Postscript(44)

‘You don’t want grandiose declarations of love, so what if your letters were simple but effective? Guidelines for Joe. A map of where everything is in the kitchen. A list of what’s in the cupboards. Where the ironing board is, how to iron his shirts.’

Her eyes light up.

‘What’s his favourite meal?’

‘My shepherd’s pie.’

My. In control in her home. Her home, her kitchen, her place. No room for Joe. ‘How about a recipe and instructions so he can cook your shepherd’s pie? A scrapbook to help him get through domestic hell without you.’

‘I like it!’ she exclaims, and claps her hands. ‘It’s exactly what he needs and it’s fun too, he’ll have a laugh, as well as being guided. Holly, that’s perfect!’

‘I think I would have benefited from a few less empowering letters from Gerry and more mundane notes about the day-to-day running of things in our life,’ I say smiling. ‘Joy’s Scrapbook … Joy’s Guidelines for Joe?’

She thinks, smiling and eyes twinkling, enjoying where her mind is travelling. ‘Joy’s Secrets,’ she says finally.

‘Joy’s Secrets,’ I repeat, smiling. ‘We have it.’

We start to make a list of the ideas we have for her scrapbook. Joy begins writing but her hand spasms and she drops the pen, and as she rubs her wrist and arm I take up the gauntlet.

I wander around her kitchen opening cupboards and taking photographs of the contents while she sits at the table quietly, watching me, constantly pointing things out, offering a tip, a trick, a secret. She is territorial about her home, everything has a place, and a reason for the place. If it doesn’t fit, it goes in the bin. Not a single bit of clutter, labels all facing front neatly. We’re not exactly creating fireworks with Joy’s scrapbook idea, but it’s tailor-made for her life. Just as every relationship and marriage is unique and individual, the embodiment of those two individuals tangled up together, this service is representative of their union and must be bespoke.

As I move around taking note of everything, I wonder if Gerry did the same thing when thinking of letters for me. Did he observe me and try to figure out what I needed? Was he all the time thinking of his list, enjoying the secret, while I had no idea what was going on in his mind? I’d like to think it calmed him, that in his moments of pain and discomfort he was able to distract himself and go somewhere else, escape into the pleasure of his secret plan.

I notice Joy’s been quiet for a while and I stop cataloguing the kitchen and check to see if she’s OK.

‘I wonder if I could ask one more thing of you,’ she says as I meet her eye.

‘Of course.’

She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and takes out a folded envelope. ‘I have a shopping list here. I wonder if you could help me. All the money is inside, cash, and there’s a list.’ Her fingers tighten briefly on the envelope. ‘I’m sorry to ask. It’s a lot to ask of you. My boys, their wives and our grandchildren. We have a tradition on Christmas Day where Joe and I stand at the head of the room, by the tree and everybody gathers around. Joe pulls a name from a Santa hat and announces the family member and we present them with their gifts. We’ve been doing it for years, our own family tradition.’ Joy’s eyes flutter closed, as if she can see it in her mind’s eye. ‘All the little ones love it. I don’t want them to miss that this year. Joe doesn’t know the little things that they like.’ Her eyes open and with a trembling hand she holds out the envelope.

I pull a kitchen chair out and sit beside her. ‘Joy, Christmas is six months away.’

‘I know. I’m not saying I won’t be here, but I don’t know what state I’ll be in. You know they say that my brain will be in such decline that I will forget to swallow.’ She raises her hand to her throat and squeezes, as if imagining it. ‘The palliative care prepares me for the end, but if I’m planning a future with feeding tubes, then I need to plan not just how I feed myself but how I can continue to feed my family too.’

I look down at the bulky envelope.

‘I know it’s a great imposition, but if you could also wrap and label the gifts for me, I’d like to store them in the attic for Joe to find when he takes down the decorations. As part of Joy’s Secrets,’ she says, too brightly, trying to make it sound easy when it’s not, it’s anything but. Perhaps she’s trying to screen the sadness that pummels beneath, or perhaps she’s genuinely ready for it. I’m learning about this wish for the first time whereas she’s thought about it, envisioned it, imagined it, probably lived the very moment when Joe finds the box over and over again in a dozen different ways. Perhaps she’s keeping it upbeat for me.

‘OK,’ I say, my voice coming out as a whisper. I clear my throat. ‘But let’s make a deal, Joy, if you’re able to hand those presents to everybody by yourself, those gifts are coming down before Joe discovers them.’

‘Deal,’ she nods. ‘This is a lot to ask of you and I’m grateful, Holly,’ she says, taking my hand. ‘I hope it’s not too much.’

It’s all too much. Everything. All of the time. And then not at all, sometimes, depending on which version of me wakes up.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I look at her for approval before continuing. ‘Why are you doing this?’