Nineteen Letters, page 13
When he’s finished his cup of tea, I help him from the bed and lead him into the bathroom so he can change. I’m paranoid he’s going to fall again. The sad part is that his body is still reasonably fit and strong for his age. It’s only his mind that’s failing him.
I walk behind Jemma and my father when we reach the place he now calls home. She has her arm hooked through his as they chatter away. It reminds me of the good old times when they adored each other.
I once took everything I had for granted, but not anymore. I would give anything for things to be the way they were.
“Your father’s sweet,” Jemma says as I back out of the parking space.
The staff at the home love him; he never gives them any trouble. Two nurses were fussing over him when we left, and he was smiling. I think he likes all the attention, which always makes it easier for me to leave him here.
“He’s a good man. You two were very close once.”
“I really like him. Has he been sick for long?”
“He was diagnosed almost three years ago. At first, he would forget little things, like where he’d put his glasses, or if he’d taken his medication. When he began asking the same question numerous times, or constantly repeat himself, we knew there was a problem. The medication the doctor gave him seemed to help for a while, but his illness has progressed rapidly since then.”
“That’s so sad.”
“It is. It almost killed me to put him in here, but it’s the best place for him. I have to remember that.”
“I can imagine how hard that decision would have been for you.”
“It was. You were a great support, though. You always knew how to make me feel better. I don’t think I could have gone through with it without you.”
My eyes briefly leave the road, moving to her. I miss my wife so much. I know she’s still very much here, but on the other hand, she isn’t. Things are nothing like they used to be, and I don’t know if they ever will be again.
We’re silent for most of the drive home.
“Braxton?” asks in a voice so soft I barely hear it.
“Yes.”
“Are you really afraid of heights?”
I clear my throat, as I turn into Christine’s street.
I can’t believe I even confessed that after all this time. “Yes.” I shift in my seat slightly. I don’t know why I feel like less of a man because of this, but I do.
“You should have told me. I’m sure I would have understood.” She’s right, she probably would have, but it was my own insecurity that stopped me from admitting my deepest fear to her. I could do no wrong in her eyes. She always made me feel like her hero, when in reality I was anything but. “I hope I didn’t make you suffer too much.”
Her response makes me chuckle. If only she knew. When I think about all the things I’ve forced myself to do with her over the years because I was too scared to tell her the truth, it’s kind of ridiculous.
“Are we still on for the weekend? We can head to the country Saturday morning if you like,” I ask, keen for a change of subject.
“That sounds perfect.”
“Great.”
When I pull into Christine’s driveway, she picks up her handbag from the floor by her feet.
“Thanks for coming with me to see my dad,” I say, when she reaches for the door handle.
“Thanks for taking me.” She pauses briefly before speaking again. “Would it be okay if I came with you to visit him sometimes?”
“I’d like that, and I think my dad would too. It’s funny, he doesn’t remember us, yet I still get the feeling he knows we belong to him.”
She smiles before opening the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It’s not lost on me that she didn’t elaborate on what I just said. My father’s situation and hers are very similar, but I don’t think she feels like she belongs to us anymore.
“Let me get the door for you.”
“It’s okay, I’ve got it.”
I lean back into my chair and read over the letter in my hand.
Letter five …
Dearest Jemma,
The ninth of August 2002. It was your thirteenth birthday, and because it was such an important one, your mum had organised something special—a high tea with all of your girlfriends from school. It was going to be a grand affair. The invitations were handmade and looked like something you’d receive for a wedding, not for a teenage girl’s birthday party.
She bought you a pretty pink party dress—it was all satin, frills, bows and lace. She’d put up a large white marquee in the backyard, and bunches of pink helium balloons adorned the tables.
Your grandmother was coming down to help with the food preparation. The menu comprised tiny quiches, bite-size jam tarts, fancy cupcakes and cucumber sandwiches cut into dainty finger-size portions. They were brought out on multi-layered stands. It was all very posh.
Your mum had even booked you in at the local beautician that morning to have your hair done and your fingernails painted. Thirteen meant you were becoming a young lady, and she wanted it to be celebrated in style.
You weren’t a tomboy, but nor were you a girly girl, so let’s just say you were pretty pissed off with all her plans.
“I don’t want a stupid high tea!” you told me. “I don’t even drink tea. You should see the ridiculous dress she wants me to wear, Brax.” I struggled not to laugh when you stuck your finger in your mouth and pretended to gag. “I’m going to look like that ugly crochet doll that Ma has sitting over her spare roll of toilet paper.” I had to agree that the doll was hideous and creeped me the hell out, but I also knew it was impossible for you to look ugly. “I want to wear jeans and a T-shirt and go to McDonald’s with you and eat cheeseburgers until I puke, and have ice-cream cake. Lots and lots of ice-cream cake.”
I felt bad for you. You always looked forward to your birthday. Every year on the first of January your countdown began. I had to wait until December, so I never bothered counting down to mine.
