Nineteen Letters

by Jodi Perry

  Since it appears I’m confessing my deepest darkest secrets to you in this letter, I might as well tell you I’m afraid of heights. Petrified would be a better word. It’s unmanly, I know, and I hope you don’t think less of me because of it, but it’s the truth. Give me spiders, snakes, scary rides (as long as they’re close to the ground) and even fast cars, but not heights; never heights. It’s ironic considering what I do for a living, but being high up is something I’ve never been comfortable with. Maybe if I’d told you this sooner, I wouldn’t have had to suffer through all the terrifying things you’ve made me do over the years.

  Our time on the farm was always fun. Especially for a city boy like me. It’s such a different lifestyle in the country. You used to love Pa’s tractor rides. He would often fill the trailer with bales of hay and take us for joyrides around his hundred-acre property.

  I remember watching you as he drove us around—your beautiful long brown hair would fly around in the wind, but it was the pure joy on your face that I loved the most. You have the most breathtaking smile. It’s one of my favourite things in the world.

  There was never a shortage of things to do, and my times spent there were some of the happiest moments of my life.

  Another one of your favourite things was going down to the river. It ran through the back of the property, and we would often have picnics down by the water. Ma was one of the best cooks I’ve ever known. She would make us delicious sandwiches on the bread she baked that morning, and add slices of cake or pieces of her homemade apple pie—it was to die for—into the basket as a special treat. Pa even built us a swing out of an old tyre, and hung it from the huge willow tree that sat on the banks of the river. We spent hours swinging from the tree and jumping into the water during summer.

  In the colder months, we fished for trout or took out Pa’s small row boat. I usually did the rowing because, frankly, you sucked at it. No matter how hard you tried, you could never get the boat to go in the direction you wanted it to.

  On your twelfth birthday, your grandparents bought you a beautiful chestnut mare that had belonged to a friend of Pa’s. You named her Tilly-Girl, and you loved her so much. You would double me around on her for hours. She was four years old when you got her, and she had such a gentle nature, just like you.

  You two had a special bond. Each time we arrived at the farm, you ran over to the paddock and called out, ‘Tilly-Girl!’ at the top of your lungs. She came bolting towards you from wherever she was, and would do this funny bouncing dance as soon as she saw you. Then, when she calmed down she would approach you and rub her face against the side of yours. The connection you two had was simply beautiful.

  Late one afternoon we emerged from the river after our swim. You walked over to the tree to untie Tilly-Girl’s reins from a branch, while I gathered the blanket and picnic basket. I looked up just in time to see Tilly-Girl rear up on her hind legs, knocking you to the ground.

  I stood in shock for a moment—it was so out of character for her—but then I dropped the basket and ran to your side. That’s when I noticed the large eastern brown snake lying in the grass ready to pounce. Its body was coiled into a circle, and its head was raised and aimed straight at you. It’s the second most venomous snake in the world, with the potential to kill a human within minutes.

  ‘Don’t move, Jem,’ I whispered. ‘Stay completely still.’

  Your eyes widened when I pointed to the snake, less than a metre away. I’ll never forget the look of sheer terror on your face.

  I knew I had to act fast, and to say my adrenaline was pumping as my eyes scanned the surrounding foliage is an understatement. I spotted a small boulder a few metres away and, slowly and precisely, I moved towards it. It was heavy, but I managed to pick it up.

  ‘I’m going to count to three,’ I said to you once I was in place. ‘On three I want you to stand up and run as fast as you can towards the river. Okay?’ You were too frightened to even speak, so you blinked your eyes a few times instead.

  Using all my strength, I lifted the boulder high in the air. ‘One. Two. Three!’ The moment I saw you move out of the corner of my eye, I dropped the boulder. Thank god my aim was spot on because the snake lunged towards you just as the rock came down hard, landing on its head.

  When I ran over to you, you fell into my arms and began to weep. ‘You saved my life,’ you said.

