Page 13 of Nineteen Letters
I’ve been forced to return home each night without her. I swore I wouldn’t go back to the house unless she was with me, but that’s the thing—she doesn’t want me around. For the interim, anyway.
She practically had me forcefully removed from her room the first night. To her, I’m now a stranger, and that’s exactly how she’s been treating me. I’m pretty sure if Jemma had her way she’d even stop me from coming here during the day. I alternate between utter bleakness and determination; it hurts like hell, but I refuse to accept that this is the end for us.
She may no longer remember the love we share or everything we’ve been through together, but I do. Every moment … every second. I carry enough love for both of us.
Christine and Stephen are devastated by Jemma’s memory loss and, like me, are struggling to adjust to our new norm. It’s a tremendous blow to their already fractured lives. You can’t help but feel for them.
Jemma’s doctor spoke with me at length last night, before I left the hospital. He referred to Jemma’s condition as retrograde amnesia. He said it’s not uncommon for a patient to suffer some form of memory loss after sustaining a head injury. But unfortunately, there’s no magic cure. For now, it’s yet another waiting game. Her memory loss may be temporary, but there’s a chance—and this is my greatest fear—that it will never return.
Either way, I’m not giving up on us.Never. Optimism is all I have right now. We belong together, and in time I’m confident she’ll come to realise that as well. Our hearts belong to each other.
When the accident happened, I worried she would never wake up, and I would lose her. Not once did I contemplate the possibility that she would wake up and I would lose her anyway.
It’s only 7 am as I walk the long, familiar corridor of the hospital towards her room. I make sure I’m here every morning when her breakfast arrives so I can cut up her food. She’s incapable of doing it herself, with only one functioning arm. She hates it, I can tell, but she needs to eat. The old Jemma was strong-willed and independent. It’s something I’ve always loved and admired about her, so I’m glad that’s a trait she hasn’t lost. She’s still in there somewhere, I just need to find a way to bring her back out.
“Morning, Mr Spencer,” one nurse says as I pass.
“Morning.”
I’ve become a regular fixture around here. Jemma was moved out of the ICU four days ago and into a normal ward. They kept her in intensive care long enough for her to have the hip replacement, and the pins inserted into her broken bones.The operation was successful, and they had her up and walking—albeit slowly and with help—within twenty-four hours.
My stomach tightens the closer I get. The love I used to see in her eyes when she looked at me has been replaced by a blank stare; that’s if I can even get her to look in my direction. She spends most of her time pretending to be asleep so she doesn’t have to talk to us. She’s giving everyone the cold shoulder, including her parents. It breaks my heart, and not just for Christine and Stephen and me; I can only imagine how scared, confused and alone Jemma must be feeling.
“Good morning,” I say when I enter her room. She’s awake and staring at the ceiling. I hate that her face no longer lights up when she sees me, or that she no longer smiles.
She has such a beautiful smile.
Her eyes dart to me briefly before fixing back on the ceiling. “Hi,” she replies in a voice so soft it’s barely audible.
I force out a smile because I can’t let her see how much this is affecting me—I need to be her strength. I want to pull her into my arms and tell her to hang in there, and that everything is going to work out, but I know better than to do that. My hopes may be dwindling, but I refuse to believe that this is what our future holds.
“Is breakfast late this morning?” I ask, taking a seat near her bed and trying not to let this new awkwardness overwhelm me.
“I told them I didn’t want any.” She’s still refusing to look at me.
Sliding my chair forward I reach for her hand, but I’m not surprised when she jerks her arm away.
“You’ve got to eat, Jemma. It will help you regain your strength. I’m sure you don’t want to stay in this place any longer than necessary.” Her gaze moves to me, but she doesn’t speak. “Aren’t you itching to get home?” Because I know I’m itching to have her back there.
“Home? What home? I don’t have a home. How could I possibly be itching to go to a place I don’t remember?”
I’m stung by the bitterness in her voice and I go to reach for her hand again, but think better of it. “Your home is with me, Jem.”
The blank stare she gives me has me diverting my gaze to the floor as silence falls over us. The air is so thick in this room you could cut it with a knife.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be, like a job or something?” she eventually mutters. She doesn’t even wait for my reply before rolling onto her side and giving me her back.
“Let me help you,” I offer as she moves to rise from the bed. Today she’s leaving the hospital ward and checking into the rehabilitation centre. She has some intensive therapy ahead of her, but it means she’s one step closer to coming home. I’m still holding onto hope that this entire ordeal will soon be behind us, and we can move towards getting back to what we had before the accident. Without hope, a man has nothing. I’d even settle for something remotely close to that.
“I’m not an invalid!” she snaps, snatching her arm out of my grasp.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, stepping back. I shove my hands into the pockets of my trousers so I’m not tempted to reach for her again.
Once she finally manages to stand, she turns to face me. I hear her sigh before she speaks. “No,I’msorry,” she says,bowing her head. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. I apologise for the way I’ve been treating you, it’s uncalled for.”
I take a step forward. “It’s okay.” I’m hurting for her. This is hell for me, so I can’t even imagine what she is going through.
“I just feel so …” Her focus is still planted on the floor, but I don’t miss the crack in her voice as she speaks. I place my finger under her chin, to gently bring her gaze up to meet mine. A lump rises to my throat when I see tears pooling in her beautiful eyes. “I feel so lost.”
