Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(54)

I hate goodbyes, but hating them is never a justification to stay.





26


At home, I shower, relieved to finally be able to wash my entire body. I hiss as the water hits my raw skin and stings. I begin what will become my daily ritual: massaging oils and cream into my skin and gently moving it around, straightening and bending, trying to get used to the new freedom. I still feel incapacitated without the cast, I don’t trust my leg to take my full weight without the boot for support. I will be gentle and patient until my muscles regain their tone, trying to be as kind to myself as I would be to others. And when my chest aches with the hurt of losing Gabriel, and the hurt that I’ve caused him, I think of what he has gained, remind myself that he has Ava. And of course I think of what I have gained this year: my new friends from the club and what, and who, they have brought back into my life.

I never felt that Gabriel and I were forever. I was younger when I met Gerry and perhaps na?vely believed that he and I were soul mates, that he was the one, but when he died, I stopped thinking like that. I’ve come to believe that at different times of our lives we are drawn to certain people for various reasons, mainly because that version of ourselves is connected to that version of them at that particular time. If you stick at it, work at it, you can grow in different directions together. Sometimes you get pulled apart, but I believe there is the right person, the one, for all the different versions of yourself. Gabriel and I lived in the now. Gerry and I aimed for forever. We got a fraction of forever. And an enjoyable now and a fraction of forever is always better than nothing at all.

Out of the shower, I discover a missed call from Joy. Bert’s health has declined, he’s lost consciousness. She adds a panicked, ‘Are his letters ready and in place?’

I choose an Edwardian script font to give Bert’s words a more grandiose effect and then wonder if it’s too grand, if I should keep it simple, if it’s all style and no substance. Other fonts seem too heartless, lacking soul, and even look like ransom letters from a maniac. Once I see that, I can’t unsee it. I play around and then go back to the Edwardian script because I think it’s the type of writing that Bert was aiming for but couldn’t pull off. I print Bert’s six notes on gold labels, I stick the labels on to midnight blue textured cards. I decorate the cardboard border with tiny stickers. The theme has meaning to me, Gerry’s phrase Shoot for the moon and even if you miss you’ll land among the stars, though I’m aware Rita will never understand this link. It’s just me feeling connected, stamping Gerry’s identity to this, though themed or not, it has his essence all over it as he planted the seed. I hope Rita likes stars. I hope Rita doesn’t feel this looks like a school project. I chose elegant ones, expensive ones. I slide Bert’s notes into gold envelopes, then I print out numbers, experimenting with different fonts. I lean the page of printed numbers against my computer and study them, hoping for one to jump out at me. So much is going on in my sleep-deprived, exhausted mind.

As I sit here, writing the living words of a man taking his last breaths, it is not lost on me that I am writing Bert’s letters in possibly exactly the same place as Gerry wrote mine. I stay up all night until the sun starts to rise and sprinkle its hope on the world. By morning, the letters are finished and I hope that dear Bert has managed to cling on through the night.

I am proud of myself for doing this. It is not breaking me as others, and I, thought it might. To look back, to go back, is not to be weak. It is not to reopen wounds. It takes strength, it takes courage. It takes a person who is more in control of who they are to cast a discerning, non-judgemental eye over who they once were. I know without doubt that revisiting me will encourage me, and everyone who is touched by my journey, to soar.

‘You’ve been up all night,’ Denise says behind me at the kitchen door, sleepy-eyed and messy-haired. She surveys the table.

‘You’re still living here,’ I reply, catatonic.

‘Another time,’ she replies. ‘Whose letters are these?’

‘Bert’s. His condition worsened last night. I need to get his letters ready.’

‘Oh, wow,’ she says softly, sitting down. ‘Do you need help?’

‘Actually, yes,’ I say, rubbing my aching eyes, my head pounding from the tiredness. Denise watches me for a moment, thinking something that she doesn’t share and I’m glad of that, then she jumps into action, finding the remaining numbered labels on cards, and sliding them into their corresponding envelopes.

She reads the first one she picks up. ‘He wrote poems?’

‘Limericks. It’s a mystery tour. He hints at a place, his wife goes there, finds the next note and so on.’

‘Sweet,’ she smiles, reading, before sliding it into the envelope. ‘Do you need to deliver these today?’

‘It’s part of my service. Bert can’t do it.’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘You’ve got work.’

‘I can take the day off. We’ve got enough girls on the shop floor and frankly I could do with a distraction.’

‘Thank you, friend,’ I say, resting my head on her shoulder.

‘How is our man doing?’ Denise asks, watching me check my text message.

His family are around him. His grandchildren have sung him hymns. Everyone has said their goodbyes.