Postscript(27)

‘It means … what it means, Gabriel. Back down.’

I wait a minute to change the subject.

‘OK, I know you’ve noticed that I’ve been distracted recently and I have to talk to you about it.’

I have his full attention. ‘The PS, I Love You Club,’ he says.

‘You know about it?’

‘You changed the moment you saw the card. I wish I hadn’t opened the damn envelope,’ he says, and I can hear the irritation beneath his words.

‘Oh.’ His mood and tone is making this more difficult.

‘So you found out what it is,’ he says, pressing me.

‘Yeah. It’s a real club. There are four members who are battling illnesses, some terminal. What I said on the podcast about Gerry’s letters gave them hope, and it gave them an idea. They want to write their own “PS, I Love You” letters.’

‘That’s a bit fucked up, isn’t it?’

I bristle. Payback for my comment about Ava, I’m guessing.

‘I met with them.’

He leans forward, it feels intimidating, charged. ‘When?’

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘Cheers for telling me.’

‘I’m telling you now. I needed to figure it out in my own head first. Plus I was worried you’d react like this.’

‘I’m reacting like this because you took so long telling me.’

Round and round in circles we go.

‘They want me to help them with their letters. Guide them.’

He looks at me. Crystal blue eyes searing into me. I hold his stare.

‘I was going to ask you what you’d think of me doing that, but I think I can guess.’

He downs his coffee and sits back in his chair. ‘I thought the podcast was a bad idea, and I think this is a bad idea.’ He seems ready to move.

‘Are you in a rush? Can we talk about it? I need to talk it through. It clearly makes you angry, so tell me why you think it’s a bad idea.’

‘Because you’ve moved on and you shouldn’t go back. I think that watching people die may take you back, to a time when you’ve told me you were so desperately unhappy you could barely get out of bed.’

I nod along, letting it sink in. I can understand his concern but I’m thrown by his anger. Perhaps it is difficult when the person you know becomes caught up with the person she was. We’ve been together for two years, two intense years during a profoundly transformative time in both of our lives, when everything around us was a big enough excuse for us to pull us away from each other, and yet we kept returning to each other for more. My heartache, my grief, his self-prescribed loneliness, our fears and trust issues. We overcame all of that, still do, to make each day work. Moving in together is something we both thought we would never do. Him because he never wanted to live with another woman again, me because I thought I could never love another man with the same intensity.

‘You’ve spent the past few weeks creeping around like you’re seeing someone else. I knew something was up – you should have told me, Holly.’

‘I wasn’t creeping around,’ I say, annoyed. ‘And fine, if it’s going to agitate you so much, I won’t help them.’

‘Oh no no, don’t put that on me,’ he says, reaching into his pocket and searching through his money to pay the bill. ‘You did the podcast for Ciara, and you’re not helping this club, for me. Take ownership of something, Holly.’

He throws the money on the table, and leaves.

Cycling home, the pressure has intensified. Choosing not to help the club would relieve me of the constant stress of thinking about the club, but I don’t think I’d be able to stop thinking about Joy, Bert, Paul, and Ginika. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from wondering what they’re doing, how they’re getting on. And Jewel. Would Ginika swallow her pride again and ask for help from someone else to write her letter? I don’t know.

There’s a loud angry car horn. I feel a hard thud against my right leg and I can’t control my bike. I’m forced over and crash to the ground.

Screams, shrieks, yells, a car horn long and loud, ringing in my ears. The car has stopped, the engine is still running. The car horn finally stops. I lie on the ground, my heart pounding, my leg throbbing. I see a lone shoe on the ground nearby. My trainer. There’s a heaviness on top of me and I think it’s the car, that it’s above me and I’m trapped. It’s a moment before I realise it’s my own bicycle.

After the cacophony, there’s a stunned silence.

A car door slams shut. The yelling begins again; angry this time. I brace myself. My body feels contorted, but I don’t dare move. I close my eyes. My nose touches the cold concrete. I try to steady my breathing, try to stop my heart from ripping out of my chest, feeling crumpled.

I know death. Death knows me. Why does it keep following me around?





13


The taxi that hit me had suddenly veered dangerously to the left to avoid hitting the car in front, which had braked hard for a right turn, without indicating. He successfully managed to avoid hitting the car in front but hadn’t checked his mirror to see me in the cycle lane. In my fall, I fractured my left ankle, and scored plenty of bruising to my body as I hit the ground. Helmet on, my head is fine. I also got my shoe back.