Unable to take any more time off work, and still feeling revived and enthusiastic a week after my great epiphany, I decide to begin my days earlier. It’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I’m feeling positive about the next mission with Paul. I wait in the vast empty car park of a retail park, which is the address he’s given me. I have no idea why I’m here. I don’t have any control over Paul’s ideas, I’m merely the camera holder and that’s all he wants me to be. I wonder if I should be more, if he will make room for me to be more.
A car finally enters the car park and I can’t help but laugh. It’s a bottle-green Morris Minor, not Paul’s usual car. I film his arrival, keeping my laughter silent and trying to hold my hand steady. I’m not supposed to be seen or heard. He parks beside me and lowers the window, which takes a while as it’s a manual roll-down, but adds to the humour.
‘Hi, Casper,’ he says to the camera. ‘You’re sixteen. Looking good. I’m sure the girls love you. This here is the car that my dad, Grandpa Charlie, taught me to drive in. It wasn’t cool then, it isn’t cool now, but today I’m taking you on your first driving lesson in the same car Grandpa Charlie taught me to drive in. Hop in,’ he says, winking.
‘What’s wrong?’ he looks at me, uncertainly, when we’ve finished filming the driving lesson. ‘Not good? I’m not sure if you were feeling that one.’
‘It’s great!’ I plaster a smile on my face, but I’m worried. He made quite a few comments that I don’t think will be relevant in sixteen years, and I don’t think Paul has thought this through entirely. He’s acting as though this driving lesson is about to happen to his two-year-old son tomorrow, mentioning friends his son has now, referencing everything from now, or things that it is impossible to predict in fifteen years’ time. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to spoil Paul’s mood. His wishes are my command and it’s uplifting to be with him when he is in such a cheery mood. Preparing the letters and films doesn’t steep us in darkness as one would imagine, as Gabriel feared; it’s all positive and fun and forward-thinking. I’d like him to see me as I am at this moment; laughing and smiling, enjoying time with someone he assumed would drag me down into a deep depressive state.
‘Are we still good for Eva’s videos tomorrow?’ he asks, high-energy, anxious, worried as if I’m going to say no.
‘Everything is organised.’
‘Great,’ he says. ‘Then we’re almost finished. I need to have it all complete by next week.’
Once I’m finished with Paul, there’s only one person left. What will I do then? ‘Why next week?’
‘The craniotomy is scheduled.’
Without a doubt, brain surgery of any description is probably the most dangerous surgery you can undergo. A craniotomy is the most common type of brain surgery to remove a brain tumour, where the surgeon cuts out a part of the skull to get to the brain. Often it’s not possible for the surgeon to remove all the tumour so they remove as much as they can; this is called debulking. The risks are infection, haemorrhage, or bleeding in the brain, blood clots, brain swelling, seizures, some patients can develop a stroke due to low blood pressure.
‘My husband had one.’
‘It will be my third. The surgeon has suggested there may be left-sided paralysis.’
‘They have to give you the worst-case scenario.’
‘I know. But I want to have all the messages ready, just in case. I’ve written the letter for Claire, and we’ve dozens of videos, you’ll have them all ready, won’t you?’ His legs bounce nervously beneath the steering wheel.
‘I’ve been sending them to the email address we set up for Casper and Eve,’ I say calmly, trying for my tone to be an influence.
‘My letter will tell Claire what to do for the kids,’ he says.
I nod. I hope Claire will think it’s a good idea, otherwise she will be burdened for the rest of her life delivering emails to her growing children. I wonder if I should ask him this, but instead I ask, ‘Paul, should you even be driving?’
He’s irritated by this question.
‘I ask only out of concern.’ For almost four years my days revolved around what Paul is experiencing. I know about the double vision, the seizures, the immobilisation. Gerry’s licence had been suspended.
‘After next week, I won’t be. After next week, I won’t be doing a lot of things. Thanks for your help, Holly.’
It’s blunt and I know it’s my cue to get out of the car.
A tap on my window gives me a fright.
Paul looks up and curses.
I look out and see a young woman, around my age, with a yoga mat bag over her shoulder, glaring angrily through the window.
‘Shit,’ I whisper. I look at Paul, who’s white in the face. ‘Is that Claire?’
He paints on a wide grin and gets out of the car.
‘Paul,’ I hiss, my heart pounding with nerves.
‘Just go with what I say.’ He smiles at me through gritted smiling teeth.
Claire backs away from my window.
‘Hi honey,’ I hear him say warmly, oozing with charm and in my opinion lies.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ I whisper to myself before taking a deep breath and opening the door.
Claire won’t embrace her husband, her body language is cold.
‘What the hell are you two doing?’ She looks at me. ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing with my husband?’
‘This is Holly, honey,’ he says in a warning tone. ‘Look at me. This is Holly. She’s a friend of Joy’s, she’s a member of the book club.’
Claire looks me up and down, and I can’t look her in the eye. This situation is awful, it’s what I feared. I even hate me. If I had found Gerry sitting in a car with another woman, a week before a big operation, after giving my life to his care, I’d have wanted to strangle them both. This is not good.
