. I am motionless but not powerless. Move, Holly, move.

  Denise knocks gently on the door. I wrap the duvet around my neck, pretend to be asleep and hope she’ll go away. The door opens slowly and she creeps in. I feel her near me, checking on me. I hear ceramic against my bedside table as she places something down. I smell coffee and buttery toast.

  ‘Thanks,’ I speak for the first time and it comes out as a croak.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve had a spiritual awakening.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

  I smile.

  ‘I spoke to Ciara, she told me it went well at Bert’s wake yesterday.’

  I finally open my eyes to study her, to see if she’s hiding a laugh, but she’s not. She’s empathetic, compassionate, considerate Denise.

  ‘My part could have gone better,’ I sit up. ‘But it was well received, which is the main thing.’ I look to the bedside locker and I’m right about the food. Creamy buttery scrambled eggs sit atop the slice of brown bread and my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since this time yesterday before work. ‘Thank you for this.’

  ‘I have to earn my keep.’ She smiles sadly.

  ‘Did something happen?’

  She picks at her cuticle. ‘I went to see Tom yesterday. I told him I was sorry. That I made a mistake, I panicked.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me to go fuck myself.’

  I wince. ‘Tom is angry, he’s within his rights to lash out, but he’ll come round.’

  ‘I hope so. I have to woo him. I’m not really a woo-er. I can bribe him with gifts, any ideas?’

  My mind has wandered as she spoke. ‘Have you ever thought of adoption?’

  ‘You think me adopting a baby will woo him?’

  ‘What? No. I was thinking about adoption, fostering. I know it’s not the same thing, it’s not a baby born of you and Tom, and that’s what you desire, but look how you’ve been with Jewel, look how loving and caring and wonderful you have been with her. Imagine how many babies are out there, needing the kind of love you are willing to give.’ I pause, my mind wandering, as a new thought takes hold. ‘Denise,’ I say, wide-eyed.

  ‘Don’t,’ she says, stopping me. ‘I know what you’re thinking. I already looked into it.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘It takes eighteen months to do the course and even then, if by some wild miracle I could further topple Jewel’s life on its head and traumatise her by removing her from a new home she’s settled into after eighteen months, it’s not like you can go and pick the child you want. Social services decide who goes where.’

  ‘But if you somehow could become Jewel’s guardian, would Tom feel the same?’ I ask, my mind racing ahead.

  ‘I need him to start speaking to me first before a discussion of that magnitude could begin. Or even have him look me in the eye would be a start. Anyway, it’s all hypothetical. This would have to be Ginika’s decision. I couldn’t put it in her head, it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘She may want it too. Wouldn’t it be at least worth asking? She’s looking for a safe place for her baby to grow up in. You’ve been nothing but loving and kind to them both. You want this so much.’

  Denise looks at me.

  ‘And not to put you under any pressure, but Tom is going to have to take you back, because last night I accepted an offer on the house. We have about eight to twelve weeks before we’re homeless.’

  ‘What, really?’ Denise tries to sound enthusiastic but I can see the legs pedalling wildly under the calm surface. ‘Congratulations. Where are you going to live?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Jesus, Holly, not that I’m in the position to judge, but what is happening to you?’ she asks. ‘In such a short time, ever since the podcast, it’s like the wheels have come off.’

  I groan and fall back on the bed. ‘Please don’t say scary things to me again, I can’t take it.’ I suddenly notice the coffee mug she has placed beside me. She’s drinking from Gerry’s Star Wars mug. The one that I broke.

  ‘Did you fix that mug?’

  ‘No. It was on the counter when I got in from work.’

  Yesterday. I’d been in the kitchen when I got home to get the frozen peas but I hadn’t looked around before coming upstairs and falling into bed. I lean forward and study the mug, steam rising from the top. I search for the cracks along the handle and the rim.

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ I throw the covers off me and get out of bed, and hurry downstairs to the kitchen. Denise follows me.

  I open the cupboard. The broken mug is gone.

  ‘It was right there beside the set of keys,’ Denise says, pointing beside the toaster and then I realise what’s happened.

  They’re Gabriel’s set of house keys.

  He glued Gerry back together.

  Saturday morning is about restarting the engine but I don’t drive, I don’t cycle; today I am taking the bus, specifically, the number 66A. Ginika has told me about it, ranted and grumbled about it in her moments of frustration. Her dad, the bus driver, the devil at the helm of the 66 leading his people to Chapelizod, while simultaneously, from afar, driving her insane.

  He is not on the nine-thirty shift. I hang back, sit on the concrete steps of a Georgian block in Merrion Square drinking a take-out coffee, lifting my face to the sun and hoping that in channelling my energy directly at it, it will kindly reciprocate and fuel me. At ten thirty, I know it is him. He has Ginika’s face. Her big open eyes, her rounded plum-shaped high cheeks.

