Nineteen Letters, page 5
“Watch Rachel? Why?”
“Just be careful,” he replies, undoing the buttons on his suit jacket and taking a seat at the table.
“What happened with you two? Seriously, man, talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he answers, brushing me off and signalling the waitress over to the table.
There’s a lot more to this than either of them is letting on, but I give him the reprieve he so clearly needs. “How’s business?” I ask. “I feel bad I’ve lumped you with all of it.”
“Don’t even think about it. The contracts are being drawn up as we speak.”
“Great,” I say, smiling. Even if my heart’s not completely in it, I’m truly happy for us; we’ve worked hard to get to where we are … to signing this big deal. If things were different we’d be out celebrating—the three of us: me, Jem and Lucas. “I’m sorry you’re left to deal with it all on your own.”
“Stop saying that. You’re where you need to be. I’m pretty much the brains of our company, anyway.” He says it with a straight face, but I know he’s just trying to rile me up like he always does.
“Whatever, arsehole,” I snap.
He barks out a laugh because I always bite. Always.
Chapter 7
Braxton
One month later …
There’s a spring in my step as I carry the last of the groceries into the house. I was up early this morning and heading to the shops to stock up on all of Jem’s favourite foods. Well, the foods she used to love.
Her memory has shown no sign of returning, so nothing has changed between us; our relationship is still strained, to say the least. I’m not even sure she would class me as a friend, but I refuse to let my mind go there. It hurts too much.
Today marks Jemma’s last day of full-time live-in rehab. She’s finally coming home. This is her dream house, the one I built for her. She loves it here. I desperately hope being here will help spark her memory.
Rachel came over yesterday to help me get the house in order. To my surprise, she returned from New York last week. Her company has granted her special leave. I suspect there’s more to it, but I’m so grateful to have her here. She has helped me keep my head above water.
I want everything to be perfect for Jem’s return. The house is exactly the way it was the last time she left. I’ve made up the spare room, with things the way they are between us, I’m gathering she’ll feel more comfortable in her own space.
She belongs in our bed, next to me, but I know that’s not going to happen right away. I miss my wife … no, I crave her, but if she needs time, that’s what I’ll give her. I’m just over the moon to have her home again.
Once the groceries are packed away, I search in the cupboard under the sink for vases. I went to three different florists on the way home to buy Jemma’s favourite flowers, every stem I could find. They’re the same type I gave her on our first date, and every date since—and they’re what she chose for her wedding bouquet. She has always loved the vivid contrast in colours between the rich yellow roses and the bright purple irises.
As desperate as I am for her to remember those times, that’s not why I’m doing this. I simply want to see her reaction, for her face to light up just like it used to. That look; Christ. I miss that look. It’s exquisite … one of pure beauty.
I close my eyes and try to picture that infectious smile of hers. I need to cling to these memories to help get me through. One day she will love me again, I truly believe that. The alternative is unimaginable.
As I walk through the automatic doors of the rehabilitation centre, I’m as nervous as hell—but I’m still smiling. “Good morning,” I say to Olivia, the young receptionist behind the front desk.
“Good morning, Mr Spencer.”
The staff, just like those at the hospital, have been wonderful with Jemma. I couldn’t have asked for better people to care for my wife.
I’m still getting used to the feelings that run through me every time I see her now: a mixture of love, elation and gripping fear. After the accident, I told myself I would be grateful to have her back in any condition, and I am, but I wasn’t prepared for this. How can she so easily forget the bond we shared? How can she not feel it, when I still do? For me, it’s stronger than ever. How could she forget how much she loves me? Because I know she loved me just as much as I loved her. I felt her love every day of my life. I’m struggling to comprehend how that could just vanish overnight.
“Good morning, ladies,” I say as I enter Jemma’s room.
My eyes briefly skim past Christine and Rachel, before landing on Jem, and the smile I’m wearing immediately drops from my face when my eyes take in her expression. Turning my head slightly, my gaze moves back to Christine, then Rachel. They’re each wearing the same sombre look. My heart sinks. Something’s going on.
Are they not letting Jemma come home?
“Is everything okay?” I ask Jemma as I step towards the bed. “Has something happened?”
She bows her head, and I hate that she can’t look at me. “We need to talk.” Her words are spoken so softly that I barely hear them.
“Sure,” I reply, even though my gut tells me I’m not going to like what she has to say. Talking was something we were always good at. We rarely fought. In the nineteen years we’ve known each other, I can probably count on one hand the number of arguments we’ve had.
“We’ll give you two a few minutes,” Rachel says, ushering Christine towards the door I just entered through. The sympathetic look Rachel gives me as she leaves only heightens my concern.
I watch as Jemma slowly manoeuvres her legs over the side of the bed and sits. The plaster cast has been removed and replaced with a plastic splint. She’s still limping when she walks, but the doctors say it will improve in time as her leg strengthens.
She will be returning here as an outpatient each morning for therapy, from Monday through Friday. I’m finally heading back to work next week, but only in the afternoons so I’m available to bring Jemma to her appointments.
