by Jodi Perry
I wait till my stomach settles before I finally find the courage to open it. As desperate as I am to remember, it’s frightening when people tell me or show me things from my past. I feel like I’m hurting everyone by not remembering. Don’t they realise how much I wish things were different?
I hold my breath as I tear through the top of the parcel and slowly remove the contents, laying them out on the bed beside me. There’s a long red rectangular box with a card attached, as well as another, smaller envelope. The card on the box has Open me first written on the front, so I pick it up.
Enclosed you’ll find a memory bracelet. For now it’s empty, but over time you’ll understand why I’ve called it this. Since you’re not comfortable talking to me, I’ve decided to write to you instead. I hope you take the time to read my letters when you’re ready. They’re letters about our past, and of the happier times we’ve spent together. Memories of your life through my eyes. It’s my way of trying to give you back a piece of what you’ve lost. Whether or not these letters lead you back to me, you need to know what we once shared, and what our life was like for us.
Closing the card, I ponder his words. I’m touched that he has gone to these lengths, but I can’t see how a few letters are going to help. How he can show up here day after day with a smile on his face when I treat him the way I do. He’s a better person than I am; I would have given up on me weeks ago.
My fingers hover over the lid, and then I take a breath and open it. I run my fingertips over the white-gold chain. He wasn’t lying when he said the memory bracelet was empty. Just like me.
I continue to run my fingers over the links. Deep inside I know this is my way of stalling. I’m afraid to read the letter. I don’t want to be freaked out by things I can’t remember, yet there’s a part of me that yearns to read what he has to say.
LETTER ONE …
Dearest Jemma,
The nineteenth of January 1996 was an important day from our past. I’ll never forget it. It was the day we met, and the day that changed my life forever.
For you to get a clearer picture of the impact this day had on me, I should start by telling you what my life was like before we met.
Like you, I’m an only child. My father, John Spencer, owned and managed the local hardware store. It’s something he inherited when his father died. Hardware was never his thing, but he wanted to keep my grandfather’s dream alive, and gave up his own aspirations in life to do just that. He’s a good man, my father; one of the best.
There wasn’t a lot of money in hardware, so things were pretty tight. Apart from two casual employees, he ran the store on his own, which meant long hours away from his home and family. What I remember most when I think of him is his absence, but I understand why it had to be that way.
He would leave for the store before I woke, and some nights I was already in bed when he returned. Once I started school, my mother, Grace, took a job as a receptionist to help make ends meet. I heard my dad telling my mum one night that we were in danger of losing our house.
I had a great childhood nevertheless. I was happy enough, but when I think back to the times before you moved in next door, what I remember most is the loneliness. With both parents working, I was home on my own a lot. There were no other children living in our street. I used to look forward to going to school so I could play with the other kids. Then you came along, and everything changed.
I still remember that day vividly. It was a hot summer Friday afternoon. Unlike most kids, I didn’t look forward to the weekends. Sure, I got to watch cartoons on a Saturday morning, but once they were finished there wasn’t much to do. My father was at the store, and my mother used that time to catch up on housework, laundry and preparing meals for the coming week. My days were spent riding my bike up and down the street, or kicking a ball around the yard on my own.
Sunday afternoon was my favourite. My mum would cook a roast dinner every Sunday, and it was also the one day my father closed the store early. It was our family night. If the weather was good, he’d kick the ball around with me in the backyard, until Mum called us inside for dinner.
When I close my eyes I can still remember the delicious aromas that filled the house as the roast cooked in the oven. After dinner, we’d play board games. I miss those times.
It was school holidays, so I was bored out of my brain. I was lying on the sofa watching television when I heard the loud rumble of an engine coming from outside. I jumped up, and through the window I saw a large truck parked in the driveway next door. I can’t remember the name of the company—I was only seven—but I do remember the large, bold, blue letters and the word REMOVALIST down the side.
The fact that we were getting new neighbours should have excited me, but it didn’t. I missed the old couple, Mr and Mrs Gardener, who used to live next door. She used to bake chocolate-chip cookies every weekend and would bring me over a special batch with extra chocolate chips. To this day, I still miss those cookies.
I didn’t want new neighbours. All I could think about were the cookies I would never get to eat again. Cookies are important to seven-year-olds.
My shoulders were slumped and I’m pretty sure my feet were dragging as I headed into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of milk. Thinking about those cookies made me thirsty.
I’d only managed to take a sip when the phone rang. I climbed onto the countertop and reached for the receiver that hung on the wall. I already knew it would be either my mum or dad. They always called numerous times throughout the day to make sure I was okay. My parents hated that I was left alone so much, but we needed the money that their jobs provided.
‘There’s new people moving in next door,’ I told my dad.
‘Oh yes, Joe mentioned it.’ Joe Pentecost was the local real estate agent, and a friend of my father’s. ‘I believe they have a daughter who’s about your age.’
Those words instantly got my attention, and gave me the pick-me-up I needed. Having someone my age living next door far outweighed my need for chocolate-chip cookies.
The moment I was off the phone, I gulped down my milk and grabbed my bike from the back shed. I was desperate to get a glimpse of you as I pushed my bike down the driveway. I wasn’t even disappointed that you were a girl. I was just excited by the prospect of a new friend.