‘You said you were getting toys for the kids in Smyths,’ Claire says. ‘You’re not even supposed to be driving, but I let you go. I’ve been so worried, I’ve been calling you. I have a class now, I had to call Mum to mind the kids. Jesus, Paul what are you doing? And why have you got your dad’s old car?’
The frustration is steaming from her. I’m on her side.
‘I’m sorry, I forgot about your class. I’ll go straight home and mind the kids, your mum can go home. And you’re right, I shouldn’t have driven. I met Holly in Smyths, I didn’t feel well and I asked if she’d mind driving me home. Nothing serious, just a headache and a little dizzy, but I didn’t trust myself to get behind the wheel so I was showing her how it works, that’s all.’
He speaks too fast, it’s hard to believe but also difficult to interrupt and argue with. Claire looks at me. I take a step away, ready to leave.
‘She was helping me out, that’s all.’ Paul looks at me. ‘Doing me a huge favour. Isn’t that right?’
I look at him. ‘Yeah.’
There’s no way that Paul is out of the woods yet but I’m not sticking around for it. I will not be made a liar, or a cheat.
‘It was nice to meet you, Claire,’ I say apologetically, feeling self-conscious about my tone, my words, my expression, my stance. ‘Make sure you get home safely, Paul,’ I say stonily.
I signed up to this to help, not to be the lie, not to be the punching bag. Even if that does help him, each hit bruises me.
By the end of my work day, I feel like I’ve reached the point of exhaustion as I sit at the table with Ginika. We’re blending, running all the sounds together to make the word. I set up a sun umbrella so we could sit outside with bees dancing noisily around us feasting themselves on Richard’s colourful additions. The garden furniture has been dusted off, sanded and varnished, in time for the two-week heatwave that’s upon us. Denise is on a blanket with Jewel, rolling around, singing and laughing, pointing out birds and bees and flowers, while Jewel’s tiny pudgy forefinger is in constant pointing mode.
Her favourite word is ‘wow’ and right now, the whole world is wow.
‘Look, Jewel, an aeroplane!’ Denise says, lying on her back and pointing up at the sky, at the lone airplane streaking across the blue sky, leaving a trail of white behind it.
‘Wow,’ says Jewel, ready with her pointing finger.
While Denise opens Jewel’s eyes to the world around her, I am grateful for the equally attentive Ginika, who has been seriously keeping her side of the bargain. Whatever reckless kind of student she claims to have been in school, she certainly isn’t that now. Dedicated, punctual, prepared, she is pouring her heart and soul into her literacy like her life depends on it.
‘S-h—’
‘Those two letters go together, sound them together.’ I put my finger over my lips to give her a hint.
‘Sh,’ she says, and I grin, happily, proudly.
‘Sh-i-t.’ She sounds them out separately. She frowns and says it again. ‘Shit,’ she says suddenly, realising, then looks up at me. ‘Shit.’
I grin.
‘I wish my school had been more like this,’ she says, laughing.
‘Next word.’
‘F-u-ck. Fuck. Fuck!’ she laughs.
‘Next one.’
‘P-ai-n. Pain.’
‘Yes!’ I punch the air. ‘A and I go together, you didn’t separate their sounds.’ I hold my hand up for a high-five.
She rolls her eyes and gives me a weak high-five, embarrassed by the praise. ‘You are such a dork. Shit, Fuck and Pain,’ she reads. ‘What kind of shitty mood are you in?’
‘Some words have an irregular spelling and can’t be read by blending,’ I continue, ignoring her question.
Ginika tuts.
‘I know, there’s always something to throw at us just as we’re getting the hang of it.’
‘Like cancer.’
‘Ginika!’
She laughs wickedly.
‘Unfortunately, many of these words are common words and we call these tricky words.’
Ginika rolls her eyes. She rolls up her sleeves. ‘Right. Let me at the bastards.’
I smile. ‘For example. This word,’ I write it down. ‘Normally we would read this as …’
‘L-a-u-g-h,’ Ginika sounds it out with the g and h sound. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Perfect,’ I smile.
‘I got it right?’
‘You got it right and wrong. It’s a tricky word so it’s actually pronounced laugh. The GH has an f sound.’
‘Ah for fuck’s sake, then why don’t they give it an “f”? How’s anybody supposed to learn this stuff?’ She tosses her pencil up in the air and it lands on the table. The pointed lead dents the fresh varnish. I pretend her outburst never happened; it’s certainly not the first time.
‘Ginika,’ Denise says. ‘Sorry to interrupt you guys.’ She has a peculiar tone, she sounds nervous. ‘A friend of mine was getting rid of some baby stuff recently – her kids are older now, and she was going to throw out a buggy. I took it, thinking it might be good for Jewel. You don’t need to use it if you don’t want …’
‘She hates buggies, you know that. She likes to be held,’ Ginika says firmly, not looking up from her page.
‘Of course, you’re her mam, you know best. But I thought I’d take it instead of letting it go in the skip. I’ll show you.’ She dashes into the house, while we watch Jewel lying on her stomach and focusing on a blade of grass, her finger pointing, gently touching it, and then … grabbing and pulling. Denise returns to the garden with the buggy.
It doesn’t look old at all. It’s brand new.