Nineteen Letters, page 14
I’m almost home when I decide to take a detour. I know she’ll already be in bed, but the urge I have to be near her is overwhelming.
I place the letter inside the letterbox, then stand back and look up at Jemma’s bedroom window. I’m not sure how long I stand on the footpath outside Christine’s house, but it’s a while.
Even though my heart is heavy, I smile as I think back to that very first day I saw her pressed up against the glass watching me. I never could have predicted how close we would become in the years that followed.
I would give anything to be up there sleeping beside her and holding her in my arms.
Anything.
Chapter 18
Braxton
Ican’t contain my excitement as I jog up the steps to Christine’s front door. I’ve been awake since 5 am, wandering aimlessly around the house just waiting for it to be time to leave. I skipped my usual morning workout and coffee on the back deck because I couldn’t sit still long enough.
“Good morning, Christine,” I say, leaning forward to kiss her cheek when she answers the door.
“Good morning,” she replies beaming. “The happiness I see on my little girl’s face seems infectious.”
“I’m spending the day with her. You have no idea how happy that makes me.”
“I think I do,” she replies, rubbing her hand affectionately down my arm. “I’m glad you two seem to be working things out.”
“We still have a way to go, but we’re getting there slowly.”
She smiles as she moves aside to let me enter.
“Jemma!” she calls out from the bottom of the stairs. “Braxton’s here.”
“Coming!” Jemma yells in reply.
I try to stand still as I eagerly wait to see her. A few seconds later I inhale a sharp breath when she appears at the top of the staircase. The first thing I notice is that she has changed her hair. Her dark brown locks are now shorter and sit just above her shoulders. It’s different from how it has always been, but I like it.
A beautiful yet unsure smile graces her face as she descends the stairs. She’s wearing a pretty white sundress, which accentuates her lean body and tanned skin. My fingers are itching to reach out and touch her. She’s always had a bronzed glow—especially in summer when we spend so much time at the beach—but months have passed since she’s been in the sun.
I extend my hand to her when she’s within reach. “You look beautiful,” I say. “And I love your hair.”
“You do?” she asks as a pink tinge fills her cheeks. I find her bashfulness—which is something new I have learned about her—endearing.
“I do.”
She tucks a strand behind her ear as the smile on her face grows.
My eyes land on the jagged red scars that are now visible along her hairline. It takes nothing away from her beauty, but I get a pang in my heart nevertheless. They will serve as a constant reminder of everything we’ve lost.
“I had it cut yesterday while I was out. I bought this as well,” she says, fanning out the skirt of her dress.
“It’s lovely.”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t know she went out yesterday, but I’m no longer privy to what she gets up to during the day, apart from our daily trips to rehab. Christine told me she spends most of her time in her room, which saddens me. She was always an outdoorsy person and hated being locked away.
“I caught the bus into town.”
She did? “Wow. That’s great.” As much as I wish it was me she was spending her time with, I’m glad she’s getting out of the house and living again. “I’m proud of you.”
“I wanted to go back to that beach you took me to.”
“Ah, that explains your tan.”
“I didn’t go in the water, just sat in the sun watching the waves. I love it there,” she says, in a breathy kind of sigh.
“It was always your favourite place to be.”
“I wish you’d have something to eat before you leave, Jemma,” Christine says when we enter the kitchen. “I don’t like the idea of you going out with an empty stomach.”
“I’m fine,” Jemma says, placing a kiss on her mother’s cheek before scooping a basket off the kitchen table. “We have this, remember?” Her gaze moves to me. “I packed us a picnic lunch. Like we used to have by the river at Ma and Pa’s farm.”
I’m grinning as I take the basket out of her hand. Today already feels like old times.
“This place is beautiful,” Jemma says as we pass through the small town and head towards the rolling green hills of the countryside. It hasn’t changed in the past few years. “It’s so green … so picturesque. I can see why my grandparents chose to never leave.”
“They loved it here. This is where your grandfather grew up. Ma moved here after they were married.”
“Tell me about them, Braxton. I only know what you’ve told me in the letters. Christine never talks about them.”
“They were amazing people … truly amazing. I don’t know how they met, but I’m sure your mother can fill you in on that story. I know Ma was a city girl before she married. She loved her life here with Pa.”
“I wish I could remember them.” I wish she could remember me, and how much we loved each other. “What happened to them? How long ago did they die?”
I knew that question would come up today. There’s no good way to answer it.
“Your Pa died first,” I say, glancing her way. “It was unexpected and very sudden.”
She’s hesitant with her reply. “How?”
“He had a heart attack in the orchard. When he didn’t come up to the house for lunch Ma went searching for him and found him lying beneath one of the apple trees. She tried to resuscitate him. The coroner said he’d been dead for over an hour by the time she found him.”
I see her hand come up to cover her mouth, as her head turns away from me. “Poor Ma,” I hear her whisper. Poor Ma is right. Pa’s death broke her, and what happened in the days that followed proved that.
