Page 51 of Postscript

A customer at the counter picks up a wallet from the discount tray made up of items that are broken, or aged, too bad condition to offer at full price but too lovely to turn away. She turns it over in her hand.

‘Is this real leather?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘For two euro?’

‘Yes, everything in the tray is two euro,’ I say, distracted, turning to Ciara. ‘I’ve tried to get the hospital appointments on Mondays, Ciara, but they keep insisting on Fridays, I’m sorry.’

‘I know, I’m not blaming you. I think it would be helpful for us, that’s all. To keep an extra eye on things, have extra hands.’

‘I’ll take it,’ the customer says, happily.

I take the coin and give her a receipt. She leaves the shop.

‘And you’re a little … distracted, with not moving in with Gabriel, or currently on speaking terms with Gabriel, not selling your house, helping out with the club, and oh my God I have to sit down, I’m so stressed just thinking about your life right now …’

‘I’m not distracted, Ciara,’ I say, snapping. ‘Everything is under control.’

‘Well, that’s a lie if ever I heard one,’ she mumbles.

The bell over the door rings out as a customer arrives. Flustered, she hurries to the cashier’s desk. ‘Hi, I was in here around fifteen minutes ago and I think I left my wallet by the till.’

My eyes widen.

Ciara throws me a menacing look. ‘Find. It,’ she says, through gritted teeth.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say, polite but panicked, grabbing my crutches and hobbling out of the shop. I look left and right, see the woman who bought the wallet disappear around the corner and I yell after her.

That evening, Ginika sits with me at the dining table for our lesson. True to her word, she has immersed herself in learning how to read and write, and has shown an interest in taking a lesson every single day. And though it’s impossible for me to manage a daily meeting with her, she never tires of asking, and I’m inspired by her energy and her desire to learn. She tells me she practises during Jewel’s naptime, when Jewel sleeps at night, while waiting for hospital treatments, she has barely watched TV in two weeks and when she does, it’s with subtitles. I need to match the strength of her determination.

Jewel sits on Ginika’s left knee, moved as far away from the table as possible, chewing on a teething ring between pulling at her mother’s pencil, the object that is stealing her mother’s attention away from her. Jewel has learned to despise these pencils and papers and knows that in their destruction lies attention from both the women who stop their work to scold her.

Ginika’s learning ‘OW’ ‘OU’ sounds, along with images. I quickly realised her reading ability sped up when it was accompanied by the visual. Her mind prefers to learn in images, not words, but together they complement each other. All she needed was another way to learn, and more time. Always, more time.

There are four words in the textbook, she needs to identify the word that doesn’t have the OU/OW sound and circle it. The options are Clown, House, Cloud, Cheese. Cheese is written in yellow with holes through the letters, the ‘o’ in clown resembles a red nose. Hearing OW and House in the same sentence trigger my sensitivities. Ow, indeed. I still haven’t called the estate agent and put a halt to the house sale. After spending so long putting it on the market, it’s taking an equally long amount of time to remove it. Doing so would require focus of thought on my personal life which I’m incapable of right now. My eyes well and I look in the opposite direction, and blink frantically to dispel the tears. When I’ve managed to chase the emotions away, I turn back to her work.

Ginika and Jewel are both watching me.

‘Well done!’ I say, jollily. I turn the page.

Ginika looks again at the naked wall scarred with holes where the wedding photo used to hang. She hasn’t yet enquired, but I know she’s going to. She’s not one to hold back, always says what she thinks, seeming not to care about the emotion it will evoke in her companion. She seems to think that holding back is for fake people who ‘aren’t real’. I tell her it’s called being polite.

‘What happened?’ she finally asks.

‘It fell.’

She raises an eyebrow, not believing me.

‘What’s the foster family like?’ I ask tentatively, taking Jewel’s little foot in my hand.

She groans and shifts in her chair. ‘A woman named Betty takes her for my hospital appointments or when I’ve no energy. She’s got three kids of her own. And a country accent. I don’t want Jewel to have a country accent.’

I smile at her. ‘You’re not sure?’

She shrugs.

‘I’m sure nobody is going to feel good enough for you.’