“I’m sure it’s not going to be that bad,” I told you. I had no idea what a high tea even involved, but I knew that your mother always went above and beyond for you, so whatever she’d planned would be special. She also always made a big fuss of me on my birthday after my mother died. She was wonderful like that.
“I know this isn’t your thing, pumpkin,” your father had said a while later when he came searching for you. He always called you pumpkin. “But your mum has put a lot of effort into this party. She’s been planning it for months. Can’t you just go along with it? It’s just for a few hours. It would make her so happy.”
When he wrapped you in his arms and kissed the top of your head, I knew by the grim look on your face, that this party was going ahead whether you wanted it to or not.
Your mum invited all the girls from your class. Of course I was invited as well, but I was the only boy.
There was no way I was going to sit there and sip on pink lemonade and eat cucumber sandwiches with a bunch of life-sized girls who resembled Ma’s toilet paper doll. For a nearly fourteen-year-old boy, that’s the stuff of nightmares. Luckily your dad felt the same—though he hadn’t dared suggest not holding the party; he would do anything for you but the love he felt for your mum was something else—so we came up with a plan for us to be the waiters for the day. Your mum even hired us tuxedos, so we looked the part.
I’d been doing odd jobs around my house for months to earn extra pocket money so I could buy you a present. I bought you a kite. You used to love playing with mine when we’d go to the beach. Yours was multi-coloured like a rainbow, in the shape of a butterfly.
I was out in the backyard helping your father fill up a drink tub with ice when you came through the back sliding doors onto the patio.
“Braxton, you’re getting ice everywhere,” he said, but his words didn’t register. I was completely mesmerised by you. There was never a moment that I hadn’t thought you were beautiful, but this was the first time you’d stolen all my air and left me completely breathless. There’d be so many more moments like this over the years, but the first time is always the one that stands out the most.
Your long brown hair was down, just the way I liked it. The hairdresser had put soft curls in it, and a pretty pink bow to match your dress. You looked nothing like a toilet paper doll. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and so grown up. It was in that moment my true feelings for you were confirmed. I didn’t just love you; I was besotted … completely head over heels.
“You can close your mouth now, son,” your father said in an amused tone.
His statement was enough to snap me back into reality. That’s when I realised the plastic bag in my hand was now empty, and its contents, the ice, had piled into a small mountain around my feet.
The party was going well, and you even seemed to be having a good time. Well, you were until Sonia Mitchell set her sights on me. She was the mean girl in your class, and you never really liked her.
I was over by the bar refilling the glasses of pink lemonade and placing them on a tray, trying my best to ignore her. It was rude of me, but she’d been following me around for over an hour and it was getting on my nerves. There was only one girl at that party I was interested in, and that was you.
A few minutes later, you approached us, grabbing one of the pink lemonades from the tray. I was both pleased and relieved when you came to stand beside me. You casually stared down Sonia, as you sipped on your drink. It did nothing to stop her advances, though.
“You must get bored hanging out with Jemma all the time,” she said in a bitchy tone as she looked you up and down. I heard you gasp from beside me, but I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to say or do anything that was going to ruin your party. It was your special day, and your mother had gone to so much trouble.
My reply came without hesitation. “Never! Hanging out with Jem is my favourite thing to do.”
“Huh,” she scoffed, narrowing her eyes at you before focusing her attention back on me. Smiling, she innocently twisted her long blonde hair around her finger, which was ironic; she was anything but sweet and didn’t fool me for a second. “You should come to Daddy’s restaurant sometime, Brax. We could make you our special guest.”
Her eyes narrowed again when they moved back to you, and I was struggling to keep my cool. “You want to come with me, Jem?” I asked.
“I meant just you … alone,” Sonia snapped. To say I wasn’t expecting you to react like you did would be an understatement. You lunged forward, faking a trip, which was an impossibility since you were standing still a second prior.
“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, Sonia,” you said as the pink lemonade from your glass soaked into her white silk party dress.
“Ahh! You did that on purpose,” she screamed as she turned and ran into the house crying.
I tried not to laugh, honestly, I did, but the moment my gaze moved to you and I saw you fighting back a smile, I lost it. It was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen. It was about time someone put Sonia Mitchell in her place.
She had her daddy come to pick her up ten minutes later. The party only seemed to improve once she left. Sonia never really spoke to you after that day, but that didn’t seem to bother you in the slightest.
The following morning you knocked on my door early. I was still in my pyjamas, eating Coco Pops while I watched cartoons on the television.
“Can you help me put my kite together?” you asked excitedly. “Dad offered to help, but I want you to do it.”
You were given jewellery, clothes, perfume and an array of girly things for your birthday that year, but you told me the kite was your favourite present. You have no idea how happy that made me.
We put it together in no time, and you sat on my sofa impatiently waiting while I ran upstairs to change.
It was a dreary, overcast winter day, but there was enough breeze to launch that baby into the air. I watched as you ran laps around your backyard, the kite flying behind you. Seeing you happy always made my heart smile. To this day, it still has the same effect on me.