“Come, sit,” she says, tapping the mattress beside her. Her asking me to sit next to her should have me smiling, but it doesn’t. I know her better than she knows herself, and what she’s about to say isn’t something pleasant.
The moment I’m seated, she reaches for my hand. Although I’m bracing myself for what’s to come, I still close my eyes briefly so I can savour her touch.
She sighs deeply before lifting her eyes to meet mine. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me over the past six weeks. I know I haven’t been the most gracious or accommodating patient.” She takes another breath, and I can tell she’s apprehensive about saying whatever it is she needs to say. “I hadn’t given it any thought until Rachel mentioned it, but she said you were eager to have me home.” She pauses briefly before continuing. “That’s not my home anymore, Braxton. I don’t even know where I belong.” And there it is. I feel something crumple inside me when the meaning behind her words sinks in. “I won’t be coming home with you today. I, umm …” Her gaze moves back down to the bed. “I think, under the circumstances, it’s best if I go to my mother’s house.”
I swear I feel my heart tear in two. She’s not coming home.
Standing from the bed, I rub my hand over my chest as that crushing ache returns. I feel like I’m struggling to breathe. “I’m so sorry, Braxton.” It’s obvious by the tone of her voice she’s hurting as well. Maybe not as much as I’m hurting, but it’s there.
“It’s okay,” I lie.
Nothing about this is okay, but I can’t bring myself to hurt her further.
I pack the last of her clothes into a suitcase and zip it up. She wouldn’t even come to the house to gather some of her things. She sent Rachel here instead. It was just another crushing blow to my already fractured heart.
My eyes scan the room as I retrieve the suitcase from the bed. I might be taking a few of her possessions out of this room, but she will still be here … in this room, in this house. There are pieces of her everywhere.
My legs are heavy as I descend the stairs to the living room, where Rachel is waiting. I can’t help but feel like I’m giving up, like I’m allowing this to happen by handing over this suitcase. But on the other hand, what can I do? I can’t force her to love me.
I find Rachel with her back to me, staring at the flowers I bought for Jemma’s homecoming. I strategically placed several vases throughout the house; I wanted her to smile no matter which room she entered. But that’s not going to happen since she refuses to even come here.
“Here are her things,” I say, placing the suitcase down in front of me. It holds clothes, shoes, underwear, toiletries and her make-up.
They’re not even mine to keep, yet I’m hesitant to let Rachel take them. They’re material things and in the grand scheme of things they’re insignificant, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m losing another piece of my wife. It’s only a matter of time before she asks for more. Before I know it, I’ll be left with nothing. Nothing but memories and a shattered heart.
Rachel turns to face me, and the sadness in her eyes is visible from here. I think she can sense this is the beginning of the end for Jemma and me, but neither of us can bring ourselves to say it out loud.
“The flowers are beautiful. She would have loved them.”
The haunted tone of her voice sends a chill down my spine, intensifying the desperation I’m feeling inside. There’s still a tiny light within me. Although it has diminished considerably, it’s still there. I’m hanging onto that tiny piece of hope with everything I have.
I bow my head and run my hand through my hair. The old Jemma would indeed have loved those flowers—this new version, I’m not so sure. The old Jem would have been busting to get home. She would have hated being separated from me, and struggling just like I am.
How could life be so cruel? It has taken the one thing that meant the most to both of us: our love for each other.
“Oh, Braxton,” Rachel says with a crack in her voice, crossing the room and coming to a stop in front of me.
A strangled sob escapes from deep in the back of my throat when she wraps me tightly in her arms and starts crying. I’ve been struggling to hold it together since the accident, but all my strength vanishes as I finally allow myself to contemplate the inevitable.
I completely break down.
I weep for Jemma.
For me.
For us.
Is this really the end?
I feel stupid when I eventually pull away. I immediately dig the heel of my palms into my eye sockets to shield my tears. I’m not one to show weakness, to anyone. Not even Jemma. We all have demons we hide from the rest of the world.
I turn away from Rachel’s tear-stained face, as she stares at me. I hate the pity I see in her eyes. I need a drink; anything to dull this ache.
I head into the kitchen and grab the first bottle I find, reaching for a glass on the top shelf. Rachel doesn’t move from where she stands, but her eyes never leave me. I fill the glass almost to the top. I already know it won’t be enough. The entire bottle probably wouldn’t do the trick.
Tilting my head back, I down the amber liquid in two large gulps. It burns on its way down, but I welcome it. I pour myself a refill, but before I have time to bring it to my lips, Rachel appears beside me and wraps her hand around my wrist. “Don’t. This isn’t the answer.”
I want to snatch my wrist from her hold and tell her to mind her own business, but I don’t. I know she’s suffering as well. This isn’t easy for any of us. She may have lost her friend, but my loss is far greater. I’ve lost my life, my everything.
“Please don’t tell me you’re giving up on her, Brax.”
