by Jodi Perry
My eyes quickly dart up to his face, and I find him grinning. I love it when he smiles like that, because it shows off his cute dimple. His blue eyes sparkle in the morning sunlight as he passes me my coffee.
‘I made it just the way you like it.’
‘Thanks.’ I take a sip of my coffee, and it tastes amazing. ‘What’s in this?’ I ask.
‘Caramel syrup. You usually used it instead of sugar.’
‘It tastes divine. I must get some of this for Christine’s.’
‘You can take the bottle I have here. I can buy some more.’
He picks up his own coffee and takes the seat beside me, and Bella-Rose comes and lies by his feet. I try to ignore the fact that he’s so close I can feel the heat generating off his body. I also try to ignore how good he smells.
‘It’s so pretty here,’ I say.
‘It is. We used to sit out here every morning and have our coffee.’ I don’t reply because again, I hate that I don’t remember any of this. My old life seems like a good life, but it’s worlds away. ‘Are you hungry?’ He leans forward and picks up a plate that has two muffins on it. ‘They’re blueberry, one of your favourites.’
‘Did you make these?’
‘Hardly,’ he scoffs. ‘Unless you count defrosting them in the microwave. I couldn’t cook to save my life. You were the chef in this house. I’d sometimes help with the prep, but basically I was the washer-upper. I always left the cooking to you … it was safer.’
I find myself wondering how he gets by now that I’m not here to look after him. This situation is totally out of my control, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling bad for him.
My eyes flicker to the mug in his hand. The one he gave me looks new and stylish, but his is clearly old. There’s writing on it, but I can’t make out what it says, because his hand is in the way.
‘Your coffee is black. Did I get the last of the milk?’
‘This is how I usually have my coffee,’ he says, chuckling.
‘I put milk in your coffee at Christine’s.’
‘I know.’
‘You should have said something.’
‘I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’
‘You wouldn’t have, silly,’ I say, bumping my leg with his. ‘At least now I know for next time.’
We sit in silence and drink. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable—surprisingly, it feels … right.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but Braxton eventually looks down at his watch. ‘Well, as much as I’m enjoying having you here, I guess I better get you home. I have a meeting at ten, and I still need to go and see my dad.’
An idea pops into my head and words are out of my mouth before I even realise. ‘Can I come with you?’
‘To see my dad?’
‘Yes, I’d love to see him again.’
His face lights up. ‘Of course. I’d like that.’
We’re both smiling as we leave.
‘Let me take those,’ I say to Christine as we unload the shopping bags from the taxi.
We had a nice morning together. After we shopped, we had lunch at a cafe, where I ordered caramel syrup in my coffee. I feel like we need to start doing normal things like this. Christine has helped me start to live again, and I want to help her do the same.
Christine checks the mailbox as I walk towards the house and place the groceries down on the front porch. ‘I must get you a key cut for the front door,’ she says, climbing the stairs.
‘I’d like that.’
It would be nice to be able to come and go as I please. Now that my rehab is only a couple of days a week, I have so much spare time on my hands. I no longer have a job, and with no memory of my design skills or tastes, there’s no way I could go back to doing that. Maybe I should think about finding a new career.
Christine unlocks the door, and I gather the grocery bags and carry them into the kitchen.
‘This came for you,’ she says, passing me a letter and a small parcel. My pulse quickens. They’re from Braxton.
I place them down beside me, and quickly unpack the groceries, eager to get this done so I can read my letter.
‘Let me do that,’ Christine says. ‘Go read your letter.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
I slide my arms around her waist, hugging her tight. ‘Thank you for today … it was nice.’
‘It was just like old times,’ Christine smiles.
LETTER EIGHT …
Dearest Jemma,
The twenty-fourth of December 2004. The ice-cream parlour was closed over the Christmas period, so I was looking forward to spending the next two days with you. You’d worked almost every day of the school holidays leading up to Christmas, and I was missing you so much. I spent a lot of time at the hardware store helping my dad. He didn’t expect me to do it, but I was happy to be able to help him, and to be honest, I was completely lost without you around.
Your shift finished at 4pm, so I made sure I left the hardware store in plenty of time to pick you up. I did this every day, and we’d catch the bus home together. It was summer, so the ice-cream business was booming and you were run off your feet. You always looked so tired when I’d collect you from work, which I hated, but the way your face would light up as soon as you saw me melted my heart.
‘Promise me you won’t leave my side for the next two days,’ you said once we’d taken our seats on the bus. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
‘I’ve missed you too.’ If only you knew how much.
‘Promise me, Braxton.’
‘I promise I won’t leave your side,’ I used my finger to cross my heart for added effect, ‘except when I go to the bathroom, of course. Unless you insist on coming in there with me as well.’
‘Eww, gross. No way!’ you screeched, bumping your shoulder with mine. ‘Bathroom breaks are definitely allowed.’
