Page 4 of Postscript

I pause to think, to summon the feeling. ‘Death, oddly, has a physical presence; death can feel like the other person in the room. The gaps that loved ones leave, the not being there, is visible, so sometimes there were moments when Gerry felt more alive than the people around me.’ I think back to those lonely days and nights when I was caught between the real world and trapped in my mind. ‘Memories can be very powerful. They can be the most blissful escape, and place to explore, because they summoned him again for me. But beware, they can be a prison too. I’m grateful that Gerry left me his letters, because he pulled me out of all those black holes and came alive again, allowing us to make new memories together.’

‘And now? Seven years on? Is Gerry still with you?’

I pause. Stare at her, eyes wide, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I flounder. No words come to me. Is he?

‘I’m sure Gerry will always be a part of you,’ Ciara says softly, sensing my state. ‘He will always be with you,’ she says, seeming to reassure me, as if I’ve forgotten.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Dissolved, besprinkled particles of matter around me.

‘Absolutely.’ I smile tightly. ‘Gerry will always be with me.’

The body dies, the soul, the spirit lingers. Some days in the year following Gerry’s death, I felt as though Gerry’s energy was inside me, building me up, making me stronger, turning me into a fortress. I could do anything. I was untouchable. Other days I felt his energy and it shattered me to a million pieces. It was a reminder of what I’d lost. I can’t. I won’t. The universe took the greatest part of my life and because of that I was afraid it could take everything else too. And I realise that all those days were precious days because, seven years later, I don’t feel Gerry with me at all.

Lost in the lie I’ve just told, I wonder if it sounded as empty as it felt. Still, I’m almost done. Ciara invites the audience to ask questions and I relax a little, sensing the end is in sight. Third row, fifth person in, tissue squashed and rolled up in her hand, mascara smudged around her eyes.

‘Hi, Holly, my name is Joanna. I lost my husband a few months ago, and I wish he had left letters for me like your husband did. Could you tell us, what did his last letter say?’

‘I want to know what they all said,’ somebody speaks out, and there are murmurs of agreement.

‘We have time to hear them all, if Holly is comfortable with that,’ Ciara says, checking with me.

I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I haven’t thought about the letters for so long. As a concept I have, but not individually, not in order, not exactly. Where to start. A new bedside lamp, a new outfit, a karaoke night, sunflower seeds, a birthday trip away with friends … how could they understand how important all of those seemingly insignificant things were to me? But the last letter … I smile. That’s an easy one. ‘His final letter read: Don’t be afraid to fall in love again.’

They cling to that one, a beautiful one, a fine and valiant ending on Gerry’s part. Joanna isn’t as moved as the others. I see the disappointment and confusion in her eyes. The despair. So deep in her grief, it’s not what she wanted to hear. She’s still holding on to her husband, why would she consider letting go?

I know what she’s thinking. She couldn’t possibly love again. Not like that.

3

Sharon reappears in the emptying shop, flustered, with the baby asleep in the stroller and Alex, her toddler, holding her hand, red cheeks and flushed.

‘Hello, buster.’ I lean towards him.

He ignores me.

‘Say hi to Holly,’ Sharon says gently.

He ignores her.

‘Alex, say hi to Holly,’ she growls, channelling the voice of Satan so suddenly that both Alex and I get a fright.

‘Hi,’ he says.

‘Good boy,’ she says ever so sweetly.

I look at her wide-eyed, always amazed and perturbed by the double personality that the mother role brings out in her.

‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a disaster.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m so happy you came. And you’re amazing. You always say the first year’s the hardest. A few more months and this little man will be one. You’ve almost made it.’

‘There’s another one on the way.’

‘What?’

She looks up, tears in her eyes. ‘I’m pregnant again. I know, I’m an idiot.’

She straightens up, trying to be strong, but she looks broken. She’s deflated, all wiped out. I feel nothing but sympathy for her, which is an emotion that has increased with each pregnancy reveal as the celebration levels have reduced.