  I did what I needed to do to protect you, but you made me feel like a hero.

  Ma and Pa were upset when we told them what happened, but Ma gave me an extra slice of apple pie that night as a reward for my bravery. Tilly-Girl got an apple for the part she’d played, by knocking you out of the way before you stepped on the snake.

  We slept in bunk beds in the spare room when we stayed at your grandparents’ place. That night as I was drifting off to sleep I heard you whisper into the darkness. ‘I love you, Braxton Spencer.’ It was the first time you’d ever said those words out loud.

  I pretended to be asleep so I didn’t have to reply, but let’s just say that night I fell asleep with a huge smile on my face.

  What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.

  Yours always,

  Braxton

  I read the letter one more time before eagerly searching inside the bottom of the envelope for my charms. I smile broadly when I find a tiny apple, as well as a beautiful horse.

  I wonder what ever happened to my Tilly-Girl.

  SEVENTEEN

  Braxton

  I wait until the doctor does his morning rounds, checking on my dad, before I duck home to shower and change. I’m eager to get to Christine’s house to see my girl. She promised me a hug today, and although I don’t hold out high hopes that I’ll actually get one, the texts she sent me yesterday were enough to boost my spirits.

  I remain relatively calm on my drive over there. I’m trying not to expect too much; I’ve had enough letdowns in the past few months to last me a lifetime. But I’m grateful she still wants me in her life.

  ‘Morning,’ I say as I get out of the car and walk towards the house.

  ‘Morning,’ she replies as she descends the front steps. There’s a sweet smile on her face that warms my heart. I don’t seem to hurt as much now when I look at her, because she seems happier. The sadness she carried after the accident was hard for me to see. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for her: happiness.

  I offer my hand to her when she reaches the last step, and she takes it willingly.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Good. I’m feeling really good.’ Her gaze moves down to the path below as she comes to a stop beside me. ‘I believe I owe you a hug.’ She looks unsure as her big brown eyes finally lift to meet mine.

  ‘You don’t have to hug me if it makes you feel uncomfortable, Jem.’

  ‘But I want to. I want to for so many reasons. I want to hug you for the loss of your mother. I want to hug you for saving me from the snake. I want to hug you for everything you’ve given me since the accident. In the weeks that followed my coma … there was no hope. I can’t even put into words how I felt back then. There were times I even wished I hadn’t survived.’

  ‘Jem,’ I say as a lump rises to my throat. I knew she was down, with good reason, but never once did I think things were that desperate.

  ‘Then you started writing the letters.’ Although there are tears brimming in her eyes, there’s a smile on her face as she speaks. ‘You have no idea what those letters have done for me. They’ve given me hope where there was none.’

  Her words have me smiling. ‘I’m glad they’re helping.’

  ‘They are.’ A blush creeps across her face as her expression turns hopeful. ‘So, can I hug you?’

  ‘Hug away,’ I say, opening my arms wide.

  She giggles nervously as her hands slide around my waist, her touch awakening all my nerve endings.

  Folding her in my arms, I pull her in tight against me. ‘You never need to ask permission to hug me, Jem. Never.
Consider me your own personal hugging machine.’

  A sweet laugh falls from her lips as she buries her face in my chest. ‘Mmm. You smell so good.’

  My smile widens. The old Jemma used to say that all the time.

  Everything in me wants to bury my face in her hair and inhale deeply. She’s always had the most intoxicating scent, but I don’t want to freak her out. Instead I close my eyes and savour the feeling of having her in my arms again.

  ‘Is my grandparents’ farm a long drive from here?’ she asks as soon as we’re seated in the car.

  ‘A couple of hours,’ I reply. ‘My father’s being discharged from hospital today, so I won’t have time to take you, but we can go for a drive up there on the weekend if you like.’

  When I glance in her direction I find her grinning. ‘I’d love that, and I’m pleased to hear your father’s doing better. I’d love to meet him.’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready, just say the word.’

