Nineteen Letters, page 7
I’ve been anything but nice to Braxton since the moment I woke from my coma, yet his commitment has never wavered despite me constantly pushing him away. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own sense of loss that I haven’t considered how much this has affected him.
Pulling the letter towards me, I clutch it tightly against my chest as I make a silent promise to myself. Tomorrow when I see him, I will make more of an effort.
Chapter 9
Braxton
Iknock on the door twice before turning the handle and entering. I pray that he’s having a good day because I could do with a lift.
“Hi,” I say with a smile when my eyes land on the elderly man sitting in a chair by the window. I can’t believe how much he has aged over the past two years. He’ll always be the same man to me, but he looks well beyond his actual age of fifty-two. Sadly, this illness has knocked him for six.
“Hello, young man.” His green eyes light up as he stands slowly, extending his hand to greet me. He usually calls me ‘son’ when he remembers who I am, so I already know today is not one of his good days. I’ve struggled to come to terms with this, but even more so since Jemma’s accident. I am now a stranger to the two most important people in my life. It’s ironic and heartbreaking in equal measure.
I wrap my hand around his when I come to a stop in front of him, and I get a pang in my heart at the weak handshake he gives me in return. I hate what’s become of my father. The once strong and virile man he was, is no more.
He was diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s almost three years ago, and it has progressed rapidly since. I used to think it was an old person’s disease, but I’ve learned that even people as young as me can be struck by it. That’s how my father eventually ended up here. It almost broke me to put him in a nursing home, but I was left with no choice.
In the beginning, we tried to convince him to move in with us, but he didn’t want to leave his house, the home he had shared with my mother, and I couldn’t blame him for that. I arranged for nurses to visit him, but when he started to wander off at all hours of the day and night, it became unsafe. He needed full-time care, which neither Jemma nor I could provide.
When the inevitable finally came, Jem and I looked at a dozen different homes before we eventually decided on this one. It was important to know he was getting the best care available; I wouldn’t have been able to go through with it otherwise.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his. It astounds me that he doesn’t know who I am, yet he’s so welcoming. I’m grateful that his illness hasn’t stolen that special trait. He has always been loved for his down-to-earth, friendly nature.
“You have a lovely view here,” I say, glancing out the large bay window beside us. His room overlooks the well-maintained gardens. Jemma had insisted on him having a room with a view of the native trees that were dotted throughout the landscape. The flowers attract the native birds and that’s what he loves. One downfall of this home was a strict no-pet policy, but it was a small price to pay for all the other benefits this place offered.
His beloved rainbow lorikeet, Samson, came to live with Jemma and me. It took a lot of patience and persistence from Jem to get Samson to eat in those first few days, but since then he has become part of our home.
“Yes,” he says as a smile brightens his face. “The birds come and visit often. I like them.” He lifts his arm and points toward the garden. “See that hollowed log over there?”
“Yes,” I reply following his gaze.
“A large blue-tongue lizard is living in it. He’s a beauty,” he says, extending his hands out in front of him to show me roughly what size it is. “I sit here for hours watching him bake in the sun.”
“That’s great.” I grin as I watch him. He seems happy here, and that helps ease the guilt somewhat.
I feel mixed emotions as I pull up outside Jemma’s mother’s house. Although Jem is now living here, I will never refer to it as her home. Her home is with me.
The letter should have arrived by now, but I have no idea how she would’ve reacted to it, or if she even read it. I pray she did. I’m so lost without her; it’s a day-to-day struggle I won’t ever get used to. A huge part of me is missing and I feel like I’m mourning her, yet she’s still alive.
With the persistence of Lucas and Rachel—separately; they still won’t speak to each other—I have finally gone back to work. I’ve been starting around midday so I can visit my dad and take Jemma to her daily physio appointments at the rehabilitation centre, and then I make up for my late start by working long into the night. Nobody is waiting for me at home, and I haven’t been sleeping well anyway. I designed every inch of that house for Jem with love and care, and now I hate being in it without her. At least while I’m working I’m not wallowing in the living hell that my life has become.
I stay seated in the car for a few minutes. I’m usually itching to see her, even if the sentiment isn’t mutual, but today I’m hesitant. These letters may be my last hope and I’m not sure I’m ready for another setback.
Eventually, I step out of the car. I’m never going to get the answers I seek by sitting out here. One thing’s for sure, though; whatever the outcome, I’m not giving up.
As I round the front of the car, I’m surprised when I see the front door open and Jemma step out. The doctor issued her with a walking stick, but she’s stubborn and refuses to use it. The limp is still visible when she walks, but she’s getting around a lot better now and improves each time I see her.
“Good morning,” I say, walking towards her.
I offer my hand when she reaches the steps. I can tell that she doesn’t like me doing this, but I can’t bring myself to stop being there for her.
“Morning,” she replies, accepting my extended hand for the first time. Her touch is brief but I savour it, and a smile curves on my lips. Any kind of contact, no matter how brief, is welcome.