Ma and Pa had arrived at your place by the time we got home. They’d always come down at Christmas time. We’d spend Christmas Eve decorating your tree, while your mother and Ma were busy in the kitchen getting a start on our Christmas feast for the next day.
Christmas was no longer celebrated in our house. Since my mother’s death, my father had lost interest. He always had a wrapped gift for me on Christmas morning, and joined us at your place for Christmas lunch—your parents insisted on it—but that was the extent of it. For him, it wasn’t Christmas without her.
It was around 10pm when we finished decorating the tree. Your parents and grandparents gathered in the main room for the official turning-on of the Christmas lights. It’s a job that your father usually did, being the man of the house, but this particular year I was bestowed with the honours. You have no idea how much that meant to me.
I stood beside the tree while Christmas carols played softly in the background. The moment your father gave me the nod, I flicked the switch and watched as all your faces lit up with smiles. I loved my time with your family, I truly did, but it was also a constant reminder of everything I’d lost.
I smiled along with you all, but the entire time I was fighting back tears. Seeing you all together and so happy made me think of my mum, and how much I missed her. It also made my heart ache for my dad. We both lost so much the day she died.
My mum loved Christmas; it was her favourite time of the year. My dad’s store would close for a few days, and we would be together as a family. She would decorate the entire house in the weeks leading up to it, and when she was home she would play Christmas carols and sing along. If I happened to be in close proximity, she would grab me and make me dance with her.
I can still picture the smile on her face as we waltzed around the room. I loved seeing her smile like that. On Christmas Eve, she would stay up late making Christmas cake for the following day, along with her special custard; she’d make it from scratch, she hated that powdered stuff. Her honey-glazed ham was to die for.
‘I can’t wait to give you your present in the morning,’ you said,
linking your arm through mine as you walked me to the door. You were practically bouncing with excitement. ‘I hope you like it.’
‘I’ll love it.’ You’d worked hard to earn the money for that gift, and that alone was enough. It meant so much that you’d go to such lengths for me.
Christmas morning I woke to a loud banging on my front door. ‘Braxton,’ I heard my father call out a few minutes later. ‘Jemma’s here.’
Jumping out of bed I rummaged through my top drawer for the small wrapped present I’d stowed inside. My father had given me fifty dollars for all the work I’d done at the hardware store in the weeks prior. I didn’t want his money, but he insisted.
I used it to buy you a gift.
My father was standing at the base of the staircase as I descended, but my gaze was firmly fixed on you. You were standing just inside the doorway, still dressed in your pink pyjamas. Your hair was sticking up all over the place, but to me you’d never looked more beautiful.
‘Merry Christmas, Pop,’ I said to him when he pulled me into a one-armed hug.
‘Merry Christmas, son.’
The smile on your face grew as I walked towards you. I was only wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms, and I had to suppress my grin when your eyes slowly travelled the length of my body before making their way back to my face.
I’d grown a lot in the nine years we’d been friends. I was now tall and buff, and I liked the idea that you’d just unashamedly checked me out.
‘Merry Christmas, Brax,’ you said as you revealed the small square wrapped box from behind your back.
‘Merry Christmas, Jem.’ I too held my present for you out in front of me.
My stomach did a flip-flop when your face lit up.
‘You got me a gift?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Open yours first.’ I could hear the excitement in your voice as you spoke. I held my breath as I tore into the paper, revealing a black box. I slowly opened the lid and couldn’t believe my eyes.
‘A watch?’ I’d never owned a watch before.
‘Yes. Do you like it?’
‘I love it,’ I replied, pulling you into my arms. ‘I love it so much, Jem. Thank you.’
I could tell you were happy that I liked my gift by the huge smile I saw on your face when I finally released you.
I wasted no time strapping it to my wrist. It was perfect, and not only the best present I’d ever received, but the most valuable—and I don’t mean in monetary terms. It was a gift given by you, a gift from the heart, and one you’d worked hard to buy. It’s something I still treasure to this day.
‘Open your gift.’
I stood and watched you unwrap it. Unlike me, you took your sweet time, taking great care not to tear the paper. I was eager for you to see what I’d bought for you, and the suspense was killing me.
You gasped as soon as you removed the lid from the small pink box. ‘Oh my god, Braxton.’ When your eyes moved back to me, I was surprised to see they were brimming with tears. I watched as you ran your fingertip over the tiny silver shell-shaped earrings. ‘They’re so beautiful.’
‘As soon as I saw the shells, they reminded me of you.’
‘I love them,’ you whispered as you wiped your eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Later that day, my father and I joined your family for lunch. Ma and your mum always went over the top, but they got no complaints from me. I stuffed myself until I was so full I felt sick. My favourite part of the day, though, was seeing the shift in my father. Once he and your father got stuck into the port after lunch, a different side to him emerged. He relaxed, and seemed no longer burdened by his circumstances. I loved seeing him so carefree and happy, even if it was only for just that one day a year.
