He considers this, considers me, then lifts my chin gently with his fingers so that we’re looking each other in the eye, so close. ‘So don’t let it.’
‘How?’ I wipe my wet face.
‘Find more people. Keep it going.’
I look at him, surprised. ‘But you said getting involved was a mistake.’
‘And I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things. If you say it’s the best experience of your life—’
‘One of.’ I correct him, with a smile.
‘I was only trying to protect you. You told me not to let you do anything more, and I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t even wait to see.’
‘I know, and you were right. A little bit. I can’t hold you responsible, Gabriel. I did lose myself. I put the club first, when I should have put you first.’
‘I didn’t give you much of a choice,’ he says wryly. ‘I think we both made the same mistake. We chose one part of our life over us. I miss you so much,’ he says.
‘I miss you too.’
We smile, and he looks at me hopefully, but I’m not ready yet. I reach for my coffee and take a sip, try to compose myself. ‘How’s it going with Ava?’
‘Good,’ he says, pulling out the chair beside me. He turns it so he’s facing me, our legs touching, his hand on my thigh, all so familiar. ‘She’s calmed a lot. We’re figuring it out. But I made a really bad decision, a really big mistake losing you, Holly.’
‘I overreacted,’ I admit.
‘I didn’t support you. Can you give us another chance? Will you move in here? With me, and Ava?’
I look at him and wonder, but I’m tired of thinking, I only know what feels right and forgiveness is a gift. I feel so utterly relieved to be offered a second chance with him.
‘We have a TV,’ he offers, weakly.
I smile, and rest my head on his shoulder, and he covers me in gentle kisses.
I want to tell Ginika what has happened, that she was right, again. The tears roll. Bittersweet ones.
36
I lock my bike to the railings on Eccles Street, having cycled there directly from work on a bright Friday evening, inhaling the sunshine, the fresh summer air, vibrant and busy with people attending the Mater hospital and the Mater private. My destination is on the opposite side of the street; a line of grand Georgian buildings, once grand homes, then tenements, the home of Leopold Bloom in Ulysses, and currently a row of consultants’ offices, clinics, doctors and outpatient facilities. There is a positive air in the city on a Friday, the promise of the weekend, a relieved celebratory mood that we all made it through another loaded week. The weather is looking hot for the weekend, our Indian summer; the Met Office has given the thumbs up for barbecues. Supermarkets will be ambushed for burger patties and sausages, coast roads to the seaside will be gridlocked with top-down cars vibrating with music, ice-cream vans with hypnotic tunes will be prowling housing estates to lure customers, dogs will be walked, parks will be heaving with displayed flesh and dehydrated drunks. Monday morning may be filled with regret and sick-days, but this hour, today, Friday at 6 p.m., the air is ticklish with anticipation and scheming, a world of possibilities open ahead of everyone.
‘Hi, Holly,’ Maria Costas says with a professional warmth, greeting me at her office with a solid handshake.
She closes the door behind us and leads me to twin armchairs by a Georgian window. The room is calm and filled with light; a safe place for people to bear their souls. If these walls could talk … they’d owe a fortune to psychologist Maria. There’s a cactus on the table in the centre.
She follows my gaze. ‘That’s Olivia. My sister gave her to me,’ she explains. ‘I find that if I name plants, I’m less inclined to kill them. Kind of like what people do with kids.’
I laugh. ‘I had a plant once named Gepetto that died. It turned out he needed water more than he needed a name.’
She chuckles. ‘How can I help you, Holly?
‘Thanks for your time. As I explained to your PA, it’s not a personal visit.’
She nods. ‘I recognise your name. I’m familiar with your podcast interview, I recommended it to some of my clients, those in grief and those who are terminally ill.’
‘I’ve been working with some of your clients: Joy Robinson, Paul Murphy, Bert Sweeney and,’ I swallow hard, still grieving my friend, ‘Ginika Adebayo. I recently discovered that they learned about my story in a group therapy session with you. My story inspired them to write letters for their loved ones, and they came to me asking for my help, to guide them.’