  He opens the doors and I join the queue to step on. I study him intently as people drop their coins in, insert their travel cards and move on. Small nods to those who acknowledge him, a quiet, reserved presence. He is not the picture she painted. There is no arrogant captain of this vessel, just a tired quiet professional man with bloodshot eyes. I sit where I can keep my eye on him and I watch him the entire journey. From Merrion Square to O’Connell Street, he manoeuvres in and out of lanes, raising a hand out the window in thanks to those who make way for him. Patient, calm, careful, smooth, in busy Saturday morning city-centre traffic. Eight further minutes to Parkgate Street, ten minutes to Chapelizod. I turn from the village views to Ginika’s dad and back again, examining both with the same interest. Seven minutes to Liffey Valley shopping centre where the majority of people get off. Ten minutes to Lucan Village, a further twelve to River Forest where I’m finally the only person left on the bus.

  He looks over his shoulder at me. ‘This is the last stop.’

  ‘Oh.’ I look around. ‘Are you driving back to the city centre?’

  ‘Not for another twenty minutes.’

  I stand and move next to him. His photographic ID says Bayowa Adebayo. Photographs and knick-knacks decorate the area around the steering wheel. Crucifixes, religious medals. A photograph of four children. One of them is Ginika. A school photo, a grey un
iform and red tie, a beaming white crooked-toothed smile, her chestnut eyes alight with life and mischief, a cheeky dimple in her smile.

  I smile at her image.

  ‘Did you miss your stop?’ he asks.

  ‘No. Um. I was just enjoying the journey.’

  He studies me with discreet curiosity. I may strike him as odd, but it’s no odds to him.

  ‘OK. Well, I leave in twenty minutes.’

  He pulls a lever and the door opens.

  ‘Oh.’

  I step off the bus and look around. The doors close behind me immediately. I take the few steps to the terminus and sit on the bench. He leaves his seat and walks to the back of the bus with a small plastic bag in his hand. He sits and eats a sandwich, drinks a hot drink from a flask. He notices me, sitting at the terminus, waiting, and turns his attention back to his sandwich.

  Twenty minutes later he walks up the aisle, opens the doors, steps out, closes them from outside, crumpling his bag in his hand, and places it in the bin. He stretches, pulls up the waist of his trousers over a small belly, and opens the doors. He steps on and closes them again immediately, while he takes his place back in his seat. When he’s ready, he opens the doors and I step back on. He nods at me, acknowledging me, no questions, no conversation, none of his business what I’m doing and he’s not curious, or if he is, he doesn’t show it. I sit in the same seat on the way back. I stand up at the last stop in Merrion Square, allow everyone else off before me. I approach his window at the driver’s seat.

  ‘You’re going back again?’ he asks, amusement in his tired eyes, a small smile on his lips.

  ‘No,’ I say, ready this time. ‘I’m a friend of your daughter, Ginika.’

  His smile doesn’t disappear, but the way it freezes on his face says the same thing.

  ‘She’s wonderful, very brave, and has inspired me and taught me so much. You should be very proud of her.’

  It’s really all I have the courage to say. All that I, perhaps, want to say. Because he has a right to know. No, more than that: he should know. It is better to know while his daughter still lives and breathes the same air as him that she is wonderful and brave and inspiring. It is not enough to be told after, nor is it good enough to realise it after. I step off the bus quickly before he shouts at me or calls to me or we get further involved than I want to be. That’s enough, I think. I hope.

  It is lunchtime and, buoyed by my brief encounter with Ginika’s dad, there is a bounce in my step, a sense of overriding duty to fulfil my next promised task. I have one envelope filled with cash that I have tightly guarded in my bag, one lovingly, carefully written shopping list, and one large desire to continue pushing out the darkening corners of my fragile mind. I must not let the clouds move to the centre, they must drift on, just as I watched the clouds float by my window yesterday. It is the first Saturday in June, and I must begin Christmas shopping for Joy.

  Joy has three sons: Conor, Robert and Jeremy. Conor is married to Elaine and they have two children, Ella and Luke. Robert is married to Grainne and they have four small children, twins Nathan and Ethan, Lily-Sue and Noah. Jeremy has a child called Max with Sophie and a baby on the way with Isabella.

  Joy has three sisters and one brother; Olivia, Charlotte, Emily and Patrick. Three are married, one divorced, but Joy is close with her in-laws. Collectively they have eleven children, and five of them have children. Joy also has two sisters-in-law and one brother-in-law, all have children and between them make her an aunt to eight more nieces and nephews. Four of these nieces and nephews have a total of seven children. And then there’s Joe, her tower of strength, and her two closest friends, Annalise and Marie.

  All of these names have been written on Joy’s Christmas list, along with a specifically chosen gift. She has asked me to do this, the agent of the PS, I Love You Club, not her children, not her daughters-in-law, or her dear friends, because she wants normal business to resume, nothing to feel out of step, even when life has taken a turn in a direction no one wishes it had. She doesn’t want anybody in her life to feel left out; everyone near and dear to her will receive her parting gift.