Things were going perfectly until a big gust of wind came and blew the kite towards the large tree in your backyard, snagging it on one of the branches. I tried over and over to untangle it for you, but it was no use.
Your bottom lip quivered as you fought back the tears, and my heart suddenly hurt. The only way that kite was coming down was if someone went up there to get it.
It was so high up, and I prayed that someone would not be me.
“I’ll see if your dad can help us,” I said and ran inside. You can imagine how I felt when your mum told me he had gone for a walk to get the Sunday paper.
My feet dragged as I headed back outside to break the bad news to you.
“I’m going to climb up and get it,” you said.
“No, Jem. It’s too high.” I grabbed hold of your elbow to stop you.
“Let me go,” you snapped, snatching your arm out of my grip. “I’m going up there, and you can’t stop me.” You were so stubborn, and as much as the thought of climbing that tree terrified me, I didn’t have a choice. There was no way I was letting you do it.
“Fine. I’ll go up and get it.”
I felt sick as I climbed onto the first branch. Don’t look down … don’t look down, I chanted in my head as I made my way up.
“Be careful, Brax,” you called out from below.
I swear my whole body was trembling when I lifted my leg and pulled my body up onto the last branch. I sat there for the longest time, paralysed by fear. Don’t look down … don’t look down, I continued to say over and over in my head.
“Are you okay?” you called out.
“I’m fine.” I wasn’t, but there was no way I was admitting that to you.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my Swiss Army knife. It had belonged to my grandfather. He gave it to my dad on his thirteenth birthday, and he’d carried on the tradition by giving it to me. I took it everywhere, except to school.
“What are you doing?”
I was stalling, that’s what I was doing, I couldn’t find the courage to move. “I’m carving my name into the tree.”
I lied. I was carving my heart into that trunk. My deepest, darkest secret—my fear of losing you was what stopped me from ever telling you how I truly felt.
In reality, it was probably only ten minutes, but to me, it felt like a lifetime had passed. And you were growing impatient. “Come on, Brax. I want my kite.”
“Okay.” I folded my knife away and slipped it back into my pocket. Then I took a deep breath and willed myself to move, as I lay face down onto the branch. Don’t look down … don’t look down I continued to chant.
I’d only made it about a metre along when I heard the first crack. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it thumping in my ears.
“Please be careful,” you called out again.
I could hear the fear in your voice and it only intensified my panic. I took another deep breath and continued to snake forward, one terrifying inch at a time. I was only about five metres off the ground, but it felt like a hundred.
I heard another crack, followed closely by another. My grip on the branch tightened and before I even realised what was happening, I was falling. “Braaaaax!” I heard you scream moments before I hit the ground hard.
I don’t remember much after that.
My father was at work, but your parents rushed me to the hospital. My injuries weren’t serious, but my arm was broken in two places. On a positive note, your kite came down with me in the fall.
The hospital kept me in for a few hours for observation because I’d also hit my head in the fall. You sat by my bed in emergency and held my hand while they plastered my arm. I lost count of how many times you apologised.
My dad closed his store and came straight to my bedside when your parents called him. I felt bad when I saw the anguish on his face.
You refused to leave with your parents, just like I had years earlier when you’d been stung by that bluebottle. You remained by my side the entire time.
As soon as we arrived home, my father ordered me to lie down. Apart from the dull ache in my arm, I felt fine, but I did as I was told. I could tell he was angry with me for recklessly climbing the tree, but also incredibly relieved I was okay. I understand it more now; with everything that had happened with my mum, I was all he had left.
You followed us up to my room and when my father suggested you go home so I could rest, you refused. I was grateful he let you stay. You sat on the edge of my bed while my father fussed over me, but the moment he left the room, you pulled back my covers and climbed into bed beside me. You’d never done anything like that before.
“I’m so sorry, Brax,” you said for the hundred-millionth time as you slid your arm around my waist and snuggled into my chest. When I heard you sniffle I knew you were crying, so I pulled your body closer to mine.
“Stop apologising, Jem. It’s not your fault, it was an accident.”
“When you fell from that tree … I … I … I thought I was going to lose you,” you sobbed. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“Don’t cry.” I ran my hand up and down your back to soothe you.
“I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it, Braxton Spencer,” you whispered.
I couldn’t imagine my life without you either, I still can’t. You’re my life, Jem.
I held you tightly until you were sound asleep. It was the first time you’d ever slept in my arms.
Before I closed my eyes, I planted a soft kiss on your hair, and only then did I dare say the words I’d never been able to voice out loud: “I love you with all my heart, Jemma Isabella Rosalie Robinson.”
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
I fold the letter and place it in the envelope, adding the tiny tree charm. I tried to get her a kite as well, but the jeweller didn’t have any in stock.
It’s almost midnight when I log off from my laptop and grab my briefcase from beside my desk, turning off the lights as I leave the office. The thought of going home to an empty house, without Jem there waiting for me, is something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.