‘I apologise for that imposition,’ Maria says, frowning. ‘Joy responded so positively to you sharing your experience, and came into the group session bursting to discuss it. It triggered a great discussion, of how they could best prepare themselves for leaving their loved ones. I encouraged them to keep in contact with each other throughout their shared experience; some did, some didn’t. It wasn’t until Bert’s wake that I learned about him leaving letters, and I thought it was a one-off until I spoke with Joy recently.’
‘You were at Bert’s wake?’ I ask, horrified.
‘Yes,’ she says, smiling. ‘That little boy didn’t make your job very easy for you.’
My cheeks heat up. ‘That was a botched job.’
‘It was a lot to ask of you, to place the envelope in his actual cold dead hands, but I’m not surprised by Bert.’
We laugh and when we calm, she says. ‘I was sad to hear of Ginika’s passing recently. She was a young woman with great spirit. I loved hearing her opinions, she cut through everything. I wish the world had more Ginikas.’
‘Or just the original would do.’ I smile sadly.
‘And her little girl?’
‘In the loving arms of her guardians. Friends of mine actually, I saw her last night.’
‘Is that so?’ She studies me. ‘Is this letter-writing still continuing?’
‘That’s why I’m here. The letter-writing has a name.’ I smile. ‘It was named The PS, I Love You Club by its founding member Angela Carberry, and I want to honour her and the other four original members by continuing the club. I’d like to continue assisting and guiding the terminally ill with their PS, I Love You letters and I’m hoping you could introduce me to others that I could help.’
Spurred on by Gabriel’s support and his encouragement to grow the club, I found out about Maria Costas from Joy. As the doctor is the root of all of this, I thought it would be natural for it to bloom from here.
‘Is there a financial gain for you in this club?’
‘God no,’ I say, insulted. ‘Not at all. I work full-time, this has all been done in my free time. I’m not looking for money, just more people to help.’ Feeling misunderstood, I continue my passionate plea. ‘I realise that this concept of letters isn’t for everyone, but I’ve learned that there are those who feel compelled to leave something behind. My husband was one of those people. In the beginning, seven years ago, I thought my husband’s letters were all about me, but throughout this process, I’ve learned that it was as much for him. It’s part of the journey in saying goodbye, preparing for the journey to end. Part of keeping house, part of wanting to be remembered. I don’t work from a template; everybody’s letters need to be individual, and in order to figure out how their letters would best assist their loved ones I’ve had to spend some time with them and observe their relationships. Ginika was with me up to three times a week, sometimes more. If you’re concerned about my intentions, I’d like you to know that they are completely honest and well-meaning.’
‘Well,’ she says brightly, ‘you certainly come from an honest and passionate place. Look, you don’t have to sell the idea to me, I encouraged Joy to share it with the group, remember? How to live knowing your time is limited is the terminal palliative phase that you’re addressing here, and I believe that it’s an imperative part of their journey. I can see that you’re thinking of the needs of both the patient and their loved ones,
and while there are obvious privacy issues with me sharing my client list with you, I have no issue recommending your podcast to people I counsel,’ she says.
‘But.’
‘But,’ she says, ‘terminally ill patients are vulnerable, faced with the threat of early death. Patients with dysfunctional mindsets are sensitive and need to be dealt with sensitively.’
‘I’ve spent the past six months dealing with terminally ill patients sensitively, I’m aware of their mindsets. If you had any idea what I’ve been through with them, not to mention, the experience I have with my husband, who I cared for throughout his long illness—’
‘Holly,’ she says gently. ‘I’m not attacking you.’
I breathe in and let it out slowly. ‘Sorry. I really don’t want this to end.’
‘I can understand that. To move forward with this, I think it would be advisable to have a clearer strategy. Find a structure for the club; you need rules, you need guidelines. For yourself, and for them. You need to be in control of how you help these people,’ she says firmly. ‘Not just for them, but for yourself. I can’t imagine what it was like this year, helping four people through this journey on your own. It must have been overwhelming.’
