Page 17 of Nineteen Letters
“I’m serious, Braxton. Talk to her. Remind her of everything you once shared.”
“How? She doesn’t even want to talk to me.”
I think that’s what hurts the most—that we can’t even communicate. We’ve never been at a loss for words. We’d talk about anything and everything. We were completely invested in each other’s lives until now.
“Make her listen,” Rachel presses. “Remind her of what you had together. Write her a damn letter if you have to. Just don’t give up. You two were meant for each other.”
“Werebeing the operative word here,” I whisper.
“No, you’re wrong, you stillare! You two share a love like no other.”
I pause and ponder her words. Maybe she’s right. If Jemma won’t listen to my spoken words, she might at least read my written ones. She needs to know what our life together was once like.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Chapter 8
Jemma
The persistent knocking on my bedroom door has me begrudgingly rising from the mattress. I thought if I ignored her long enough, she would go away. I know little about this woman who claims to be my mother, but one thing for sure is she’s unrelenting.
My leg is still in this ridiculous splint, so I move slowly. I’m enjoying the hydrotherapy my doctor has me doing to strengthen my leg because it means I’m free of this dreaded thing, if only temporarily. The downside to my therapy is being forced to spend time with Braxton. That’s not because he’s hard to be around; quite the opposite, he’s always friendly and nice. What I see on his face when we’re together is hard. The pleading, almost desperate look in his eyes. Like he’s silently begging me to remember him. It weighs me down with guilt.
I’ll never forget the look on his face when I told him I wasn’t going home. His devastation tore at my heart. I could feel him breaking apart in front of me without a sound or a single tear. It was a terrible thing to witness, especially knowing I caused it. It’s something I hope to never see or feel again.
He has been so good to me. So tolerant. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, but he needs to put himself in my shoes. I don’tknow him. Yes, he’s become somewhat familiar over the past weeks and, yes, he seems like a wonderful guy—sweet, caring and loyal—but that’s just not enough.
I’ve been suddenly thrust into a world I don’t know, don’t remember, and it’s scary as hell. I’m surrounded by strange people loving me and fussing over me but I feel nothing for them in return. It’s extremely daunting. I don’t know anyone, but worst of all, I don’t even know myself.
What’s my favourite colour, or my favourite food? I’d settle for favourite anything right about now. Just a glimmer of the person I once was. Am I a nice person? Or am I a bitch? Even though these people come back day after day with smiles on their faces, and love in their hearts, I can’t help but lean towards thebitchside. I haven’t exactly reciprocated the affection that’s been showered upon me. Does that mean I’m uncaring, or am I just empty inside? I certainly feel empty.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Christine says with a smile when I open my bedroom door. I have an urge to roll my eyes at her statement. Even if I hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have stopped knocking until I was.
“I was just resting.” Hiding from her more like it, but she doesn’t need to hear that.
She’s been nothing but kind since I got here. She’s been giving me the space I need and isn’t trying to push too much onto me at once. Like Braxton, she seems unsure how to treat me.
I think I made the right decision coming here. I had to do what was best for me … what was safe. I do not know what the real Braxton Spencer is like behind closed doors. My gut tells me he’s a good guy. The side I see when we’re together doesn’t appear to be forced or fake, but the truth is I don’t know if that’s the real him. I know nothing about him.
“These just arrived for you,” she says, holding up an exquisite arrangement of yellow and purple flowers.
Without knowing what kind of flowers they are, or even who they’re from, they make my breath catch in my throat. I can’t explain it, but they make me feel … something. But what? I have no idea.
“It’s so nice to see you smiling,” my mother says. “I’ve missed your pretty smile.”
My gaze moves from the flowers to her, and I’m surprised to find her eyes brimming with tears. Am I smiling? I wasn’t aware that I was. And why is she crying? I study her face trying to find the answer, but all I see is sadness. Is she thinking about the old me? The daughter I once was, not the shell she’s now left with.
“They’re beautiful,” I state, trying to push the thought that I’m hurting everyone from my mind.
“They are.”
I sense there’s more behind her words, that these particular flowers hold significance and I should know that. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.
“They’re from Braxton.”
The smile drops from my face and the anxiety kicks back in. This is a more familiar feeling. Other than numbness, I have experienced little emotion since waking from my coma, but this anxiousness I cannot bear.
“The card says,‘I hope you’re settling in’.” She points to it. “He’s such a good man, he’s always been so thoughtful.”