All I can do is breathe out a long breath. I have no words. In this moment I’m desperate and dipping into self-pity, but deep down I know I haven’t given up. I could never give up on us. If it takes me the rest of my life to win her back, then so be it. I’m in this for the long haul.
“You’ve got to fight for this … for her.”
I place the glass down. “How can I fight for something she doesn’t even remember?”
“Make her remember.”
I chuckle sarcastically at her response. If only it were that easy.
“I’m serious, Braxton. Talk to her. Remind her of everything you once shared.”
“How? She doesn’t even want to talk to me.”
I think that’s what hurts the most—that we can’t even communicate. We’ve never been at a loss for words. We’d talk about anything and everything. We were completely invested in each other’s lives until now.
“Make her listen,” Rachel presses. “Remind her of what you had together. Write her a damn letter if you have to. Just don’t give up. You two were meant for each other.”
“Were being the operative word here,” I whisper.
“No, you’re wrong, you still are! You two share a love like no other.”
I pause and ponder her words. Maybe she’s right. If Jemma won’t listen to my spoken words, she might at least read my written ones. She needs to know what our life together was once like.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Chapter 8
Jemma
The persistent knocking on my bedroom door has me begrudgingly rising from the mattress. I thought if I ignored her long enough, she would go away. I know little about this woman who claims to be my mother, but one thing for sure is she’s unrelenting.
My leg is still in this ridiculous splint, so I move slowly. I’m enjoying the hydrotherapy my doctor has me doing to strengthen my leg because it means I’m free of this dreaded thing, if only temporarily. The downside to my therapy is being forced to spend time with Braxton. That’s not because he’s hard to be around; quite the opposite, he’s always friendly and nice. What I see on his face when we’re together is hard. The pleading, almost desperate look in his eyes. Like he’s silently begging me to remember him. It weighs me down with guilt.
I’ll never forget the look on his face when I told him I wasn’t going home. His devastation tore at my heart. I could feel him breaking apart in front of me without a sound or a single tear. It was a terrible thing to witness, especially knowing I caused it. It’s something I hope to never see or feel again.
He has been so good to me. So tolerant. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, but he needs to put himself in my shoes. I don’t know him. Yes, he’s become somewhat familiar over the past weeks and, yes, he seems like a wonderful guy—sweet, caring and loyal—but that’s just not enough.
I’ve been suddenly thrust into a world I don’t know, don’t remember, and it’s scary as hell. I’m surrounded by strange people loving me and fussing over me but I feel nothing for them in return. It’s extremely daunting. I don’t know anyone, but worst of all, I don’t even know myself.
What’s my favourite colour, or my favourite food? I’d settle for favourite anything right about now. Just a glimmer of the person I once was. Am I a nice person? Or am I a bitch? Even though these people come back day after day with smiles on their faces, and love in their hearts, I can’t help but lean towards the bitch side. I haven’t exactly reciprocated the affection that’s been showered upon me. Does that mean I’m uncaring, or am I just empty inside? I certainly feel empty.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Christine says with a smile when I open my bedroom door. I have an urge to roll my eyes at her statement. Even if I hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have stopped knocking until I was.
“I was just resting.” Hiding from her more like it, but she doesn’t need to hear that.
She’s been nothing but kind since I got here. She’s been giving me the space I need and isn’t trying to push too much onto me at once. Like Braxton, she seems unsure how to treat me.
I think I made the right decision coming here. I had to do what was best for me … what was safe. I do not know what the real Braxton Spencer is like behind closed doors. My gut tells me he’s a good guy. The side I see when we’re together doesn’t appear to be forced or fake, but the truth is I don’t know if that’s the real him. I know nothing about him.
“These just arrived for you,” she says, holding up an exquisite arrangement of yellow and purple flowers.
Without knowing what kind of flowers they are, or even who they’re from, they make my breath catch in my throat. I can’t explain it, but they make me feel … something. But what? I have no idea.
“It’s so nice to see you smiling,” my mother says. “I’ve missed your pretty smile.”
My gaze moves from the flowers to her, and I’m surprised to find her eyes brimming with tears. Am I smiling? I wasn’t aware that I was. And why is she crying? I study her face trying to find the answer, but all I see is sadness. Is she thinking about the old me? The daughter I once was, not the shell she’s now left with.
“They’re beautiful,” I state, trying to push the thought that I’m hurting everyone from my mind.
“They are.”
I sense there’s more behind her words, that these particular flowers hold significance and I should know that. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.
“They’re from Braxton.”
The smile drops from my face and the anxiety kicks back in. This is a more familiar feeling. Other than numbness, I have experienced little emotion since waking from my coma, but this anxiousness I cannot bear.
“The card says, ‘I hope you’re settling in’.” She points to it. “He’s such a good man, he’s always been so thoughtful.”
“It was very nice of him,” I reply, reaching for the bouquet. She hasn’t said much about my previous relationship with Braxton, but I don’t miss her subtle hints. It’s obvious she adores him.