I open the passenger-side door for her, and she makes eye contact with me before smiling and thanking me. Something is different about her today. Could it possibly be the letter?
My gaze moves down to her wrist when she reaches for the seatbelt, and I try hard to fight the disappointment when I notice she’s not wearing the bracelet I sent.
I’m curious to know if she’s read the letter, but the fact that she’s not wearing the bracelet has me biting my tongue. No point setting myself up for more heartache.
Usually she avoids looking at me, but today her eyes follow my every move as I seat myself in the driver’s side, again leaving me to wonder what’s going on.
“Which house did you live in?” she asks as I back out of the driveway.
She read the letter.
Her words spark a ray of hope inside me. She could’ve asked her mother that question, but she saved it for me. It’s the first one she’s asked since she woke from her coma. It’s been as if there is a part of her that doesn’t want to remember, or be reminded. She has shut all of us down every time we have mentioned her past, but it seems today is the beginning of … something.
“That one there,” I say, leaning forward and pointing to the two-storey red-brick house next door. It pained me greatly when I had to sell it to pay for my father’s room at the nursing home, and I still get a sick feeling in my gut every time I see it. Some of my best, and my worst, moments happened in that house, but selling it was the only way to guarantee that my father would get the care he needed.
“Do your parents still live there?”
I glance at her briefly before focusing back on the road. “No. No, they don’t.” I hope she’s satisfied with that answer because I don’t feel like elaborating. It’s too depressing. There was no happy ending for my family.
Looking out the passenger-side window, she studies the house as we pass. It still looks the same as it did when I lived there. Does it seem familiar to her?
“Did we go to the same school? Was it around here?”
“Yes, and yes,” I say as a smile forms on my face. “We can drive past on our way home if you like.”
“I’d like that.”
I close my eyes briefly and chant a silent thank you. My letter has ignited something within her, I’m sure of it. That spark of hope is growing. I’m eager to write to her again. I’ve only just touched on the beauty we once were.
Chapter 10
Braxton
“Shit!”
I screw up another piece of paper. The first letter came easily—it made sense to start at the very beginning—but now that I know she’s going to read them, my approach has changed. I’m compelled to cram as much as I can into this one. There’s so much I yearn to say.
Resting my elbows on the desk in front of me, I bury my face in my hands. I can’t rush this.
With that in mind, I put pen to paper. Her interest was piqued when we stopped off at the primary school we both attended. She even got out of the car and walked around the perimeter of the entire school, taking it all in. It’s odd, yet sad to know she’s seeing these old, familiar things through fresh eyes.
Letter two …
Dearest Jemma,
The seventeenth of March 1997 was a pinnacle time in our young lives. We’d been neighbours for over a year at this stage, and our friendship was growing stronger with each passing day.
The fact that I was a year older than you meant we were in different grades, and we never played together at school. I’d smile whenever we passed each other, though, because just seeing you made me happy.
In the playground, you hung around the girls in your grade, and I played with my mates. In the beginning, I was scared to tell my friends about you. To them, any girl was a germ-infested no-go zone. You were never like that to me; from that very first day I found you different. You were funny, easy to get along with, and incredibly sweet.
Now that your mother knew I was home alone in the afternoons, she insisted I stay at your house until my mum got back from work. I looked forward to that hour each day because you were all mine. You seemed just as happy to be around me.
In those moments I didn’t have to pretend not to like you, because I did. A lot. It would have been impossible for me not to. I was at an impressionable age, and to an eight-year-old boy reputation is everything.
Little did we know that year would be a game changer for us. One incident in the school playground changed everything. It was a moment that put my entire reputation on the line.
It was a Monday. I only remember that because I’d spent the entire Sunday with you and your parents at the beach. I was still on a high from it and sought you out in the playground. On the down-low, of course.
I steered my mates around to the grassed area at the back of the school when the lunch bell sounded, because I knew that’s where you played elastics, or skipped rope with your friends. It was a risky move on my part, but one I was willing to take. I just needed a glimpse of you to get me through to the end of the day. It sounds silly when I say it like that, but that’s exactly how you made me feel … how you still make me feel.
When there was no sign of you, I started to worry. Call it a sixth sense, but I knew something was off. I didn’t hesitate to leave my friends to go in search of you. I looked high and low—the front playground, the library, I even checked the sick bay in the office in case you’d been hurt. But, nothing, and now I was getting desperate.
I ran back to your friends to ask them if they’d seen you. One of them said you’d gone back to the classroom because you’d forgotten to bring your lunch down to the playground, so I headed in that direction. I remember bounding up the stairs two at a time.
As soon as I hit the landing, I heard you. You were crying. I called your name as I broke into a run. The moment you stepped out from behind the partition wall, I was filled with a mixture of relief and confusion. It was the first time I’d ever seen you cry. “What’s wrong?” I asked, placing my hands on your shoulders.
