Page 92 of Postscript

‘I thought you were going to say you wanted Jewel.’

‘Me?’

From the way I snap my surprised response, she realises she’s off by a long shot.

‘I adore Jewel, but …’ It feels terrible having this conversation in front of her, I’m pretty sure this wise little one is taking everything in. ‘I’m not … I wouldn’t … I don’t know how to …’

‘You’d be a great ma,’ she says softly.

I don’t know how to respond to that. I self-consciously spoon another mouthful into Jewel’s mouth.

‘You’re around the same age as my ma. And look how good you’ve been with me. I’m not saying, like, that I think you’re my ma, but you know what I mean. You’ve been there for me, you’re helping me in a way a ma would. I bet you were really good with your fella’s daughter.’

I wasn’t. I should have been. I realise I could be.

‘Jesus Christ, are you crying?’

‘Just got some food in my eye,’ I say, blinking back the tears.

‘Come here, you softy,’ she says, and we embrace.

While my back is turned, Jewel has grabbed the jar of food and the spoon and she’s shaken them both ecstatically up and down in the air, so that it’s splashed on her face and hair and all over the table.

‘Actually,’ Ginika adds in her usual dry tone, ‘you are a bit shit.’

I laugh.

‘What are you going to do when we’re all gone?’ she asks, removing the food from Jewel’s hair.

‘Ginika,’ I say softly, shaking my head. ‘I don’t want to talk about that. You’re here now.’

‘I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about you. What are you going to do when the three of us are gone?’

I shrug. ‘Keep working at the shop. Sell the house. Find a place to live.’

‘Move in with your fella.’

‘No. That’s over. I told you.’

She studies me. ‘Nah,’ she says, nudging me. ‘It’s not. He’s a tasty one. Just tell him,’ she laughs, ‘tell him to think of you like you’re a tree. He works with broken ones, doesn’t he?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Tell him to climb your branches and instead of cutting you down, to give you a bit of mending.’ She chuckles. ‘I’ve been watching that fella Dr Phil every morning, I think it’s catching.’ She looks at me. ‘Full of shite, isn’t he, most of the time. But, sometimes, there does be kernels of knowledge,’ she says grandly, waving the spoon around. ‘Call him, ye eejit.’

I laugh. ‘We’ll see, Ginika.’

On the drive home it pains me to think about Ginika’s question, to imagine a world without Ginika, Paul and Joy being in it, for them not to be a constant consideration. I tell myself that there is lots of time before I need to worry about that. But Ginika’s illness is choosing its own pace and a mere two weeks after sitting in her kitchen, giddily laughing and joking, and talking about the future, her future decides to slow down, to come and take a closer look at her.

I sit with Ginika at her bedside in hospital. If she was fire, now she is embers, but she continues to glow and give out heat, proof of fire, symbol of life.

‘I wrote my letter last night,’ she says, dark rings around her eyes.

‘Did you?’ I take her hand.

‘It was so quiet here. Nurses were around but it was calm. I FaceTimed Paul. Have you seen him?’

I nod.