Boxing Day was usually spent at the beach, and this year was no different. Your dad dropped us off midmorning, with strict instructions that he would pick us up at 2pm. I had my new watch with me. I’d even slept in it on Christmas night … I didn’t want to take it off.
We were older now, so we didn’t require a chaperone wherever we went. Not only were we sensible, but your parents knew I would look after you, just like I always had.
With you working, it had been weeks since we’d come here, and as we walked towards our usual spot, you pointed towards the row of houses that lined the beach.
‘Oh look, they’ve knocked down that old house.’
I headed in that direction to get a closer look. There was something about buildings that fascinated me. The different shapes, sizes and designs. The framework for a new house was already erected, and I tried to imagine what it would look like when it was completed.
I knew that, when I left school, I was either going to build or design houses, but I was yet to decide which.
‘How nice would it be to live this close to the beach,’ you said. ‘I wish I was rich.’
‘If I ever win the lottery I’ll buy you one of these houses.’
‘That’s sweet.’ You bumped my shoulder as a smile spread across your pretty face.
‘Which one would you prefer?’
‘None of these,’ you replied. ‘I’d build my dream house.’
‘You have a dream house?’
‘I do.’ You linked your arm through mine as we continued down to the beach. ‘I even drew a picture of it. I’ll show you when we get home.’
We spent most of the morning swimming, and when we were done, we built a snowman out of wet sand—complete with seaweed hair, twig arms and shell eyes. We’d been doing this for so many years it had become a Christmas tradition.
Later that afternoon, as my dad lay on our sofa sleeping off the effects of his big day on the drink with your father, I lazed around your lounge room in front of your television. When I asked to see your drawing you seemed pleased, and raced off to collect it from your room.
‘I’m going to live in a house exactly like that one day,’ you announced as you handed it over for me to study. It was a white weatherboard two-storey house, complete with a white picket fence out front. The drawing was so detailed, right down to the blue shutters and trim around the windows. You had even added a colourful garden that ran the length of the front porch.
‘I love this,’ I said.
‘A girl can dream,’ you replied with a sigh, but I didn’t doubt it for a second. ‘Dreams are free, you know.’ I handed the drawing back to you, and I’m pretty sure that’s the exact moment my future was confirmed. I was going to become an architect. You wanted that house, and I was going to make sure you got it. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to make your dreams come true. ‘You can buy the house next door, and we can be neighbours just like we are now.’
I smiled and nodded, but there was no way I was going to settle for being your neighbour. I was going to marry you one day and we were going to live in that house together.
A boy can dream too …
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
I place the letter down beside me and pick up the small parcel. As soon as I see the pink box, I’m smiling. I know what’s inside: the shell earrings he bought me when we were teenagers.
They’re beautiful, and a similar shape to the shell charm on my memory bracelet. I remove them from the box and slide them into my ears, then search in the envelope for my charm.
I find three: a house, a wrapped gift and a snowman.
Also in the envelope is a folded piece of paper. When I open it I can’t contain my smile. It’s the picture I drew of my dream house. It’s not just a square with a triangle on top for the roof, like I imagined it would be. There’s so much detail in it. But the biggest surprise for me is that it’s almost identical to the house where Braxton lives.
He really did build me my dream house.
TWENTY-THREE
Braxton
‘Hey, Pop,’ I say, entering his room. I love the smile that appears on his face as soon as he sees me. More often than not I just get a b
lank stare.
‘Hi, son.’ The moment those words are out of his mouth I find myself grinning. Today is a good day; today he remembers me. He leans forward in his chair and looks behind me. My first thought is he’s looking for Jem, but sadly she isn’t with me today.
I’ve waited on the back deck every morning since I last saw her. I even resorted to taking Bella-Rose for walks along the beach just in case I ran into her, but there has been no sign of her. ‘Where’s your mum? She’s not with you.’
My heart sinks. He doesn’t ask for her often, but when he does, it always ends badly.
‘No, she’s not,’ I say as he stands and hugs me.
‘Oh. Where is she? Is she coming to see me later?’
I briefly think about making up some elaborate story, but I’ve never lied to him and I’m not about to start. ‘She’s … umm … not coming, Pop.’
I feel terrible when I see his face drop.
‘Why?’ he asks.
I scratch my head as I think of the best way to put this, but there really isn’t a good way to tell him he lost his wife.
‘She passed away a long time ago.’
His whole body sinks, and I hate the look of confusion I see on his face. ‘What? How? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone to the funeral.’
I take a seat beside him and place my hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Pop.’
A lump rises to my throat when he covers his face with his hands and starts to weep. It was hard enough seeing him going through this when he first lost her. I hate that he has to relive it all these years later.
‘I can’t believe she’s gone. Not my Grace. How am I supposed to go on without her?’
I don’t know what to say to that, so I rub his back instead. Again that nagging guilt I’ve carried around all this time comes flooding to the surface.
‘It’s all my fault,’ I whisper.
He stops crying and looks up at me. His tear-stained face does nothing to ease my pain. ‘What do you mean it’s all your fault?’