Page 93 of Postscript

‘He looks like shit. All bloated. Says he can’t see out of his left eye. I couldn’t sleep after that, thinking about him, about everything. The sentences came into my head and I couldn’t get them out so I started writing.’

‘Do you want me to read over it for you?’

She shakes her head. ‘Your work is done. Thanks, miss,’ she attempts a joke, but it lacks her usual zest.

My eyes fill and overflow, and this time she doesn’t tell me to stop. She doesn’t tell me I’m an idiot or a softy, because she’s crying too.

‘I’m scared,’ she whispers so quietly I can just about make the words out.

I wrap my arms around her and hold her tight. ‘I know. I’m here for you. Joy is here. Paul is here. Denise is here. We’re all here for you. You’re not alone.’

‘Was your husband scared, in the end?’ she asks, tears streaming from her face. I can feel them soaking my neck.

‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘He wanted me to hold his hand, the entire time. But then something happened, he slipped away. It was calm. It was quiet.’

‘Peaceful?’

I nod and cry. ‘Yes,’ I manage. ‘So so peaceful, Ginika.’

‘OK,’ she says, and pulls away. ‘Thanks.’

I reach for the tissues beside her bed and hand her one, take one for myself.

‘Ginika Adebayo, you are a precious amazing woman and I have nothing but respect and love for you.’

‘Ah, thanks, Holly. I feel the same about you,’ she says, firmly taking my hand, to my surprise, and squeezing it. ‘Thank you for everything. You did more than any of us ever asked you to.’ She looks at the door and her face changes. She lets go of my hand. ‘Fuck it, they’re here and I look a mess.’

‘You don’t.’ I grab another tissue and dry her face.

She straightens her turban, smooths down the bed blankets and slowly, painfully adjusts her position. She reaches to the drawer in the locker beside her and retrieves an envelope. I recognise it as the one she and Jewel chose on the day I set up the stationery in Joy’s home. My eyes fill again, I cannot control my emotions. She hands it to me and our eyes lock.

‘Now you have to go. Go, leave, goodbye,’ she says, shooing me away.

‘Good luck,’ I whisper.

I have to remember, for every goodbye, there’s been a hello. And there’s nothing more wonderful than a hello from one person to another. The sound of Gerry’s voice each time he picked up the phone. When he opened his eyes in the morning. When I came home from work. When he watched me walking to meet him and made me feel like I was everything. So many beautiful hellos, only one real goodbye.

Ginika is busy today, fixing what she can, preparing the world for the gap she will leave, preparing for the biggest goodbye to the most important person in the world to her.

Jewel’s foster mother has arrived with Jewel, and Ginika has asked for Denise and Tom to attend. They wait outside the room with their solicitor. Ginika has a will to write, with Jewel’s guardians to add. The rules usually only allow two visitors at a time but for Ginika, in these circumstances, they allow for all necessary parties to be present. For their privacy, I step out of the room as soon as they all arrive, but I do procrastinate. I stay to watch as Ginika uses every bit of the dying energy from her body to take Jewel from Betty’s arms, and place her in Tom’s arms. A great hello.

If only Gerry knew what he’d started.

Of course I’ll never know what Gerry was thinking when he wrote his ten letters for me, but I am learning one thing. It wasn’t all for me as I’d believed at the time, it was his own way of trying to continue his life when life had exhausted all avenues, and death was moving closer to catch his fall. It was his way of saying not just to me but to the world, remember me. Because ultimately, it’s all anyone wants. Not to get lost, or left behind, not to be forgotten, to always be a part of the moments they know they’ll miss. To leave their stamp. To be remembered.

34

‘You’ve got to crack a few eggs to make an omelette,’ I say aloud, surveying the disaster site that is my bedroom as I try to pack up for my move.

‘Eggs give me the squirts,’ Ciara shouts from further away than I thought. She’s in the spare bedroom next door.

‘Ciara!’ I warn.

She appears at my bedroom door, wearing a peculiar collection of clothes that I just bagged for the shop. All at once, together, mismatched.

‘You’re supposed to be helping me fill the bags, not empty them for dress-up.’

‘But if I did that, I wouldn’t look like this.’ She poses provocatively against the doorframe. ‘I think I’ll wear this outfit on Friday night.’