  ‘I know technically I’ve already met him, but …’

  ‘You could come to the hospital with me after your physio if you’re feeling up to it?’

  ‘Okay. I’d like that.’

  And so would I.

  ‘I need to warn you,’ I say to Jemma as we walk down the long corridor towards my father’s room, ‘he might not remember you, so don’t be disillusioned if he doesn’t.’ I guess it works both ways, she won’t remember him either.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he remember me?’

  ‘He has Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Oh Braxton,’ she says in a sympathetic tone. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I force a tight smile instead of replying. I’m sorry too. I feel helpless not being able to stop this disease from progressing, but mostly my heart aches for him. It’s just so unfair.

  When we enter his room, I find him sitting up in bed drinking a cup of tea. ‘Hi, Pop,’ I say as we approach his bed.

  ‘Hi there,’ he replies, but I can already tell by the dazed look in his eyes that he doesn’t know who we are.

  ‘You’re checking out of this joint today.’ I hold up the small bag in my hand that contains his clothes. ‘I brought you some clothes.’

  I see his gaze drift towards Jemma, and when I look at her, she’s staring at him intently. ‘And who is this pretty little thing?’ my father asks.

  ‘This is Jemma.’

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Mr Spencer,’ she says, extending her hand to him.

  ‘Likewise, young lady.’

  I pull up a chair for Jem, and she just sits there and studies him.

  When he’s finished his cup of tea, I help him from the bed and lead him into the bathroom so he can change. I’m paranoid he’s going to fall again. The sad part is that his body is still reasonably fit and strong for his age. It’s only his mind that’s failing him.

  I walk behind Jemma and my father when we reach the home. She has her arm hooked through his as they chatter away. It reminds me of the good old times, when they adored each other.

  I once took everything I had for granted, but not anymore. I would give anything for things to be the way they were.

  ‘Your father’s really sweet,’ Jemma says as I back out of the parking space.

  The staff at the home love him; he never gives them any trouble. Two nurses were fussing over him when we left, and he was smiling. I think he likes all the attention, which always makes it easier for me to leave him here.

  ‘He’s a good man. You two were very close once.’

  ‘I really like him. Has he been sick for long?’

  ‘He was diagnosed almost three years ago. At first he would forget little things, like where he’d put his glasses, or if he’d taken his medication. When he started to ask the same question numerous times, or constantly repeat himself, we knew there was a problem. The medication the doctor gave him seemed to help for a while, but his illness has progressed rapidly since then.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’

  ‘It is. It almost killed me to put him in here, but it’s the best place for him. I have to try to remember that.’

  ‘I can imagine how hard that decision would have been for you.’

  ‘It was. You were a great support, though. You always knew how to make me feel better. I don’t think I could have gone through with it without you.’

  My eyes briefly leave the road, moving to her. God, I miss my wife so much. I know she’s still very much here, but on the other hand she isn’t. Things are nothing like they used to be, and I don’t know if they ever will be again.

  We’re silent for the majority of the drive home, and then she speaks softly.

  ‘Braxton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you really afraid of heights?’

  I clear my throat, as I turn into Christine’s street.

  I can’t believe I even confessed that after all this time. ‘Yes.’ I shift in my seat slightly. I don’t know why I feel like less of a man because of this, but I do.

  ‘You should have told me. I’m sure I would have understood.’ She’s right, she probably would have, but it was my own insecurity that stopped me from admitting my deepest fears to her. I could do no wrong in her eyes. She always made me feel like her hero, when in reality I was anything but. ‘I hope I didn’t make you suffer too much.’

  Her response makes me chuckle. If only she knew. When I think about all the things I’ve forced myself to do with her over the years because I was too scared to tell her the truth, it’s kind of ridiculous.

  ‘Are we still on for the weekend? We can head to the country Saturday morning if you like,’ I ask, keen for a change of subject.

  ‘That sounds perfect.’

