Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(72)

‘Ah for fuck’s sake, then why don’t they give it an “f”? How’s anybody supposed to learn this stuff?’ She tosses her pencil up in the air and it lands on the table. The pointed lead dents the fresh varnish. I pretend her outburst never happened; it’s certainly not the first time.

‘Ginika,’ Denise says. ‘Sorry to interrupt you guys.’ She has a peculiar tone, she sounds nervous. ‘A friend of mine was getting rid of some baby stuff recently – her kids are older now, and she was going to throw out a buggy. I took it, thinking it might be good for Jewel. You don’t need to use it if you don’t want …’

‘She hates buggies, you know that. She likes to be held,’ Ginika says firmly, not looking up from her page.

‘Of course, you’re her mam, you know best. But I thought I’d take it instead of letting it go in the skip. I’ll show you.’ She dashes into the house, while we watch Jewel lying on her stomach and focusing on a blade of grass, her finger pointing, gently touching it, and then … grabbing and pulling. Denise returns to the garden with the buggy.

It doesn’t look old at all. It’s brand new.

I steal a glance at Ginika, who’s staring at the buggy blankly, with a million things going through her head.

‘I could bring her out for a walk, just around the streets, we won’t go far,’ Denise offers, keeping her voice light and airy. ‘For a change of scenery.’

I stay out of it. Head down, continue my prep.

Ginika is silent. When she’s pushed, she’s the explosive kind, particularly when it comes to her daughter. Her response, when it comes, surprises both of us.

‘OK.’

Jewel kicks up a lot when placed in the buggy, but then is quickly distracted by the – also new – range of toys that Denise places on the bar. She also attaches her favourite book and Jewel is happy.

Ginika is quiet after they’re gone. She turns away from the workbooks and to the empty play mat on the grass. She seems tired. She is tired. Dark rings around her eyes, she’s lost a lot of weight, with the cancer extended to her liver, bowel and groin. She reaches down to her bag with great effort and I get it for her. She rummages in a package and takes out a lollipop, but I know that it’s nothing sweet. It’s a fentanyl lollipop, for sudden bursts of severe pain.

‘Let’s take a break,’ I say. ‘Do you want to go inside? Maybe it’s too hot.’

‘I don’t want to take a break,’ she snaps.

‘OK. Can I get you anything?’

‘No.’

Silence.

‘Thank you,’ she adds, more gently.

Giving her time, I move my chair out of the shade and finally relax, I sit back in the chair, close my eyes, lift my face to the sky, listen to the birds singing with delight, the bees all around me, scrunch my toes into the hot grass. My crap day begins to dissipate.

‘Did your husband use these?’ she asks.

I open my eyes and see her waving her lolly in the air. ‘No. He was on morphine. Intravenously.’

‘This is stronger,’ she says, sucking. ‘Morphine was making me sick.’

The change from when I met her is startling, but not in the obvious ways. Yes, her body is changing, but so too is her mind. Her body is thinner but her mind is broader. She speaks more personally, when she’s not concentrating on keeping the wall up, and we have proper conversations. She is more confident, self-assured, she knows what she wants. Of course, she always knew that, but she delivers her opinions and emotions differently. She admitted her joy at being able to read the instructions on the medicine label for Jewel’s cough medicine. She reads her a bedtime story every night. Being able to read has made her feel more confident and less lost and confused by the world.

‘I think your house is haunted. Your photographs keep moving.’

I follow her gaze, through the opened patio doors through the dining room and into the living room. I assume she’s referring to the mantelpiece where the photo of Gabriel and me in happier times is gone, replaced by the fallen photograph of Gerry and me, in a smaller frame. I saw her notice it when she arrived, was waiting for the question as soon as her eyes landed on it, but to my surprise she held back.

‘Gabriel and I broke up.’

She looks at me in surprise. ‘Why? Did he cheat?’

‘No. He has a daughter who needs him, she took priority in the end.’ My immediate guilt for painting Gabriel as the bad guy tells me that I know Ava wasn’t the real reason for our break-up. The denial potion is wearing off.

‘What age is she?’

‘Your age,’ I say, connecting this for the first time. Ginika seems light years older.

‘So why does she need him, is she sick?’

‘No, I’d say troubled. In trouble at school, she acts up. Drinking, smoking, partying. Doesn’t get along with her mum and step-dad-to-be. Gabriel thought it would be best if she moved in with him.’

‘Instead of you?’

‘Basically,’ I sigh. ‘Yes.’

‘So because she’s a brat, he dumped you?’

‘She needs stability.’ I try to hide the cynicism from my voice. ‘And he didn’t dump me. I ended it.’ I’m tired of feeding her tidbits, it’s what she does with me and if we keep this up we’ll never get anywhere. I lean in, elbows on the table, face in the shade. ‘I got tired of waiting for him, Ginika. And he wasn’t supportive of me doing this.’