by Jodi Perry
‘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 manage to 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 really 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 before she continues. ‘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.’ It’s not okay, but I can’t bring myself to hurt her further. Nothing about this is okay.
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’s just another blow to my heart.
My eyes scan the room as I pick the suitcase up 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 a number of 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 step inside this house.
‘Here’s 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, 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 I hear her crying. When she wraps me tightly in her arms, all my strength vanishes as I completely break down. I weep for Jemma … for me … for us.
Is this really the end?
I feel stupid when I pull away and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. 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 won’t be.
Tilting my head back, I down the liquid in two large gulps. It burns on its way down, but I welcome it. I don’t hesitate in pouring myself a refill, but before I get a chance 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, Braxton.’
All I can do is breathe out. 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, Brax.’
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 shared.’
‘She won’t talk to me.’ I think that’s what hurts the most—that she can’t even talk to me. We’ve never been at a loss for words, until now. We’d talk about anything and everything, until now. 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 are meant for each other.’
‘Were meant for each other,’ I say quietly.
‘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 lives were once like. What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
EIGHT
Jemma
The persistent knocking on my bedroom door has me begrudgingly rising from the bed. I thought if I ignored her long enough she would go away. I don’t know much 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 at a slow pace. I’m beginning to enjoy the hydrotherapy my doctor has me doing to strengthen my leg, only 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 a hard person to be around; quite the opposite, he’s always friendly and nice. It’s what I see on his face when we’re together that’s 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 was the cause of 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 have no idea 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 don’t know anything 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 haven’t experienced much 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. She obviously adores him.
‘You really loved him, you know?’ Sometimes she’s not so subtle.
‘Really? And how do you know that? Could you feel what I was feeling inside?’
Her eyes widen slightly. ‘No, Jemma. I could see it. Everyone could see it.’ With that she turns and leaves. I immediately feel bad for being so aggressive towards her.
Closing my door and locking it, I walk towards the window. I’m not sure why I want these flowers near me, but I do. I find myself smiling again as I place them down in the centre of the dresser. I’ll be able to admire them from my bed.
My eyes move down to the small rectangular card pinned to the silver ribbon that adorns the white ceramic vase. There’s something about the writing that seems familiar, which is crazy. I presume it’s Braxton’s since the flowers are from him. Is it even possible that I remember his handwriting, but not him?
‘How’s it taste?’ Christine asks with a hopeful expression. I cut off a small piece of crumbed chicken and hesitantly place it in my mouth. I’ve been living here for almost a week and nothing much has changed. I’m still feeling lost … just like my memory.
Christine patiently waits for my answer as I slowly chew the food. It actually tastes good. Really good. I presume I’ve eaten this before. Christine seemed almost excited when she announced we were having chicken schnitzel for dinner. Everything is an experiment of some sort, as I’m forced into experiencing what life has to offer all over again. Tastes, smells, sights, sounds and feelings. So much of life seems foreign to me now.
‘Nice,’ I reply, finally swallowing. She continues to watch me like she’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Instead I shove a forkful of mashed potato in my mouth.
‘It’s your favourite! I always made it for you on special occasions, like your birthday, or when you were feeling down.’
That statement does nothing to cheer me up, it only helps to remind me of everything I’ve lost. When is my birthday?
I know she’s trying, but I wish she’d stop. Nothing she can do will help—certainly not a piece of crumbed chicken. I’ve practically given up on my memory returning. Surely there would have been at least a minor breakthrough by now. I feel like I’m falling deeper and deeper into this black abyss that has become my existence.
Silence falls over us as we continue to eat. It’s for the best. Especially if she wants me to digest this food.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she says, rising from her chair at the end of the meal. ‘A package arrived for you.’ My eyes follow her as she walks across the room to retrieve it. I have no idea why anyone would send me a package. ‘It came while you were lying down. I didn’t want to disturb you.’
That’s the excuse I use to lock myself away from everybody. I’m tired, I’m going to lie down. My reluctance to be around anyone isn’t helping matters. I even managed to drive Rachel away. She stayed here for the first three nights before packing her things and moving to a hotel. She assured me she wasn’t running away from me, that it was only to give me the space she thought I needed. Maybe that was the case. I don’t understand why these people give so much, for so little in return.
‘Here,’ my mother says, placing a large cream parcel in front of me. ‘Are you done?’
She points down to my plate, and I nod before answering. ‘Yes, thanks.’
My eyes scan the writing across the front of the parcel. It’s the same writing that was on the card, so I know it’s from Braxton. I find it ironic that despite losing my memory I can still read. I have no recollection of who taught me how, or even which school I attended.
I can’t comprehend why that part of my brain is okay, yet people, places and all the important moments from my past have been completely wiped. I’ve had to undergo numerous tests, and the doctor couldn’t find any evidence of permanent brain injury, but it’s obvious there is.
I turn the parcel over, feeling suddenly uneasy. I saw him this morning, when he drove me to rehab. He didn’t mention the package, but I suppose I didn’t give him a chance to engage in any sort of conversation. It’s just easier that way. Easier for everyone. I don’t want to give him false hope, when there’s no hope to give.
Looking up, I find my mother eyeing me sceptically from the other side of the kitchen. I wish she’d stop watching me the way she does. It’s unnerving. She might remember me as her daughter, someone she has raised and loved, but she is nothing to me. The person they loved is gone. I may look like the Jemma they once knew, but she’s no more.
‘I’m going to lie down,’ I say, rising from
the chair.
‘Okay, sweetheart.’ She forces out a smile, just like she does every time I disappear upstairs.
My past, my parents, my husband, my friends, my enemies, my first kiss, my achievements and failures, my likes and dislikes … the list of things I don’t remember is endless. I should feel grateful for surviving the accident, but I don’t. I have no idea where I belong. I would never voice this out loud, but there’s a huge part of me that wishes I didn’t wake up. That might sound selfish, but that’s exactly how I feel. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel, only darkness.
After locking my bedroom door, I walk across the room and slump on my bed. This is apparently the room I grew up in. Christine said she left it just the way it was when I moved away for university. There are little trinkets of my past everywhere. Trophies, medals, photos, banners, stuffed toys. None of it is familiar.
Instead of comforting me, they haunt me. It’s a past I can’t remember. Things that probably once held great significance, now mean nothing. I hate it in here, but at the same time, it’s the only place I truly feel safe. I can lock myself away from everyone and just be numb. I don’t have to pretend I’m okay, or that I’m coping, because I’m not. I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of nothingness, which is ironic. How can you drown in nothing?
I stare at the parcel on my lap for the longest time. I’m curious to know what’s inside, but I’m apprehensive as well. According to Christine, Braxton was the love of my life. Once upon a time he may have been, but when I look at him now, I feel nothing. Which I find strange. If I loved him as much as everyone says I did, wouldn’t my heart still feel it?