  ‘Great.’

  When I pull into Christine’s driveway, she picks up her handbag from the floor by her feet.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me to see my dad,’ I say, when she reaches for the door handle.

  ‘Thanks for taking me.’ She pauses briefly before speaking again. ‘Would it be okay if I came with you to visit him sometimes?’

  ‘I’d like that, and I think my dad would too. It’s funny, he doesn’t remember us, yet I still get the feeling he knows we belong to him.’

  She smiles before opening the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  It’s not lost on me that she didn’t elaborate on what I just said. My father’s situation and hers are very similar, but I don’t think she feels like she belongs to us anymore.

  ‘Let me get the door for you.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ve got it.’

  I lean back into my chair and read over the letter in my hand.

  LETTER FIVE …

  Dearest Jemma,

  The ninth of August 2002. It was your thirteenth birthday, and because it was such an important one, your mum had organised something special—a high tea with all of your girlfriends from school. It was going to be a grand affair. The invitations were handmade and looked like something you’d receive for a wedding, not for a teenage girl’s birthday party.

  She bought you a pretty pink party dress—it was all satin, frills, bows and lace. She’d put up a large white marquee in the backyard, and bunches of pink helium balloons adorned the tables.

  Your grandmother was coming down to help with the food preparation. The menu consisted of tiny quiches, bite-size jam tarts, fancy cupcakes and cucumber sandwiches cut into dainty finger-size portions. They were brought out on multi-layer stands. It was all very posh.

  Your mum had even booked you in at the local beautician that morning to have your hair done and your fingernails painted. Thirteen meant you were becoming a young lady, and she wanted it to be celebrated in style.

  You weren’t a tomboy, but nor were you a girly girl, so let’s just say you were pretty pissed off with all her plans.

  ‘I don’t want a stupid high tea!’ you told me. ‘I don’t even drink tea. You should see the ridiculous dress she wants me to wear, Brax.’ I struggled not to laugh when you stuck your finge
r in your mouth and pretended to gag. ‘I’m going to look like that ugly crochet doll that Ma has sitting over her spare roll of toilet paper.’ I had to agree that doll was hideous and creeped me the hell out, but I also knew it was impossible for you to look ugly. ‘I want to wear jeans and a T-shirt and go to McDonald’s with you and eat cheeseburgers until I puke, and have ice-cream cake. Lots and lots of ice-cream cake.’

  I felt bad for you. You always looked forward to your birthday. Every year on the first of January your countdown began. I had to wait until December, so I never bothered counting down to mine.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not going to be that bad,’ I told you. I had no idea what a high tea even involved, but I knew that your mother always went above and beyond for you, so whatever she’d planned would be special. She also always made a big fuss of me on my birthday after my mother died. She was wonderful like that.

  ‘I know this isn’t your thing, pumpkin,’ your father had said a while later when he came searching for you. He always called you pumpkin. ‘But your mum has put a lot of effort into this party. She’s been planning it for months. Can’t you just go along with it? It’s just for a few hours. It would make her so happy.’ When he wrapped you in his arms and kissed the top of your head, I knew by the grim look on your face, this party was going ahead.

  Your mum invited all the girls from your class. Of course I was invited as well, but I was the only boy. There was no way I was going to sit there and sip on pink lemonade and eat cucumber sandwiches with a bunch of life-sized girls who resembled Ma’s toilet-paper doll. For a nearly fourteen-year-old boy, that’s the stuff of nightmares. Luckily your dad felt the same—though he hadn’t dared suggest not holding the party; he would do anything for you but the love he felt for your mum was something else—so we came up with a plan for us to be the waiters for the day. Your mum even hired us tuxedos so we looked the part.

  I’d been doing odd jobs around my house for months to earn extra pocket money so I could buy you a present. I bought you a kite. You used to love playing with mine when we’d go to the beach. Yours was multi-coloured like a rainbow, in the shape of a butterfly.