Page 15 of Nineteen Letters
Braxton
One month later …
There’s a spring in my step as I carry the last of the groceries into the house. I was up early this morning and heading to the shops to stock up on all of Jem’s favourite foods. Well, the foods she used to love.
Her memory has shown no sign of returning, so nothing has changed between us; our relationship is still strained, to say the least. I’m not even sure she would class me as a friend, but I refuse to let my mind go there. It hurts too much.
Today marks Jemma’s last day of full-time live-in rehab. She’s finally coming home. This is her dream house, the one I built for her. She loves it here. I desperately hope being here will help spark her memory.
Rachel came over yesterday to help me get the house in order. To my surprise, she returned from New York last week. Her company has granted her special leave. I suspect there’s more to it, but I’m so grateful to have her here. She has helped me keep my head above water.
I want everything to be perfect for Jem’s return. The house is exactly the way it was the last time she left. I’ve made up the spare room, with things the way they are between us, I’m gathering she’ll feel more comfortable in her own space.
She belongs in our bed, next to me, but I know that’s not going to happen right away. I miss my wife … no, I crave her, but if she needs time, that’s what I’ll give her. I’m just over the moon to have her home again.
Once the groceries are packed away, I search in the cupboard under the sink for vases. I went to three different florists on the way home to buy Jemma’s favourite flowers, every stem I could find. They’re the same type I gave her on our first date, and every date since—and they’re what she chose for her wedding bouquet. She has always loved the vivid contrast in colours between the rich yellow roses and the bright purple irises.
As desperate as I am for her to remember those times, that’s not why I’m doing this. I simply want to see her reaction, for her face to light up just like it used to. That look;Christ. I miss that look. It’s exquisite … one of pure beauty.
I close my eyes and try to picture that infectious smile of hers. I need to cling to these memories to help get me through. One day she will love me again, I truly believe that. The alternative is unimaginable.
As I walk through the automatic doors of the rehabilitation centre, I’m as nervous as hell—but I’m still smiling. “Good morning,” I say to Olivia, the young receptionist behind the front desk.
“Good morning, Mr Spencer.”
The staff, just like those at the hospital, have been wonderful with Jemma. I couldn’t have asked for better people to care for my wife.
I’m still getting used to the feelings that run through me every time I see her now: a mixture of love, elation and gripping fear. After the accident, I told myself I would be grateful to have her back in any condition, and I am, but I wasn’t prepared for this. How can she so easily forget the bond we shared? How can she not feel it, when I still do? For me, it’s stronger than ever. How could she forget how much she loves me? Because I know she loved me just as much as I loved her. I felt her love every day of my life. I’m struggling to comprehend how that could just vanish overnight.
“Good morning, ladies,” I say as I enter Jemma’s room.
My eyes briefly skim past Christine and Rachel, before landing on Jem, and the smile I’m wearing immediately drops from my face when my eyes take in her expression. Turning my head slightly, my gaze moves back to Christine, then Rachel. They’re each wearing the same sombre look. My heart sinks. Something’s going on.
Are they not letting Jemma come home?
“Is everything okay?” I ask Jemma as I step towards the bed. “Has something happened?”
She bows her head, and I hate that she can’t look at me. “We need to talk.” Her words are spoken so softly that I barely hear them.
“Sure,” I reply, even though my gut tells me I’m not going to like what she has to say. Talking was something we were always good at. We rarely fought. In the nineteen years we’ve known each other, I can probably count on one hand the number of arguments we’ve had.
“We’ll give you two a few minutes,” Rachel says, ushering Christine towards the door I just entered through. The sympathetic look Rachel gives me as she leaves only heightens my concern.
I watch as Jemma slowly manoeuvres her legs over the side of the bed and sits. The plaster cast has been removed and replaced with a plastic splint. She’s still limping when she walks, but the doctors say it will improve in time as her leg strengthens.
She will be returning here as an outpatient each morning for therapy, from Monday through Friday. I’m finally heading back to work next week, but only in the afternoons so I’m available to bring Jemma to her appointments.
“Come, sit,” she says, tapping the mattress beside her. Her asking me to sit next to her should have me smiling, but it doesn’t. I know her better than she knows herself, and what she’s about to say isn’t something pleasant.
The moment I’m seated, she reaches for my hand. Although I’m bracing myself for what’s to come, I still close my eyes briefly so I can savour her touch.
She sighs deeply before lifting her eyes to meet mine. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me over the past six weeks. I know I haven’t been the most gracious or accommodating patient.” She takes another breath, and I can tell she’s apprehensive about saying whatever it is she needs to say. “I hadn’t given it any thought until Rachel mentioned it, but she said you were eager to have me home.” She pauses briefly before continuing. “That’s not my home anymore, Braxton. I don’t even know where I belong.” And there it is. I feel something crumple inside me when the meaning behind her words sinks in. “I won’t be coming home with you today. I, umm …” Her gaze moves back down to the bed. “I think, under the circumstances, it’s best if I go to my mother’s house.”
I swear I feel my heart tear in two.She’s not coming home.
Standing from the bed, I rub my hand over my chest as that crushing ache returns. I feel like I’m struggling to breathe. “I’m so sorry, Braxton.” It’s obvious by the tone of her voice she’s hurting as well. Maybe not as much as I’m hurting, but it’s there.
“It’s okay,” I lie.
