Page 114 of Nineteen Letters
“Yes, she does. It works both ways. I’m thankful for the company.”
Jemma doesn’t reply; instead, I’m pleasantly surprised when she reaches for my hand. We walk the rest of the beach insilence, but her hand remains firmly clasped in mine. The only time she lets go is when I bend down to pick up a shell.
“For your collection,” I say, passing it to her.
“It’s pretty, thank you.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying the sunshine on the back deck while we wait for the roast to cook. The house smells divine.Today has been perfect.My only gripe is that it’s going too fast. Soon she’ll have to leave, and my full heart will feel empty once more.
A southerly wind whips up after dinner, so we move inside to the lounge room where it’s warmer. She doesn’t appear to be in a rush to go home, but I’m not complaining.
I choose not to turn the television on, preferring to just talk instead.
Although Jemma’s attention is solely on me, I notice her gaze occasionally flicker to the canvas of us above the fireplace. She hasn’t seen the wedding album yet—it arrived after the accident—and I’m torn about whether to show her.
I’m not sure why I’m scared to see her reaction, but I am. Maybe I’ll send it with one of her letters.
“Do you have any pictures of your mum?” Jemma asks, out of the blue. “I’d love to see one if you do.”
Rising, I walk towards the long low-line entertainment unit, where Jemma kept all of our photo albums.
Many years ago, I confessed to her I was frightened that memories of my mum were fading, and how guilty it made me feel. How could I possibly forget her? I could vaguely remember the scent of her perfume and picture her smiling face in my head, but over time, her image had become clouded, and I hated that.
About a week later, Jemma presented me with an album filled with pictures of my mum she had gotten from my father.
“If you ever feel like your memory of her is slipping, just look through this,” was all she said when she passed it to me.
When I opened it, the first picture I saw was of my mum holding me minutes after my birth. She had a huge smile on her face and a look of love in her eyes. I immediately closed it when a lump rose to my throat and pulled Jemma into a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” I’d whispered as I fought back the tears.
My eyes flicker now to the wedding album when I open the drawer. It’s sitting right on top. I have looked through it so many times, and on each occasion, my heart broke a little more.
Moving it to the side, I take out the album of my mother and pass it to Jemma.
The first time I looked through it was the day Jemma gave it to me. I locked myself away in my room and wiped the tears from my eyes as I turned each page. All the happy memories that had been overshadowed by her death came flooding back.
That night, I dreamed of her.
She came to me in my sleep and asked me to dance with her, just like she’d done when I was a child. But I was no longer a small boy; this time, I towered over her petite frame. There was no music, but she hummed a tune that was unfamiliar to me. Although I knew it was just a dream, in that moment I felt at peace.
“Oh wow, she looks so much like you,” Jemma says, opening the album to the first page.
I have my father’s build and jawline, but my mother’s nose, eyes and hair colouring. I don’t always get upset like I did the first time I looked through these photos; sometimes I smile and feel grateful for the time we had together. I’m hoping this is one of those times.
My heart feels heavy as I tell Jemma the stories that go along with the images. Over time, I’ve learned to live with my loss, but the longing to be with my mother again never lessens.
Finally, we come to the last page. The photograph shows our last Christmas together. I’m sitting on the floor surrounded bypresents and discarded wrapping paper. My mum is wearing a Santa hat and holding a piece of mistletoe above my head as she kisses my cheek. I’m scowling, and now I hate myself for it. I was only eleven, at that awkward age, but I’d give anything for a redo now.
“Hey,” Jemma says, placing her hand on my leg as I stare down at the image.
“I took everything for granted,” I whisper. “I was unaware that this would be our last Christmas together.”
“You weren’t to know … none of us know what lies around the corner, Braxton. That’s life. It is so unpredictable.”
Tears rise to my eyes as they meet hers. “Ain’t that the truth?”
If you told me a few months ago that my wife and I would be living in separate houses, I wouldn’t have believed it. I thought nothing would ever pull us apart. Our bond was too strong.