The tyres crunch as I turn off the main road and head down the long gravel driveway that leads to the farmhouse. The branches of the large jacaranda trees that line both sides of the driveway overlap in the middle forming a kind of archway. It’s such a shame they aren’t in bloom; the sea of purple flowers that cover the trees when they are, and the blanket they create on the ground when the flowers fall, really is a sight to see. Jemma loved that so much. I hope I get the chance to bring her back in spring so she can experience it again.
When we reach the end of the driveway, the farmhouse comes into view. It’s been three years since I’ve been back here, but the place hasn’t changed much. The gardens aren’t as colourful and lush as they once were, but just being here makes me smile. Ma loved her garden and would potter around out here for hours while Pa was working the land out back. This place holds so many wonderful memories for me, as it once did for Jemma.
“Are you okay?” I ask, placing my hand on Jemma’s leg as I turn off the ignition.
“Yes,” she replies, turning her face towards me. She smiles, but I can tell it’s forced.
“Losing them both was a terrible time for us all.”
“I can imagine.”
“This is their farmhouse,” I say, pointing out the front windscreen. “Do you want to have a look around?”
“Are we allowed? Does someone else live here?”
“No. Your grandparents left this place to your mother in their will.”
Christine hasn’t been back since Ma’s death, but she won’t sell it. She’s scarred by what happened the last time she was here, but this place was her home once. It’s all she has left of her parents, and I know she’ll never part with it.
I thought about asking Christine for the keys to get inside, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Just having Jem here is an enormous step forward. I tried for months to get Jemma to come back here after Ma’s death, but she flat out refused.
We walk down the front path towards the house—her eyes are everywhere as we step onto the wide wraparound veranda. Ma and Pa always sat out here of an evening. In the summer months, they would sit side by side drinking iced tea, and Ma would make homemade lemonade for me and Jem. On colder nights, they would sit under the multi-coloured blankets Ma crocheted. Jem and I had our own blankets as well.
“They were Ma’s and Pa’s rocking chairs,” I say as she runs her hand over the back of one. “We used to sit on that swinging chair down there.” I turn my body slightly and point to the far end of the veranda where the long wooden bench seat hangs from the roof by large chains. “Or occasionally we’d lie out on the grass and look up at the stars.” I give her a moment to absorb it all before I speak again. “Come check out the view from the back of the house. You can see over the entire orchard from up here.”
“Okay.”
She smiles when I place my hand on the small of her back and guide her in that direction. When we reach the rear of the house, she comes to a sudden stop.
“Wow.” I’m pretty sure I wore the same look of amazement the first time I came here. She takes a few steps forward and her hands grip the rail as her eyes take it all in. Not only can you see the rows of perfectly aligned apple trees, but also the rolling green hills nestled in the distance behind them. The view from up here is nothing short of postcard-worthy. “It’s breathtaking.”
“It is,” I reply, but unlike her, I’m not talking about the landscape. My eyes are firmly fixed on her.
When I hear her stomach growl, I look down at my watch and see it’s almost midday. “Shall we have our picnic down by the river? It’s only a five-minute walk from here, it’ll be just like old times.”
She smiles. “I’d like that. I was hoping we’d get to see the river.”
I have so much to show her. I’m going to drag this day out as long as I can. Who knows when I’ll get this opportunity again?
I leave her standing on the back veranda while I collect the picnic basket and a blanket from the car.
As we head across the grassed area towards the apple trees, she points to the large wooden barn. “What’s in there?”
“That’s where Pa used to store his machinery and the apples after harvest.”
“It’s big.”
Although the trees haven’t been tended to for some years now, they’re in surprisingly good condition. I’m saddened to see all the rotten apples scattered on the ground beneath the trees though, it’s such a waste.
“What was that?” Jemma asks, grabbing hold of my arm.
“What was what?”
“That rustling noise.” Coming to an abrupt stop, I listen. When I hear the noise she’s referring to, I turn my head in that direction. “Do you think it’s a snake?” she asks, moving closer to my side.
“Not this time of year, it’s not warm enough,” I answer, chuckling. “Stay here. I’ll go check it out.”
“I’m coming with you.” The way she latches onto my arm tells me she’s frightened.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m not afraid,” she says, straightening her shoulders.
“Right.” I chuckle again because I know damn well she is.
We make our way down a few rows and the noise gets louder. Placing my hand out, I halt her. Crouching down slightly, I smile when I see a baby goat feasting on the apples that have fallen from a tree.
“Shh.” I place my finger against my mouth, and gesture for Jemma to follow me with my other hand. “Come,” I whisper.
All sign of fear disappears the moment the baby goat comes into view. “Oh my god, it’s so cute,” she says in a soft voice. “It’s so tiny.”
A loud bleating sound comes from behind us, making Jemma scream and jump behind me. I throw back my head and laugh when I see two larger goats standing a few metres away.
