Page 12 of Nineteen Letters
I’m jolted from my sleep when I feel someone squeeze my hand. My eyes are heavy and my mind is in a haze. I’m still sitting in the chair beside Jemma’s bed. I look down at my watch and see that it’s just after 5 am. Then the realisation hits me. Someone squeezed my hand.
“Jemma,” I say, sitting upright in my chair. “Jemma, baby.” I lean my body closer to her as I lightly squeeze the hand that’s still wrapped in mine, but there’s nothing. No movement. I must have imagined it.
I exhale a large breath as I rest my forehead on her shoulder. “Wake up, babe. Please.” My voice cracks as I try to hold my emotions in. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. “Please, Jem,” I whisper. “I need you.”
Minutes pass. I continue to rest my head on her, all the time struggling to hold back the tears. I feel like I’m losing my mind, but it’s probably just the sleep deprivation. I’m mentally and physically spent.
I lean back in my chair and rub my free hand over my face, scratching against the whiskers. I’ve never gone this long without shaving.
I have to admit to myself that a warm shower and a shave might revitalise me. Jem’s never been a fan of beards. She thought my occasional stubble was sexy, but that was her limit.
I gently unravel my fingers from hers and stand up to stretch. I arch my back and raise my hands high in the air, trying to relieve the ache that seems to have taken permanent residence in my weary muscles. I usually try to work out most days, but I can’t do that while I’m here.
It’s now a little after seven. The nurse has just left after checking Jem’s vitals; there’s still no change. She told me the doctor would be in shortly, when he starts his rounds. I’m on edge. I pace back and forth for a few minutes, before coming to a stop beside the bed.
“Jem, can you hear me?” Leaning forward, I run my fingers down the side of her face. “I need you to wake up.” There’s desperation in my voice as I speak. “Please.”
My gaze is fixed on her as I stand to full height. This waiting game is messing with my head. Then I see movement. Well, I think I do; maybe I’m just imagining it like I did with the hand squeeze. I rub my eyes before focusing on her again. This time I know I’m not seeing things. Her eyelids flutter slightly beforea soft groan falls from her lips. My heart rate picks up as I lean over her again.
“Open your eyes, Jem,” I beg as I reach for her hand under the blanket, folding it in mine.
I can’t explain how joyous I feel when she does as I ask. She looks me straight in the eye with a vacant stare. Considering everything she’s been through, that doesn’t surprise me.
A huge smile forms on my face.
“Welcome back,” I whisper as my eyes cloud with tears.
Her gaze moves from me to her surroundings. I can only imagine how confused she must be feeling. I’m trying hard to hold it together, but I’m so overcome with emotion my resolve is slipping with each passing second.
I gently run my hand down the left side of her face when her gaze moves back to me. I hate that the familiar sparkle is gone, but I know it will come back.
Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against hers as tears stream from my eyes.
I haven’t cried like this since my mum died. But these tears are different. They’re tears of joy, not heartache. Tears of gratitude and relief, not guilt. All the uncertainty I’ve been feeling the past few days vanishes in an instant. She’s back. She’s alive. I can finally breathe again.
“I’ve missed you so much, Jem.”
“Stop.” Her speech is raspy and sounds nothing likemyJemma. “Get off me,” she pleads, weakly pushing against my chest.
She’s never spoken so harshly to me before, and my first instinct is that I’ve hurt her somehow. “Jem.” I pull back in confusion.
“Who are you?” she asks in a frightened voice.
My heart drops. “It’s me, Braxton … your husband.”
She doesn’t say another word, but she doesn’t need to. The fear I see in her eyes says it all. The relief I felt moments ago is quickly replaced by panic.
She doesn’t remember me.
I thread my fingers into my hair, tugging slightly on the strands. I can’t believe she doesn’t know who I am.
Chapter 6
Braxton
One week later …
Irest my forehead against the steering wheel after turning off the ignition, uttering a silent prayer hoping that today is the day my wife’s memory returns. After the horrors of her waking up and not remembering me—or anybody, for that matter, not even her parents—things have been on a downward spiral.
