Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(76)

It’s all going well until. ‘As the father of the bride, on behalf of me and Claire.’

I stop recording. ‘Paul,’ I say gently.

‘What?’ he snaps.

I walk towards him. We’re running out of time. Time for me to speak.

‘Please allow me to speak freely.’

‘Jesus, haven’t you been? The guests are going to arrive soon and we’ve got nothing! I should have run this speech by you before.’ There’s sweat on his upper lip, beads on his forehead.

‘I offered and you said no. You wanted to do it on your own. Now hear me out.’

He calms.

‘I haven’t been honest with you. This whole time I’ve been going along with your enthusiasm, swept along by your mission, but I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t stop this.’

One jab to the heart, and he readies himself for more.

‘Your ideas are wonderful. They’re exciting. They’re moving. They’re filled with love … but mostly they’re for you.’ I pause to see how he’ll take it and it’s not looking good. I continue. ‘They’re so you feel included in the moments. And also so that they’ll feel you’re there, but you will already be in their minds in these moments. If you don’t do all this, it doesn’t mean that you disappear.’

He looks downward, emotion gathering and bubbling around his jaw.

‘What if Casper doesn’t want to drive? What if he does and Claire wants to teach him? What if Eva never gets married? What if she marries a woman and what if Claire wants to make the speech? You can’t decide their futures for them.’

‘I hear what you’re saying,’ he says, voice shaking. ‘But I don’t want them to feel like they’re missing something. Growing up empty, like there’s a hole in every place in their life. An empty place at the table where their dad should be.’

I think about whether to say it or not. Even Gerry thought about what Paul hasn’t, his final letter paved the way for his space to be filled. ‘What if the seat isn’t empty?’

‘Oh wow. Holly that’s just … Jesus. You saved that one for a good moment,’ he says angrily. ‘This is bullshit, I’m done. I’ll record my own message.’

He storms out of the room.

I chase after him, afraid. My aim was to fill the PS, I Love You Club with hope, but now I’ve broken his heart even further, a man who’s facing the end of his life. Well done, Holly. I race out of the conference room, through the bar, past the photo booth and a box of silly clothes ready for the party festivities, and out the door of the bar. He’s sitting outside, at a picnic table decorated with pink and silver balloons, looking out at the view. I’m sure he would rather be left alone but I’m not finished yet. I’m not finished until he understands. I approach him and my heels crunch over the pebbles. He turns around to check on his company, then back to the view again.

‘Go away, Holly, we’re done.’

I sit opposite him anyway. He looks out, still ignoring me but at least not challenging me. I take this as positive encouragement under the circumstances.

I take a deep breath. ‘Halfway through my husband’s letters, I wished he’d stop.’

That gets his attention. ‘Now you’re being honest. You think you could have told us all this a few months ago?’ he asks, but the anger is gone.

‘When Gerry died, I was in a dark miserable fucking slump that I couldn’t get out of. That’s how it is. Just shit. I was angry, I was sad, everything was unfair. Why and how did the world keep turning without him in it? Poor me, that’s what I honestly kept thinking. I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t wise. I didn’t handle it well. I gave up. The letters gave me purpose. Companionship. More of him that I craved. His letters forced me to get up and get out. He got me moving, and then, when I was back to life again, I felt that waiting every month for another letter held me back. Every new letter was a reminder that he was gone, that everyone around me was moving on. Friends were getting engaged, pregnant, and I was still waiting for more letters, for direction from my dead husband, afraid to do anything for myself in case it clashed with the next mission. I loved them, but resented them at the same time. After a year, the letters stopped and I knew that was the end. Closure.

‘The right letter can be a blessing; the wrong one can be dangerous. It can be a setback, it can trap you in a dangerous place where you’re living in between. My husband got my letters right because he knew me, he thought about me. If he’d continued writing letters for my whole life … it wouldn’t work, because he doesn’t know me now. If we had children, maybe he wouldn’t know that somebody helped raise them, loved them, maybe even called him dad or walked them up the aisle. You can’t replace people, Paul, you’ll never be replaced, but you can replace roles.

‘By writing your letters, or filming your videos, you can’t write others out. I know you can’t see into the future, nobody’s asking you to be perfect, but if your wish is to be there for your family – for Claire, for Casper and Eva – then you can’t decide their futures for them. You won’t always get to be a part of their every day. But the memory of you will.’ I think of how I felt Gerry fill my body with his energy at Bert’s funeral. ‘And maybe you will get to be there in another way, maybe they’ll feel you in ways that you can’t plan or imagine. I believe that now.’