Page 60 of Postscript

‘For Eva,’ he says, pushing it into the centre of the cake. He looks at it for a moment and I can’t even imagine the depths of his thoughts. Perhaps he’s making his own wish. Then he lights it.

I press record and zoom in on his face, half-hidden beneath the cake held up in his hands. He starts to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. He closes his eyes, makes his wish, then blows the candle out. When he opens them, his eyes are misty. ‘PS. I love you, baby.’

I end the recording.

‘Beautiful,’ I say quietly, not wanting to ruin his moment.

He takes the phone from me and reviews his work and while he’s doing that I look inside the shopping bag.

‘Paul? How many candles do you have in here?’

He doesn’t answer. I turn the bag upside down and everything spills on to the marble countertop.

‘OK,’ he says, after watching the recording back. ‘Maybe zoom in on me and the cake more, I don’t want too much of the background.’ When he looks up, he sees my face, then the contents of the bag on the counter. Pink and blue numbered candles fill the countertop. I see 4, 5, 6 – all the way to ten. I see an 18, 21, 30. All the years he’s prepared himself to miss. He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, embarrassed. ‘Too weird?’

‘No.’ I gather myself. ‘Not at all. But we’re going to need a lot more time to get through this. And we’re going to have to mix things up a little. We can’t have them looking at you in the same shirt every year. Can you get some different tops? And fancy dress. I bet you guys have lots of fancy dress, let’s make this fun.’

He smiles, grateful.

Despite the battle Paul faces, a battle he’s had to fight once already, I find that spending time with him feels productive. With Gerry I felt so powerless, we were at the whim of every doctor’s decision, following appointments, schedules and treatments to a T, not knowing enough about it ourselves to be able to make clear decisions or take different options. I felt powerless. Now, while I’m obviously still powerless against Paul’s tumour, at least I feel that I can do something for him. We have a goal and we’re getting somewhere. Perhaps this is how Gerry felt while writing the letters for me. While everything else was uncertain, or out of his control, he had this one thing under control. At the same time I was fighting for him to live, he was making preparations for after his death. I wonder when that began, what moment he submitted to the knowledge, or did it begin as a ‘just in case’ as it did with Paul.

Spending time with Paul is the ideal remedy to the personal web of confusion I find myself in, because I’m able to discuss these thoughts with him. He wants to know, he wants to hear. The club need me, they want me, and when I tell them stories about Gerry and rehash memories of his letters, I don’t need to check myself mid-sentence, I don’t have to apologise or stop myself as I do with family and friends if I feel I’m going on, or trapped in a time warp, or moving backwards. The club want to hear about Gerry and the letters, they want to hear about my life with Gerry, they want to hear about how I miss him and of how I remember him. And as they listen, perhaps in their minds they replace him with their own image, and me with their loved ones, envisioning what it will all be like when they’re gone. It’s my safe place to discuss him, it’s my place to bring him alive again.

I can quite happily immerse myself in this world.

25

After a two-hour hospital wait that gives me another insight into my PS, I Love You Club members’ lives and how hospital visits, waits, check-ups, tests, results, are so much a part of their lives, I lie back on the hospital bed and watch the nurse draw a line in marker on my cast. Six weeks after shackling me, they’re happy with the healing of my ankle revealed in the X-rays. She positions the blade at the start of the guideline, applies gentle pressure and moves the cutter smoothly along the line. Slowly she pulls back the cast, revealing my pale skin, red and sore in places where it reacted to the plaster. Some of my skin comes away with the cast, it looks raw, as if it has been burned.

I wince.

The nurse looks at me, a pained expression. ‘Sorry.’

My ankle, shin and calf is distraught, paler in places where it is not flaming red with burns, and it’s skinnier than my right leg. It has faced a trauma, is fragile in comparison to the rest of me. It will catch up. I’m relieved.

I feel like an onion, another layer gone. I sting, I am raw, but I feel unshackled and unpeeled.

‘Hello?’ I call, stepping into the narrow entrance hall, varied art on the walls and a long rug lining the original floorboards. I make my way slowly over the rug wearing a new walking boot to help with the weight placement on my weakened ankle. Though not completely free, I’m grateful to be without the crutches and cast. I breathe in the air of the house I had almost considered my home. Gabriel, not long in from work, wearing his work combats and bomber jacket, is sitting in an armchair tapping away on his phone, and looks up at me, surprised.

‘Holly,’ he stands. ‘I just texted you. How did it go?’ He looks down at my foot.

‘I have to wear this for a few weeks, then I’m as good as new.’

He comes to me and hugs me. My phone vibrates in my pocket.

‘That’s from me,’ he says.

‘Is Ava here?’ I pull away, and look around.

‘No, not yet, she’s moving in on Friday, after school.’ He breathes out anxiously.

‘You’ll be great.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Can we talk?’ I ask, moving to the couch.

He looks at me nervously, then sits.