“It’s not funny,” she says, slapping my arm. I beg to differ; I find it hilarious. When the larger goat takes a step closer and releases another bleating sound, Jemma’s fingers dig into my flesh. “Shoo them away. Please shoo them away.”
“You’re not afraid of goats, are you?”
“No! Umm, yes. Crap, Braxton, do they bite?”
“They must be wild goats. They’re probably trying to get to their baby.”
She pops her head out from behind me. “That one has horns.” We hear another bleating sound and see a few more goats approaching from the other direction. “Crap, there’s more. They’re surrounding us ready to attack.” I can hear the strain in her voice, but I still can’t help but laugh.
“They’re not going to attack us,” I say, trying to calm her.
“Get them away!” She’s panicking now, so I snap into action.
“Scram!” I yell, taking a step forward and flicking my free hand out in front of me.
I expect them to run, but that’s not what happens. Instead, to my amazement they all fall onto their sides like a pack of dominoes, their stiffened legs protruding from underneath them. It’s such a comical sight, I have no control over the loud laugh that spills from my mouth. That is until Jemma speaks.
“Oh my god, you killed them,” she cries. For a split second, I think I have as well, until a few of them move, thrashing their bodies around trying to stand. The rest quickly follow. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Have I just been punked by a small tribe of goats?
“What the hell just happened?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” I turn to face Jemma and see the same stunned look on her face.
“You saw that, right?” If she wasn’t here to witness it, I could have sworn I was hallucinating. “Did they fake their own deaths?”
“I think they fainted,” she says. A grin tugs at her lips moments before she covers her mouth with her hand and laughs.
It begins as a giggle, but soon turns into a full-on belly laugh. It’s infectious. When she snorts, I lose it to where tears fill my eyes and my sides hurt. It feels so good to truly laugh again, but more importantly, to hear Jem laugh.
We’re both still chuckling as we continue down to the river and hear the trickling of the water as we approach.
“Wow,” she says when the river comes into view. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”
“It’s pretty special,” I agree as I lay out the blanket and picnic basket and follow her towards the water’s edge.
“I love that about your letters,” she says as I stop beside her. “The way you describe things … I swear if I close my eyes, I can almost picture everything.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying them. Do you want to hear something interesting?”
“Sure.”
“I did some research on the human brain after the accident and found out that we only remember twenty per cent of our lives. And out of that, it’s usually the poignant moments from our past that stick with us … things that stood out at the time. You’ve been such an important part of my life, Jem, so it’s only natural that my poignant moments involved you.”
“Only twenty per cent? I thought it would’ve been more.”
“Me too.”
I bend down and pick up a pebble from near my feet, then skim it across the water. As kids, Jem and I had competitions to see who could get the most bounces. I usually won, but there were times I purposely threw a bad one so she could beat me. I would never admit that to her, though. She used to have a fierce competitive streak, and she would have hated it if she knew she hadn’t won legitimately.
She bends down and picks up a pebble as well. “Can you teach me how to do that?”
“Sure. Hold it in between your forefinger and thumb.” I try to ignore the feelings that well up when I wrap my fingers around her hand to reposition the pebble. My eyes flick to hers and I find her staring at me, but I look away. It’s so easy for me to get lost in those big brown eyes of hers, and I’m worried I’ll do something stupid, like try to kiss her. “Keep it at that angle when you throw it, so it skims across the surface of the water, instead of sinking.”
Her first throw is a flop, and the pebble sinks straight to the bottom, but the steely determination of my old Jem shines through as she picks up pebble after pebble until she masters it. I love that although she’s a different person from the one she once was, there are still some characteristics of the old her present.
“Are you hungry?” she asks, leading me back to the picnic blanket.
“Starved.”
“Good. I’ve packed plenty.” She reaches into the basket and pulls out a container that’s filled to the brim with sandwiches cut into triangles. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I went with ham, cheese and lettuce.” I see a grin form on her face.
“I love that my letters have given you back a piece of your past.”
“I’ve read them so many times I’ve lost count.” She sighs as her gaze moves down to the container on her lap. “I don’t want them to be just words on a piece of paper … I want them to be memories so familiar they almost seem real.”
“They are real,” I say, reaching for her hand. When she lifts her face to meet mine again, the sadness I see in her eyes tugs at my heart. “Everything we shared was real, Jem.” I blow out a long breath and force my voice to remain steady. “It was real,” I repeat, squeezing her hand.
We eat our lunch in silence, just enjoying the scenery, the sunshine, and each other’s company.
“I made you something special,” she says when we’ve finished eating the sandwiches. She reaches into the basket again and pulls out a dish wrapped in a red-and-white cloth.
“I asked Christine for Ma’s recipe …” She removes the cloth and reveals a delicious-looking apple pie.
“It’s Ma’s recipe?” I ask, sitting forward and rubbing my hands together.
“The apples might not be as good as the ones here on the farm, but I followed the recipe to a tee. Christine helped me with the pastry, though. I hope you like it.”
