by Jodi Perry
‘Well, maybe it’s time that you did. She gave it to you for a reason.’
‘You’ve started without me?’ Jemma says, entering the room carrying a large wooden tray with the coffees and a plate of biscuits on board.
‘Let me help you.’ Standing, I meet her halfway and take the tray out of her hands.
‘I baked the cookies last night. They probably don’t hold a candle to Mrs Gardener’s, but I hope you like them.’
I’m so touched I barely manage to sound normal when I reply. ‘I’m sure they’ll be delicious.’
I carefully place the tray on the table, and Jemma passes one of the coffees to Christine. ‘Here you go, Mum.’ I notice mine has milk in it as well, but again I don’t have the heart to tell her. ‘This one is yours,’ she says to me.
‘Thank you.’ I reach for a cookie before taking my seat beside Christine, and Jemma moves around to the other side of her. I dunk the cookie in the coffee for a few seconds before bringing it to my mouth. ‘Mmm.’ When my gaze moves to Jemma, I find her watching me intently. ‘They’re yum.’
She gives me a bashful smile before taking a sip of her coffee. ‘Do you always dunk your food into your drinks?’ She pulls a funny face, like it’s a weird habit to have. Little does she know she was the one who taught me that trick.
‘Don’t knock it until you try it.’ They were the exact same words she said to me all those years ago.
She shrugs before leaning forward and picking up a cookie. She was never one to shy away from trying new things. I loved that about her.
I forget to mention the part about not leaving the cookie in for too long. I can’t help but laugh when she pulls it out and half of it is missing. The look on her face is priceless. Her eyes widen and her forehead scrunches up and she looks down into the coffee mug.
‘There’s a two-second rule. Any longer and you run the risk of having it turn to a gooey mush and sink to the bottom of the cup.’
‘Oh.’
The sweet giggle that falls from her mouth is like music to my ears. She always had a great sense of humour.
Christine finally makes the move and lifts out a pile of photographs from the box. The one on top is a black-and-white image of a younger Ma and Pa. They’re holding a baby in their arms; presumably Christine. A small strangled sob escapes Christine, as her finger lightly runs over the image. It’s the first time I’ve seen a picture of Ma and Pa in their youth. They’re a handsome couple. Jemma leans forward and gives me a small smile when we both automatically place a hand on each of Christine’s legs for comfort.
‘Tell me about them,’ Jemma says as Christine flips through the images before passing them on to us. ‘What was your life like growing up?’
‘I have very fond memories of my childhood.’
Again, Jemma leans forward and looks at me. I wonder if she’s thinking about our childhood memories—the ones I’ve written about in the letters.
‘This is your grandfather,’ Christine says, holding up a picture of a young Pa in his army uniform. ‘He served in World War Two. That’s where he met my mother. There should be a photo of her in here. I remember seeing it when I was young.’ She shuffles through the images until she finds what she’s looking for. ‘Here it is. She was a nurse with the Red Cross.’
‘I know her,’ Jemma says, taking it out of Christine’s hand before I get a chance to see it. ‘I remember her from the hospital.’
‘That’s impossible. This photo was taken more than forty years before you were even born.’ She leans over and takes the image from her daughter’s hand. I see a smile cross her face as she stares down at the photograph. ‘She had a smile that would light up a room … I miss her so much.’ She passes the photo to me. ‘Here’s another one of her during wartime.’
‘It’s her, it’s definitely her,’ Jemma whispers.
‘Impossible,’ Christine replies in a dismissive tone. ‘As I said, you weren’t even born when these were taken. This was during the Second World War.’
Ignoring her mother, Jemma turns her attention to me. ‘Can you remember ever seeing this nurse at the hospital?’ She passes me the other photograph. ‘She worked the nightshift, and she’d hold my hand and sing to me. You remember her, don’t you?’
The hopeful look on her face tugs at my heart, but I have to tell her the truth. ‘No. I can’t honestly say I do.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ Christine snaps, standing and leaving the room. My eyes move back to Jemma and I see her bite her bottom lip to try and hide the quiver.
