Page 77 of Postscript

I don’t know why I say it. I think it’s because I’m trying to sell it to Gerry, because I know it’s what his aunt wants, but after a while I start to believe it. ‘A final gift from Eddie from wherever he is.’

And Gerry clings to that. Over the next weeks we both embark on this mission to return the gifts given to Eddie. To identify the giver, locate them, and return them. And each gift tells a story about the person Eddie was. And the person giving it shares it with us, wants us to know. Why they chose it, the story behind it, and every reason is another moment that Eddie is alive. And even though they’re getting back their own present, they’re getting a piece of Eddie back. And they’ll keep it. It was Eddie’s gift, keeping it will keep him alive, whether it’s a football jersey, stupid novelty boxer shorts, or whether it’s a compass from the uncle for the boy scout nephew so that he’d never again lose his way. Whatever it is, small or big, sentimental or jokey, it represents an acknowledgement of their friendship, and Gerry and I bring it to them, one summer when we’re on our school break. We have part-time jobs but we spend every available hour driving around in Gerry’s dad’s car with Gerry’s provisional licence, just me and him, doing this important adult thing with new-found freedom.

We melted and remoulded together. I watched it happen, I felt it happen. He was in my arms. He was in me.

Sex, death, love, life.

I’m sixteen. Gerry’s seventeen. Everything that breaks around us, glues us together even tighter, because no matter how chaotic, everyone has to find their hiding place or you can’t hear yourself think. Our hiding place is each other.

We create our space, and we live in it.

30

The bag of frozen peas defrosted overnight and left a damp patch at the end of the bed. The damp spot pervades my dreams; whenever my feet brush the wet area, I dream of my feet immersed in water, first a gentle walk on a beach, smooth spongey sand and sparkling water lapping in and out, then later poolside, my legs dangling, moving freely beneath the blue. Later, in a deeper darker sleep, I am held by the ankle, a tight grip on my sore throbbing spot, being dipped head first into the water like Achilles. The act is supposed to be making me stronger, but whoever is holding me by the ankle gets distracted, they dangle me for too long. I can’t breathe.

I awake with a fright, out of breath. Summer has brought a bright morning, birdsong, and a searing path of sunlight that pierces directly through the glass and on to my face as though a giant is crouched above me holding a magnifying glass. I block my eyes and try to fill my parched mouth with saliva. The sky is blue, a car alarm sounds nearby, a bird begins to echo the car alarm. A wood pigeon responds, a child laughs, a baby cries, a football is pummelled against a garden wall.

It has been a restless night. Thrown by Bert’s funeral and by feeling Gerry’s presence, I’m once again flattened by loss.

This is the problem with loving and losing, with holding on and letting go, with being held and then released, reconnecting and then disconnecting. There’s always another side to the coin, there is no middle ground. But I must find it. I can’t lose myself again. I must rationalise, I must locate myself, ground myself, put everything in perspective. I must not make everything about me, my feelings, my needs, my desires, my losses. I must stop feeling so deeply but I must not be numb; I must move on but I must not forget; I must be happy but not reject sadness; I must embrace, but not cling; I must deal with but not dwell on; I must confront but not attack; I must eliminate but not annihilate; I must be gentle with myself but I must be strong. How can my mind be at one when my heart is in two? So many things to be and not be; I am nothing but I’m everything, yet I must, I must, I must.

There’s more I can do, more that I should do. Letters are not enough. I must learn from Bert, I can do more for Ginika and I owe it to Jewel. That is where I’ll start and this throbbing, this pain from my head to my toe will surely, eventually go. It must, and I must make it so. I am motionless but not powerless. Move, Holly, move.

Denise knocks gently on the door. I wrap the duvet around my neck, pretend to be asleep and hope she’ll go away. The door opens slowly and she creeps in. I feel her near me, checking on me. I hear ceramic against my bedside table as she places something down. I smell coffee and buttery toast.

‘Thanks,’ I speak for the first time and it comes out as a croak.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. I’ve had a spiritual awakening.’

‘Oh, that’s nice.’

I smile.

‘I spoke to Ciara, she told me it went well at Bert’s wake yesterday.’

I finally open my eyes to study her, to see if she’s hiding a laugh, but she’s not. She’s empathetic, compassionate, considerate Denise.

‘My part could have gone better,’ I sit up. ‘But it was well received, which is the main thing.’ I look to the bedside locker and I’m right about the food. Creamy buttery scrambled eggs sit atop the slice of brown bread and my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since this time yesterday before work. ‘Thank you for this.’

‘I have to earn my keep.’ She smiles sadly.

‘Did something happen?’

She picks at her cuticle. ‘I went to see Tom yesterday. I told him I was sorry. That I made a mistake, I panicked.’

‘And?’

‘He told me to go fuck myself.’

I wince. ‘Tom is angry, he’s within his rights to lash out, but he’ll come round.’

‘I hope so. I have to woo him. I’m not really a woo-er. I can bribe him with gifts, any ideas?’

My mind has wandered as she spoke. ‘Have you ever thought of adoption?’

‘You think me adopting a baby will woo him?’