I hovered around the front yard waiting, but there was no sign of you. That’s when I climbed on my bike and moved to the street. I rode around in circles waiting for you to come out of the house, but your father and the removal guys were the only people I saw.
A lot of time passed and I was ready to give up and go inside, but for some reason my eyes were drawn to one of the windows on the upper floor. I think my heart actually skipped a beat when I saw you leaning against the glass windowpane, looking down at me.
A smile exploded onto your face, and I immediately reciprocated. I still remember the way my heart raced. I was so focused on you that I hadn’t noticed how close I’d come to the gutter until it was too late. Before I knew what was happening, I’d been flung over the handlebars and landed with a thud on the asphalt.
I lay there for a short time. I wasn’t going to cry, no matter how much my fall had hurt. I’d already embarrassed myself enough.
I finally found the strength to move, and flinched. It took every bit of strength I had not to cry. As I tried to stand, a shadow fell over me. When my gaze snapped up to you, I swear you looked like an angel with the sun forming a bright halo around your pretty face.
‘Are you okay?’ you asked, crouching down to my level. I wasn’t okay, but I forced out a tight smile, trying to brush it off. ‘Oh my god, you’re bleeding,’ you said quickly.
Looking down at my grazed knee, and the blood that was now trickling down my leg, made the milk I’d drunk earlier rise to the back of my throat. I kept telling myself not to throw up in front of you. I’d already made a horrible first impression; if I could have had a re-do, I would have chucked a really cool wheelie instead of stacking it.
‘Come, can you stand?’ You held out your hand and helped me to my feet, and then you picked my buckled bike off the road as I hobbled towards my house. ‘Let me help you up the stairs.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, trying my best to remain brave. I wasn’t fine. I was in pain … and humiliated. You rushed ahead of me, banging on the front door. I had to grab onto the rail to help propel me up the stairs. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Getting your mum. You’re hurt bad.’
My parents didn’t like me telling people I was home alone, but I told you anyway. ‘My mum’s not home … she’s at work.’
I could tell by your widening eyes that you were shocked, but it didn’t deter you from opening the door and waltzing straight into my house. Even then I knew that it was extremely careless of you to enter a stranger’s house like that, but your actions made me smile. In that moment, I knew we were going to be great friends.
After you got me seated on a chair in the kitchen and placed a wet cloth on my bleeding knee, you ran next door to get your mum.
Your mum wasn’t impressed that I was left alone at such a young age, and she made sure to let my mum know when she met her later that afternoon.
Your mother placed the first-aid kit she’d brought with her on the table and proceeded to clean up my wounds. She was very sweet to me that day, just like you were.
‘This is going to sting,’ she said as she poured some antiseptic onto a cotton ball.
She wasn’t lying; it hurt like hell. It felt like she was dabbing my knee with a burning hot coal, not a soft cotton ball. The more she dabbed, the more it stung. The tears I’d managed to keep at bay until now threatened to fall.
You were standing beside me, and out of the corner of my eye I could see you watching me, but I refused to look at you. The moment my vision became blurry, I clenched my eyes closed. I wasn’t going to let you see me cry.
When a tear leaked from the corner of my eye, I quickly turned my head away from you. I wasn’t expecting you to reach for my hand, but that’s exactly what you did. I’ve never told you this, but it helped. It really did. So, thank you.
You didn’t let go until your mum had finished. ‘You were so brave,’ you said as your mum packed everything away.
Those words made me feel so much better. ‘I’m Braxton,’ I said, holding out my hand to you. ‘Braxton Spencer.’ If we were going to be best friends, you needed to know my name.
‘Jemma … Jemma Isabella Rosalie Robinson,’ you stated proudly.
‘That’s a pretty name.’
I felt my face flush the moment those words left my mouth. It was a ridiculous thing for a seven-year-old to say, but it was the truth. Your name was almost as pretty as you were.
‘If your leg is better tomorrow, do you want to come over and play?’
‘Yes,’ I answered without hesitation.
You gave me a beautiful toothless smile, and my heart started to race for the second time that day. I’m going to marry this girl one day, was the first thought that entered my mind.
That thought only grew stronger in the years that followed.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
A tight feeling forms in the back of my throat as I look down at the tiny bike charm in my hand. It was inside the letter along with a photo of us as kids sitting on our bikes. The memory bracelet now makes sense.
A small smile creeps onto my lips when I pick up the photo and study it. My two front teeth are missing and the toothless smile he mentioned in the letter is present. We look so happy. I swallow hard, but the lump that’s formed doesn’t go away. This small gesture has me feeling somewhat surprised and strangely overwhelmed. He was right: in a way it has given me a tiny piece of my life back. A tiny yet significant moment from my past.
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 really 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.
NINE
Braxton
I knock on the door twice before turning the handle and entering. I pray that he’s having a good day, I really need 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 really 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 has no idea 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 are dotted throughout the landscape. The flowers attract the native birds and that’s what he loves. One of the downfalls 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 really like them.’ He lifts his arm and points in the direction of the garden. ‘See that hollowed log over there?’
‘Yes,’ I reply following his gaze.
‘There’s a large blue-tongue lizard living in it. He’s a beauty,’ he says, holding his hands 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 feel my lips curve into a smile 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 that 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. There’s nobody 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, reaching for my hand for the first time. Her touch is brief but I savour it, and a smile comes to 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 not to be disappointed to see that she’s not wearing the bracelet I sent.