My defences fall. ‘Well yes.’
She sits back, and says with a smile, ‘Before you help more people, make sure you’re in a secure position yourself.’
I leave her office feeling like I’ve been squashed. I’m deflated, but I also feel reflective; have I made mistakes with Paul, Bert, Joy and Ginika? Have I counselled them badly? Did I damage them or their loved ones? The journey certainly wasn’t perfect but I think I did a damn good job. My motivations couldn’t have been more honest either. I’m not looking for a cent from anyone. I’m doing this for those who I believe will benefit, but I’m also, without a doubt, doing this for me.
A car beeps loudly as I veer out of the cycle lane. It gives me such a fright, I pull over and stop. I lay my bike on the ground and walk away, as though it’s a ticking bomb, my heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t concentrating; I was almost hit again.
‘Are you OK, love?’ A woman standing at the bus stop, who witnessed the entire thing, asks.
‘Yes, thanks, just catching my breath,’ I reply, sitting in a chair outside a café, feeling shaken.
I can become defensive about my role in the club this year, and never fix a thing and run it and myself into the ground, or I can be realistic and take advice. Maria Costas is right. My personal life came out of it battered and bruised and I can’t afford to do that again.
The ghost of Gerry back in my life, or the real Gabriel?
I choose Gabriel.
37
‘In here,’ Gabriel calls, as I enter the house. Our bedroom is the first right off the corridor as soon as you step into the house, Ava’s is on the left, both look out over the tiny front garden, which is paved, with no planting, overlooking a busy main road. I wonder if Richard could get his hands on the front garden, start bringing it to life. The bedroom door is wide open and Gabriel is lying on our bed.
‘Why are you in here?’
‘The TV’s too loud,’ he says. ‘I brought my music in here but I’ve nowhere to put it with all the clothes and shoes, and make-up and perfume, and bras and tampons that have moved in.’ He pretends to cry. ‘It’s like I don’t know who I am any more.’
‘Poor Gabriel,’ I laugh, climbing onto the bed and on top of him.
‘I’ll get over it,’ he says, kissing me. ‘How did it go with the therapist? I’d say it’s like quicksand in there. Did she get stuck?’ He screws my temple with his finger and whispers in my ear. ‘Maria, are you in there? Should I send for help?’
I roll off him. ‘She’s not on board.’
‘That’s OK, you can try something else,’ he says optimistically. ‘Contact cancer charities. Tell them you’ve got a beneficial service to offer.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree, flatly. ‘Or I could just not do it. I don’t need to do it.’
‘Holly, snap out of it. You didn’t need that therapist to get started, you don’t need her now to continue. You know, at times like this I think it would be helpful for you to stop and close your eyes and think …’ He squeezes his eyes shut, with a smile threatening to form on his lips, ‘… What would Gerry do?’
I laugh.
‘I do it sometimes,’ he says, a mocking tone. ‘You should try it.’ He closes his eyes, and whispers, ‘What would Gerry do? What would Gerry do?’ All of a sudden his eyes fly open.
‘Well? Did it work?’ I chuckle, needing his good humour.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he says, saluting the sky. ‘He says he’d do …’ He flips me onto my back and lands on top of me. ‘This.’
I yelp out of fright and dissolve into laughter. I smile and run my fingers across his face. ‘You should always just do what Gabriel would do. That’s what I want.’
‘Yeah?’
I examine him. Though he’d been speaking in a playful tone, perhaps Ginika had been right about Gabriel’s jealousy of Gerry.
‘You’re not competing against him,’ I say.
‘I was, but you can never win against a ghost,’ he says. ‘So he and I had a chat, and I told him that, with all due respect, he and I have a common goal, i.e. loving you, so he needs to take a step back and trust me. Too many chefs and all that.’
‘That sounds a bit weird. But lovely.’
He laughs, and kisses me gently.
‘Gross,’ Ava says, and we stop kissing immediately and look to the door to find her watching us, her face all twisted in disgust. She closes our door, and the TV gets louder in the other room.