“Larry … Larry Wilson.” When you buried your face in my chest and wept, I wrapped you in my arms. No other words were needed. ‘The Looter’ was what everyone called Larry Wilson behind his back. He was the school bully and ruled the playground with his iron fist. He was in grade five, and although only ten, he was enormous. Even the sixth graders were frightened of him. He was notorious for preying on the weak and taking whatever he wanted. In this case, your lunch.
I’d never experienced anger like I did in that moment. I had no idea how, but Larry Wilson was going to pay for what he’d done to you.
Manoeuvring you over to the large bench seat by the wall, I sat you down. “Do you like ham, cheese and lettuce?” I asked you.
“Yes,” you sniffled, wiping the tears from your face.
After unwrapping my sandwich, I passed half to you. You were lucky it was a Monday; my mum always bought meat from the deli on Sundays. It usually only lasted until midweek, so the rest of the days all I got was boring old Vegemite.
Once we’d finished eating, I walked you back to your friends before going in search of ‘The Looter’. I was running on pure adrenaline. A clear-thinking Braxton wouldn’t have even entertained the idea of taking on the school giant, but that’s what seeing you upset did to me.
I briefly rethought my plan the moment I was standing in front of him. He was almost as wide as he was tall and towered over me. But then I remembered your tear-stained face, and that was enough to give me the courage to take him on.
I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath before I spoke. “Why did you steal Jemma’s lunch?” I asked.
He laughed and pushed me in the chest, making me stumble. “Get out of my face, loser,” he growled, and something inside me snapped.
Lunging at him, I threw my arms around his waist, ramming my shoulder into his stomach. The adrenaline coursing through my veins made me feel invincible.
I heard the loud gasps from the other students when Larry landed on the muddy ground with a thud. I was now on top of him. A few kids chanted, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”, and it didn’t take long for a large crowd to gather.
My eyes briefly locked with his, and the anger I could see reflecting back at me, only spurred me on further. He was probably going to gobble me up, just like he had your lunch, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.
When he tried to wriggle out from underneath me, I pulled him into a headlock. I was actually surprised by my own strength.
“You like stealing food from little girls?” I said as I reached for a handful of mud. The moment he opened his mouth to speak, I shoved the mud into his gob. The more he tried to protest, the more mud I forced into his mouth.
“Get off me,” he said in a muffled cry, as tears leaked from his eyes. He wasn’t so tough now.
“Not until you swallow it.”
I’d never done anything so mean before, but he had this coming.
The crowd started to point and laugh as ‘The Looter’ struggled to swallow the mud in his mouth. A part of me felt sorry for him, but the pain he had inflicted on the other students over the years far outweighed what was happening to him in that moment. I always knew it would only be a matter of time before he pushed someone too far. I just never thought that someone would be me.
“Hey, break this up.” The teacher on playground duty grabbed hold of the back of my shirt, pulling me to my feet. “Go to the principal’s office immediately!”
I knew I was in big trouble, but it was worth it. To this day, I still remember the awe on people’s faces as I stood tall and walked away from the scene, ready to receive my punishment. For those few minutes, I felt like the king of the world.
Because this was a first offence for me, the school didn’t contact my parents. I did, however, receive lunchtime detention for the rest of the week. It was a small price to pay. After that day he never picked on you again.
I’ll never forget the feeling I got when I left the classroom after my first day of detention, because I found you in the corridor just outside my lunchtime prison, sitting on the floor by the wall with your legs crossed. You looked so lost and sad.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as I helped you to your feet.
“It’s my fault you’re in trouble.”
“No, it’s not, Jem. You didn’t make him eat mud.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes. I started all of this, it’s only fair that I do the detention too.” You took a step towards me, getting up on the tips of your toes to plant a soft kiss on my cheek. “I’ll never forget what you did for me, Brax.”
I’m pretty sure that’s the exact moment I fell in love with you. It was evident that you cared about me, and you have no idea how much I needed someone like you in my life. It was comforting to know that you had my back, just like I had yours.
We became inseparable after that day. I had only taken the risk to protect you, and had no idea I would come out the other end as the school legend. I would’ve done it again in a heartbeat for you, Jem. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.
That day our bond was cemented in stone forever.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
Just because she doesn’t remember our bond, doesn’t mean it’s not there. All those old feelings are buried somewhere deep inside her, I know it. You can’t love someone so completely one day, and feel nothing for them the next. It’s not possible. It’s just going to take time to coax those feelings back to the surface.
I read over the letter before folding it in half and sliding it into the envelope. Reaching for the tiny sandwich charm sitting on my desk, I lay it in the palm of my hand. I feel myself smiling as I think back to that day.
These letters were supposed to help Jem get back pieces of her past, but they’re helping me as well. She may be lost to me for now, but reliving all these precious memories I’ve made with her over the years will keep me going until I have her back.
