Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(68)

‘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 uniform 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.