Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(78)

‘Go on,’ he urges me, fascination in his tone.

‘I’ve been helping terminally ill people write letters to their loved ones. They call it the PS, I Love You Club.’

Unlike the majority of my family who hated the idea, he immediately grins, his eyes dewy. ‘What a wonderful idea, Holly. And a lovely honour to Gerard.’

‘I’m glad you approve. They’ve got me thinking about his letters again, about what was right, about what was wrong.’

The PS, I Love You Club has been a treasure trove of valuable lessons for me. I guarded the experience of the letters with my life for the past six years, but as soon as I said the words aloud for the podcast, holes appeared and questions surfaced. Were his letters for me as I assumed, or were they for his own benefit? Did I always want them to continue? Did he always get them right? Were there any letters that I would have changed? In order to help the club curate their own, I had to be honest about what worked for me and what didn’t, and that didn’t mean being disloyal to Gerry as I’d feared it would.

‘Anyway.’ I reach into my bag and retrieve a box, which he recognises immediately. A pained sound escapes from the back of his throat. He takes it from me and opens it. It’s the watch he gave Gerry on his twenty-first birthday; a valuable timepiece Gerry wore every day.

‘Gerard left this to you,’ he says, and his voice cracks.

‘He made the wrong decision,’ I say. ‘It was a gift between father and son. Father should get it back.’

He pauses then nods his thanks, eyes filled, head lost in I don’t know what, but perhaps the memory of him giving it to his young son, the great moment, and all the moments they spent talking about it, huddled over it, the bond that connected them.

Gerry left it to me because it was valuable, but it’s worth more to his dad.

Harry takes the watch out of the box, hands the box to me and slides the watch onto his wrist, securing it closed. He wipes the tears from his eyes.

I remember the moment the watch stopped, two days after Gerry’s death. I had it on the nightstand, I was hidden beneath the duvet, in the dark world, eyes peering out to the other world, not wanting to be involved but keeping an eye out anyway, listening to his watch tick, watching the hands go round, the face I saw on my husband’s wrist every day of our lives. And then just like that, it stopped.

Harry turns the crown a few times and it starts again.





33


‘Pull in here,’ Ginika says suddenly, sounding panicked, as I drive her home from a lesson.

I indicate quickly, and swing into a hard right on Drumcondra Road, thinking she’s ill, that she needs to vomit, or pass out.

I stop the car. ‘Are you OK? Have some water.’

‘I’m fine,’ she says quietly, distracted. ‘Drive down the lane.’

I hadn’t even taken notice of where we were, I didn’t think it mattered, but as we continue down the long drive I realise that we’re at HomeFarm FC, a soccer club. Confused, I turn the car into the space she’s pointing at, in front of a soccer pitch, which is busy with a team being taken through their drills. I look at her, waiting for an answer but none comes. She watches the boys playing and, realising she needs some time, I sit back and give her space.

‘I used to play here,’ she says.

‘Really?’ I ask happily, glad she’s opening up. ‘I didn’t have you down as a soccer player.’

‘I was a striker,’ she says, while her eyes don’t move from the guys on the pitch.

‘Of course you were.’

This brings a small smile to her lips.

Jewel cries out from the back seat, I turn around and reach for the rice cake she has dropped. She takes it from me with a gentle ‘ta ta’ and shoves it in her mouth to continue sucking. One hand on her rice cake, another on her big toe, which she is pulling at and lifting to her mouth, deciding which she prefers the taste of.

‘That guy there?’ Ginika points out a tall handsome assistant coach. ‘He’s Jewel’s dad.’

‘What?’ I shout so loudly I give Jewel a fright. ‘Sorry, baby, I’m sorry.’ I rub her foot and calm her. Her bottom lip trembles for a moment, and then she concentrates on her rice cake again.

‘Jesus, would you shut up? He’ll hear you!’ Ginika slaps my leg.

‘Sorry. I just can’t believe that … you’re telling me. That’s him.’ I lean over the steering wheel and examine him. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘Yeah well. His name’s Conor. You wouldn’t shut up asking me about him, so, there.’

I didn’t ask her that often but she’s changing, she’s thinking, she’s planning for the end. Transitioning. My heart twists.

‘We can leave now.’ She nods at the steering wheel to hurry me up, perhaps panicking that I’ll cause a scene.

‘No, wait. We’re not going anywhere yet.’ I continue watching him, this mysterious character I’ve wanted to know so much about for so long.

‘Well, we’re not getting out of the car.’

‘I know. OK. We won’t. But,’ I watch him, running through drills with younger kids. ‘What age is he?’

She thinks. ‘Eighteen. Now.’

I look back at Jewel and at Conor. She’s so close to her dad. Possibly the closest she’s ever been.