Reaching out, I grab hold of her hand.
‘I’m not lying,’ she whispers.
TWENTY-ONE
Jemma
The moment I’m seated in Braxton’s car, I pull out the diary that I stashed in my handbag. I sat up half the night going through the rest of the box. It all became a bit too much for Christine in the end, so she went to bed and left me to it.
‘What’s that?’ Braxton asks.
‘Ma’s diary. She wrote it during the war.’
‘Wow.’
‘I want to read you a small passage from it. It’s from the day she met Pa—May seventeenth, 1941. It just proves I’m not imagining things.
It has been over a week since I’ve had a chance to sit down and write. I am both physically and mentally exhausted. The days seem to be getting longer, and the casualties are growing at an alarming rate. One thing I’ve learned from my time here in England is that war is senseless. Beds line the corridors due to the lack of space in the wards, and if this continues it won’t be long until we’re completely out of room. I pray this never happens.
I’ve made it my mission not to become attached to my patients, but in one particular case I’m afraid I have failed.
Private Albert Griggs was unconscious when he arrived three days ago, and I was assigned to help one of the doctors attend to his wounds. I was putting pressure on the large gash in his forehead when he first opened his eyes.
‘Are you an angel?’ he asked as his large brown eyes focused on me. ‘You are so beautiful, just how I imagined an angel would look.’
‘I’m a nurse at the hospital.’
‘Then I’m not dead?’
‘No, you’re very much alive. You were injured in a mortar attack, but you’re in good hands. Doctor Adams is one of the best.’
His face lit up as he reached for my hand, moments before losing consciousness again.
His isn’t the first hand I have held. There have been many occasions where I have tried to comfort soldiers when they were afraid or in pain, or those dreadful moments when I know they won’t survive their injuries. Holding someone’s hand when they take their last breath is a feeling I don’t think I will ever fully recover from.
There’s something different about Private Griggs. A light flutter settled in the pit of my stomach as he gripped my hand. That has never happened to me before.
In the days that followed, I felt drawn to him. Some of my quieter moments were spent by his bedside. He was still unconscious, but I held his hand, just like that first day, and sang to him; and as he gripped my hand that same flutter returned.
‘That’s exactly what she did with me, Braxton,’ I say, looking up from the diary. ‘She held my hand and sang to me. You believe me, don’t you?’
Braxton’s eyes widen slightly before he speaks. ‘Do you think there’s a chance that you dreamed it? I dreamed about my mum once, years after she died.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. But it felt so real.’ In my heart I want to believe it was more than just that. I feel like I got to know a part of my grandparents that even the old me didn’t, and it brings me a sense of peace. ‘How would I know she used to sing to Pa?’
‘I have no explanation for that, Jem. Maybe it’s a story you were told as a child.’
I shrug. ‘Possibly.’
‘If it’s any consolation, the dream I had about my mum seemed realistic. And it comforted me.’
‘Believing that
Ma came to me gives me comfort too.’
He reaches across the centre console and places his hand on my leg, which reassures me. ‘Then that’s all that matters, Jem.’
His words make me smile, though just moments later my mood sours when Braxton’s phone rings and I listen to the message played back via voicemail.
‘Hi, Braxton. It’s Diane.’ Right away I find myself wondering who she is. ‘I’m just checking in to see how things are going with Bella-Rose. You two really seemed to hit it off the other day. If you could call me back when you get a chance, that’d be great.’
‘Bella-Rose?’ I have so many questions, but that’s all I manage to say.
His eyes dart to me briefly before focusing back on the road. ‘I’ve been lonely without you,’ he says quietly, and my heart sinks.
I know I am the one who has kept him at arm’s length, but hearing his words hurts so much. I have an immediate dislike for Bella-Rose, whoever she is.
I’m thankful when we pull into the car park at the rehabilitation centre a few minutes later, because I feel like I’m on the verge of tears, which is stupid. I’ve been wondering what he does in his spare time; now I know.