Gabriel rolls off me and pretends to cry again.
The meeting with Maria Costas was important. I went there looking for new members of the PS, I Love You Club but I left with a larger idea, a broader perspective of how I should be approaching this. She was right: I need to set boundaries for myself, so that I don’t allow every single person’s story to live in my heart and affect my life. I can’t have every member in my home three times a week, and I can’t spend full days traipsing across the city on treasure hunts. I can’t miss Sunday roasts and I can’t take time off work. The year of the meltdown, as Ciara calls it, is over.
I stand in the Magpie stockroom. One wall has floor-to-ceiling shelving, full to the brim, there’s a rail of clothes waiting to be washed, steamed and ironed. A basket of clothes and a box of items we won’t sell and will instead send to charities. There’s a washing machine, a tumble dryer, a steam iron. It’s the busy but organised control room of the shop, but if I just … I pull a chair across the floor to the back of the room, facing the door. I sit down and imagine a desk before me, with a chair facing me. I imagine a couch, perhaps by the washing machine and tumble dryer. I close my eyes. Imagine.
There’s a rap on the door and I open my eyes. Fazeel steps in with his mat rolled up under his arm.
‘It’s noon,’ he says, with a smile.
I grin and jump up from my chair. ‘Volunteers! Yes! That’s it!’ I go to him and hug him.
‘My, my, you are happy today,’ he says, laughing, hugging me back.
‘Ciara!’ I yell. ‘Ciara, where are you?’ I enter the shop.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she says. She’s lying on her back beneath a mannequin, head hidden under the skirt.
Mathew is sitting on a stool, arms folded, watching her.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Her leg fell off,’ Ciara responds, voice muffled.
‘Is it wrong that I’m turned on by this?’ Mathew asks.
I laugh. ‘Ciara, get up, get up, I have news. I have an idea!’
‘So,’ I say excitedly to my family, who are seated around my parents’ dining table tucking into their Sunday roast. Gabriel and Ava have joined us this week and Ava hasn’t stopped laughing at Declan and Jack’s childish antics, which they’ve played up for her. ‘I’m going to turn the Magpie stockroom into a PS, I
Love You office.’
‘Yes!’ Ciara says in a celebratory high-pitched tone, fist-punching the air. ‘Though perhaps not the entire stockroom!’ she adds in an equally celebratory tone, smile frozen on her face.
‘I’ll meet people there. Clients.’
‘Yes!’
‘Then, because there’s only one of me and hopefully there’ll be lots of people who require my services, I will employ volunteers to help me carry out the physical tasks, and there we have the all-new PS, I Love You Club!’
‘Yes!’ Ciara squeals, clapping her hands excitedly.
Ava laughs.
‘Hold on a minute,’ Mathew interrupts Ciara’s celebration. ‘You were dead against this at the start of the year, why are you now all, “Yes”’ He imitates her high-pitched tone.
‘Because,’ she says, widening her eyes at everyone as if I can’t see or hear her, ‘because nobody wanted her to do it last time and she did it anyway, and had a psychological crisis, so let’s support her.’
‘Ah, come on, so you don’t think it’s a good idea?’ I ask.
‘It’s wonderful,’ Mum says.
‘Good for you!’ Dad says, mouth filled with potato.
‘I’d like to volunteer,’ Ava says suddenly, and Gabriel looks at her in surprise. ‘Well, you said I needed a job. This sounds cool.’
‘But I can’t pay you, sweetie,’ I say sadly, so honoured she’d offer.
‘You can pay her if you get funds,’ Richard says. ‘If you register the PS, I Love You Club as a foundation or charity, then you can fundraise for the resources you need. You should also gather a team, for example, an accountant, a business adviser to help with the paperwork and legal obligations. Everybody would have to give their time on a voluntary basis.’
‘Really? You really think I should?’ I look around the table at them all.
‘I could do the bookkeeping for you,’ Richard offers. Before he began his landscaping business, he was an accountant.
‘I would love to help with fundraising,’ Abbey says.
Postscript Page 26