  Delivering Bert’s letters, Christmas shopping for Joy and watching her bake and cook Joe’s favourite meals, making notes to add to her scrapbook of secrets, being invited into Paul’s home and world to film personal messages, getting insights into his private thoughts and memories, has been an intimate welcome into people’s precious and private worlds. I feel a sense of purpose, of responsibility to those who have entrusted me with a great duty. While it has undoubtedly distracted me from my own life, it has also gifted me with distraction from my woes. I find myself getting lost in the job at hand. Following Joy’s shopping list, buying the gifts according to her budget and then ticking each name and item off the list feels extraordinarily satisfying. I’m busy. I have a purpose, a great one, fulfilling Joy’s wish.

  When I return home, I sit on the floor of my TV room, spread the gifts around me in preparation for wrapping. I usually despise wrapping, leaving that task to the wrapping stations in the shops at Christmas. But it’s not Christmas and this is my duty. Using craft paper and string, I take greater care than I ever have in ensuring the corners are neat, double-sided sticky tape hidden.

  Denise returns to the house at 7 p.m., and Sharon is with her. I feel a flicker of irritation that my isolation has been broken and, even though Sharon is my friend too, that I haven’t been asked permission. I’m so used to having my own space, I like being alone. Even when practically living with Gabriel, having our own homes meant we could take necessary breathers for our headspace, and even when together we were good at being separate.

  ‘Are you wrapping Christmas presents?’ Sharon asks, watching me from the doorway.

  ‘Yes, for Joy.’ I brace myself for a smart retort.

  ‘OK. I won’t disturb you, I’ll be in the kitchen with Denise.’ She swiftly leaves, picking up on my mood. Moments later, I hear music. A stringed instrument leading into the smooth and calming tones of Nat King Cole singing ‘The Christmas Song’, Sharon’s phone the source of the music. She places down a glass of red wine and a bowl of crisps, winks at me and leaves, closing the door behind her.

  Each package has a gift card: To Conor, To Robert, To Jeremy … to everybody on the list, signed off with PS, I Love You. I box them all up in three regular cardboard boxes and label them ‘Christmas Tree Lights’, the plan being to store it in the attic for Joe to find when he decorates the house for Christmas.

  I told Gabriel that my life would return to its normal running, that I would be able to extract myself from these people’s lives at the appropriate time when I had fulfilled my obligations. But he was right about me: I can’t do that. Where he was wrong, though, was in believing that it was a negative thing. It’s not something to avoid, this is my life now. This life is giving me life. I drooped yesterday, I crashed, but I’m different now. I’ve learned from my mistakes and today I picked up the pieces.

  31

  Unable to take any more time off work, and still feeling revived and enthusiastic a week after my great epiphany, I decide to begin my days earlier. It’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I’m feeling positive about the next mission with Paul. I wait in the vast empty car park of a retail park, which is the address he’s given me. I have no idea why I’m here. I don’t have any control over Paul’s ideas, I’m merely the camera holder and that’s all he wants me to be. I wonder if I should be more, if he will make room for me to be more.

  A car finally enters the car park and I can’t help but laugh. It’s a bottle-green Morris Minor, not Paul’s usual car. I film his arrival, keeping my laughter silent and trying to hold my hand steady. I’m not supposed to be seen or heard. He parks beside me and lowers the window, which takes a while as it’s a manual roll-down, but adds to the humour.

  ‘Hi, Casper,’ he says to the camera. ‘You’re sixteen. Looking good. I’m sure the girls love you. This here is the car that my dad, Grandpa C
harlie, taught me to drive in. It wasn’t cool then, it isn’t cool now, but today I’m taking you on your first driving lesson in the same car Grandpa Charlie taught me to drive in. Hop in,’ he says, winking.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he looks at me, uncertainly, when we’ve finished filming the driving lesson. ‘Not good? I’m not sure if you were feeling that one.’

  ‘It’s great!’ I plaster a smile on my face, but I’m worried. He made quite a few comments that I don’t think will be relevant in sixteen years, and I don’t think Paul has thought this through entirely. He’s acting as though this driving lesson is about to happen to his two-year-old son tomorrow, mentioning friends his son has now, referencing everything from now, or things that it is impossible to predict in fifteen years’ time. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to spoil Paul’s mood. His wishes are my command and it’s uplifting to be with him when he is in such a cheery mood. Preparing the letters and films doesn’t steep us in darkness as one would imagine, as Gabriel feared; it’s all positive and fun and forward-thinking. I’d like him to see me as I am at this moment; laughing and smiling, enjoying time with someone he assumed would drag me down into a deep depressive state.

  ‘Are we still good for Eva’s videos tomorrow?’ he asks, high-energy, anxious, worried as if I’m going to say no.

  ‘Everything is organised.’

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘Then we’re almost finished. I need to have it all complete by next week.’

  Once I’m finished with Paul, there’s only one person left. What will I do then? ‘Why next week?’

  ‘The craniotomy is scheduled.’

  Without a doubt, brain surgery of any description is probably the most dangerous surgery you can undergo. A craniotomy is the most common type of brain surgery to remove a brain tumour, where the surgeon cuts out a part of the skull to get to the brain. Often it’s not possible for the surgeon to remove all the tumour so they remove as much as they can; this is called debulking. The risks are infection, haemorrhage, or bleeding in the brain, blood clots, brain swelling, seizures, some patients can develop a stroke due to low blood pressure.