The logical side of me knows it’s unfair of me to expect him to wait around until I’m ready. I don’t even know if I’ll ever be ready, but right now I can’t even process all the emotions I’m experiencing: hurt, sadness, jealousy, disappointment and confusion. In one tiny moment my entire world has come crashing in around me.
‘There’s no point in you hanging around,’ I say, when he turns off the ignition and unbuckles his seatbelt. ‘I have plans this afternoon anyway.’
His brow furrows at my response. ‘That’s fine. I can take you wherever you need to go when we’re done here.’
‘There’s no need.’ I can’t even make eye contact with him as I reach for the door handle. ‘Thanks for the lift, though. Have a great day.’
‘Hey.’ He reaches out and wraps his hand around my elbow. ‘Is everything okay, Jemma?’
I glance at him over my shoulder and see the confusion on his face.
‘Everything is fine,’ I lie, forcing out a smile. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’
‘Okay. I’ll pick you up Friday morning, but hopefully I’ll see you before then.’ I doubt it, is my first thought. ‘If you need anything in the meantime, just call.’
I nod and then quickly climb out of the car and hurry towards the building. I’ll text him tonight and let him know I’ll catch a bus to my appointments from now on.
Two days pass, and I’ve had no contact with Braxton. Well, he has called and texted me a few times—he even came to the house yesterday, but I pretended I was asleep when Christine came up to my room—but I have ignored him at all costs. I feel dreadful for it, but it’s just easier this way.
He has more than done his part in helping me on my road to recovery. It’s time I cut him loose and let him live the life he deserves. A life without me. Why does the thought of that make me want to cry?
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, so I quickly lie down and turn my back to the door. Christine has noticed the change in me, and I can tell she’s worried. I’ve reverted back to my old way of coping … hiding away from the rest of the world. Things were just moving too fast, I guess. I got swept up in the whirlwind of it all before coming crashing back down to reality, and suffering a massive blow to the heart in the process.
‘Jemma, it’s me,’ I hear Rachel say from the other side of the door. ‘Are you awake?’
I roll over onto my back before finally sitting up. I have been avoiding her as well, but I can’t continue like this. I need to talk to someone, and she’s all I really have. Burdening Christine with my problems isn’t an option. She’s going through far too much of her own at the moment.
‘Yes, I’m awake. Come in.’
‘Hey,’ she says, opening the door and popping her head in. ‘I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.’
I shrug as I cross my legs in front of me. ‘I’ve been avoiding everyone.’
She sits down on the edge of the bed. ‘Is everything okay?’ When she places her hand on my leg, I raise my gaze to meet hers. ‘Jesus,’ she says when she sees the tears in my eyes. Without hesitating, she pulls me into her arms. ‘What’s going on? Talk to me.’
I’m not about to admit that I am devastated by the thought of Braxton and what’s-her-face … Bella-Rose. What sort of a name is that anyway? Pulling back, I wipe my eyes. ‘I guess everything is getting a bit too much. I thought I was doing fine, but it’s obvious I’m not.’
‘I understand this is hard for you, but you were really starting to make some progress. Don’t take a step back … you need to keep moving forward.’
‘Easier said than done.’ I sigh before continuing. ‘I don’t even know who I am anymore.’
‘And you’re never going to find that out while you’re locked away in this room sulking.’ Her words sometimes come out harsh, but she’s straight to the point and that’s what I love about her, and it’s what I need right now. ‘The Jemma I know is a fighter. She’s kick-arse. She never lets anything pull her down.’
‘You say that like it’s not a big thing. How would you feel if you lost everything? Not just your memory, but your entire life. Your husband, your parents, your friends, your home, your career … everything. I’ve lost it all.’
‘That’s the thing. You haven’t lost any of that. Your memory, yes … and your job, but that’s no great loss, your boss was an arsehole. But as for the rest, we’re all still here. And we’re not going anywhere. I know this is huge. I do. Just give it some time, it will all eventually work itself out.’
