Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(83)

Around the kitchen table, red-eyed and exhausted, Tom, Denise and I regroup. I retrieve a keepsake box from my bag and place it on the table.

Ginika’s letter.

‘This is for you, Jewel. From Mama.’

‘Mama,’ she says, grinning. She grabs her pudgy toes and pulls at them.

‘Yes, Mama,’ I try to smile, wiping a tear. ‘Mama loves you so much.’ I turn to Denise. ‘This is your responsibility now.’

Denise lifts it and runs her fingers across the lid. ‘Beautiful box.’

It’s the mirrored jewellery box I found at the shop. I glued the loose crystals found inside back to the lid, and I slid out the inside so it is perfect as a keepsake box, which contains the envelope, Jewel’s first pair of socks, babygro and mitts, and a lock of hair, both Jewel’s and Ginika’s first cuts braided together.

‘She wrote the letter herself,’ I explain. ‘I didn’t read it and she didn’t tell me what she was going to say. She did it all by herself.’

‘Brave girl,’ Denise says softly.

‘Open it.’ Tom encourages her.

‘Now?’ Denise asks, looking from him to me.

‘I’m sure Jewel would love to hear it, wouldn’t you?’ he says, kissing her head.

Denise opens the box, takes out the letter. Unfolds it. The sight of her handwriting, her hard work and effort makes me cry again.

Dear Jewel,

You are thirteen months old.

You love sweet potato and stewed apples.

Your favourit book is the hungry caterpillar and you chew the cornurs.

The map song from Dora the Ixplorir makes you laugh more than anything.

You love popping bubbles.

Your favourit teddy is Bop Bop the bunny.

Sneezeing makes you laugh.

Paper being ript makes you cry.

You love dogs.

You point at clouds.

You get hickups when you drink too fast.

You love the song ABC by The Jackson 5.

Wunce you put a snail in your mouth and sucked it out of its shell. Yuk. You don’t like snails.

You love sitting on my knee and don’t like to be put down. I think you are skared of being left alone. You are never alone. You will never be alone.

You can’t see the wind but you hold your hands out to catch it. It makes you confyoused.

You call me mama. That’s my favourite sound.

We dance every day. We sing incey wincy spider in the bath.

I wish I could see you grow up. I wish I could be beside you all the time forever. I love you more than anyone or anything in the hole world.

Be kind. Be smart. Be brave. Be happy. Be careful. Be strong. Don’t be afraid of being afraid. Sum times we are all afraid.

I love you forever.

I hope you remember me forever.

You are the best thing I have ever done.

I love you Jewel.

Mama





35


I lean my bicycle against the red-bricked wall and take the few steps to the front door, my legs heavy and my trainers feeling like lead. I’ve had a long cycle to clear my head but I can barely remember the route here. I press the doorbell.

Gabriel answers and looks at me in surprise.

‘Hi,’ I say, quietly, shyly.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Come in.’

I step inside and follow him down the narrow corridor to the internal main room, the familiar smells intensifying the butterflies in my stomach. He checks behind him to make sure I’m still there, in case I’ve changed my mind and left, or I’m not real. He has something jazzy playing on his record player, and there’s a large plasma screen on the wall.

‘You’re healed,’ he says, noting my boot-free foot.

‘You got a TV,’ I note. ‘A big one.’

‘I bought it for you. I had it stored in the shed for months,’ he says, a little awkwardly, nervously. ‘I was going to surprise you when you moved in. Surprise,’ he says weakly, joking, and I laugh.

‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘Coffee please.’ I’ve been up all night with Denise and Tom, crying, sharing stories of Ginika, discussing her funeral arrangements, wondering when in Jewel’s future would be an appropriate time to contact Jewel’s biological father. The big conversations and the small rolling softly into, over and under each other. All the ifs and buts. We were all exhausted but none of us could sleep. I don’t envy them the busy day ahead with Jewel, but I know that they will treasure every second of the gift Ginika gave them.

Coffee vapours fill the room as Gabriel pours water over the ground coffee. I wander away and into the conservatory, drawn by the morning light. Nothing has drastically changed, apart from the home office in the corner, which used to be in the spare bedroom, now Ava’s. I wouldn’t have thought it, but surprisingly it fits; buildings bending effortlessly to owners’ desires. I should take a leaf out of this house’s book. I look out at the cherry blossom tree, green leaves turning to gold. I recall last year waiting impatiently for it to bloom in spring, only for its petals to blow away practically overnight in a storm, at first coating the stones with a plush pink carpet before turning to slippery slush. How I’d like to watch it flower again.

Gabriel joins me and hands me a mug of coffee. Our fingers touch.

‘Thanks for fixing my mug,’ I say. Instead of sitting, he stands. Mug in one hand, the other pushed into the pocket of his jeans.