‘I hope so.’
Rachel leans back and looks me over with a burgeoning smile. ‘You know what you need?’
‘What?’
‘A girls’ night out. Just the two of us. It’ll be like old times. We can do dinner, and maybe go dancing afterwards. You love to dance.’
‘Do I?’ It feels weird that I don’t know this.
‘Yes. You kind of suck at it, but you love it nevertheless.’
‘I don’t suck,’ I say, slapping her leg, and she laughs. ‘Do I really suck?’
‘Well, put it this way: the first time we went out dancing together, I actually thought you were having a seizure.’
‘What?’ I screech.
‘I’m kidding,’ she replies as she grabs hold of her stomach and falls back on the bed. When a loud boisterous laugh erupts from deep in her throat, I reach out and slap her again.
‘You bitch.’
My comment only makes her laugh harder, and as much as I try not to join her, it’s infectious.
When we finally get our emotions under control, she assures me my dancing isn’t as bad as she made out—though the fact that she seems to be suppressing a smile when she says this makes me sceptical.
‘So, Saturday night … it’s a date, right? Dinner, dancing and lots of fun.’
‘The jury is still out on the dancing part, but yes, I’d love to come.’
‘I almost forgot, Christine asked me to give you this.’ She pulls a letter out of the back pocket of her jeans, and I recognise Braxton’s handwriting straightaway. The usual excitement I feel when I get one of his letters isn’t present this time round. Maybe because I’m still hurting, or maybe it’s because this time I’m unsure what it’s going to contain. Is it about my past—our past—or is it a letter wishing me a nice life so he can run off into the sunset with Bella-Rose?
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it from her and placing it on my bedside table. I’m certainly not going to open it in front of her … I’m not sure if I’m going to open it at all.
LETTER SEVEN …
Dearest Jemma,
The seventeenth of September 2004. It was a day of mixed emotions for me. There was a bounce in my step as we climbed off the school bus that afternoon. It was a Friday afternoon, after all, and that meant I had you to myself for the
entire weekend. Since you’d become my neighbour, they were my favourite days of the week.
Your mum had drinks and snacks waiting for us when we arrived home. I was old enough to look after myself by now—I was almost sixteen—but I still went to your house every day after school. My father was still working late, so I would also stay for dinner, and Christine would make him up a plate for when he got home. Four years had passed since my mother’s death, yet your mum still looked after us both.
You and I were sitting at the kitchen table getting our homework out of the way when the call came in. Your mother answered it.
‘It’s for you,’ she whispered, placing her hand over the receiver. ‘I think it’s him.’
That immediately got my attention.
‘Oh my god!’ you squealed, jumping up from your chair and hurrying to take the phone. Who the hell was ‘him’? I was totally confused, and I’ll admit, a little angry. If I was honest, though, it was more jealousy than anything. I wasn’t prepared to share you with another guy. ‘Hello? … Yes, this is Jemma … Uh huh … Really? … Yes, I’d love that.’ The one-sided conversation was doing nothing for my rising blood pressure. ‘Okay, of course … No, I’m free tomorrow.’
Your eyes darted to me, and I am pretty sure I was scowling.
The smile on your pretty face was huge as your gaze moved back to your mother, I’m surprised it didn’t split in two. Seeing you happy was one of my favourite things, but I was learning fast that this wasn’t the case if the cause of your happiness involved a male other than me. Well, unless it was your father, or mine, or Pa, or even old man Jenkins from the newsagent … he was funny and always made us laugh with his wacky sense of humour.
I didn’t mind seeing any of these men in your life make you smile, but this … this I minded, a lot.
I stop reading, and rest the letter on my lap. I can relate to everything he was feeling in that moment, because that’s exactly how I felt listening to his message from Diane. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to hear what happens next, or who I’m talking to on the phone. I don’t want it to be a boy. I don’t want anyone to come between our friendship, which is crazy. This letter was about our past, so whoever it was, it has already happened. There’s not a damn thing I can do to change it.