Page 18 of Nineteen Letters
“It was very nice of him,” I reply, reaching for the bouquet. She hasn’t said much about my previous relationship with Braxton, but I don’t miss her subtle hints. It’s obvious she adores him.
“You loved him, you know?” Sometimes she’s not so subtle.
“Really? And how do you know that? Could you feel what I was feeling inside?”
Her eyes widen slightly. “No, Jemma. I could see it. Everyone could.” With that, she turns and leaves. I immediately feel bad for being so aggressive towards her.
Closing my door and locking it, I walk towards the window. I’m not sure why I want these flowers near me, but I do. I find myself smiling again as I place them down in the centre of the dresser. I’ll be able to admire them from my bed.
My eyes move down to the small rectangular card pinned to the silver ribbon that adorns the white ceramic vase. There’s something about the writing that seems familiar, which is crazy. I presume it’s Braxton’s since the flowers are from him. Is it even possible that I remember his handwriting, but not him?
I cut off a small piece of crumbed chicken and hesitantly place it in my mouth. I’ve been living here for almost a week and nothing much has changed. I’m still feeling lost … just like my memory.
“How’s it taste?” Christine asks with a hopeful expression. She patiently waits for my answer as I slowly chew the food. It tastes good.Really good. I presume I’ve eaten this before. Christine seemed almost excited when she announced we were having chicken schnitzel for dinner. Everything is an experiment of some sort, as I’m forced into experiencing what life has to offer all over again. Tastes, smells, sights, sounds and feelings. So much of life seems foreign to me now.
“Nice,” I reply, finally swallowing. She continues to watch me like she’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Instead, I shove a forkful of mashed potato in my mouth.
“It’s your favourite! I always made it for you on special occasions, like your birthday, or when you were feeling down.”
That statement does nothing to cheer me up, it only helps to remind me of everything I’ve lost. When is my birthday?
I know she’s trying, but I wish she’d stop. Nothing she can do will help—certainly not a piece of crumbed chicken. I’ve practically given up on my memory returning. Surely there would have been at least a minor breakthrough by now. I feel like I’m falling deeper and deeper into this black abyss that has become my existence.
Silence falls over us as we continue to eat. It’s for the best. Especially if she wants me to digest this food.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, rising from her chair at the end of the meal. “A package arrived for you.” My eyes follow her as she walks across the room to retrieve it. I do not know why anyone would send me a package. “It came while you were lying down. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
That’s the excuse I use to lock myself away from everybody.I’m tired, I’m going to lie down. My reluctance to be around anyone isn’t helping matters. I even drove Rachel away. She stayed here for the first three nights before packing her things and moving to a hotel. She assured me she wasn’t running from me, that it was only to give me the space she thought I needed. Maybe that was the case. I don’t understand why these people give so much, for so little in return.
“Here,” Christine says, placing a cream package in front of me. “Are you done?”
She points down to my plate, and I nod before answering. “Yes, thanks.”
My eyes scan the writing across the front. It’s the same handwriting that was on the card, so I know it’s from Braxton. I find it ironic that despite losing my memory I can still read. Ihave no recollection of who taught me how, or even which school I attended.
I can’t comprehend why that part of my brain is okay, yet people, places and all the important moments from my past have been completely wiped out. I’ve had to undergo many tests, yet the doctor couldn’t find any evidence of permanent brain injury, but it’s obvious something is going on up there.
I turn the package over, feeling suddenly uneasy. I saw him this morning when he drove me to rehab. He didn’t mention this, but I suppose I didn’t give him a chance to engage in any sort of conversation. It’s just easier that way.Easier for everyone.I don’t want to give him false hope when there’s no hope to give.
Looking up, I find my mother eyeing me sceptically from the other side of the kitchen. I wish she’d stop watching me the way she does. It’s unnerving. She might remember me as her daughter, someone she has raised and loved, but she is nothing to me. The person they loved is gone. I may look like the Jemma they once knew on the outside, but that woman is no more.
“I’m going to lie down,” I say, rising from the chair.
“Okay, sweetheart.” She forces out a smile, just like she does every time I disappear upstairs.
My past, my parents, my husband, my friends, my enemies, my first kiss, my achievements and failures, my likes and dislikes … the list of things I don’t remember is endless. I should feel grateful for surviving the accident, but I don’t. I have no idea where I belong. I would never voice this out loud, but there’s a huge part of me that wishes I didn’t wake up. That might sound selfish, but that’s exactly how I feel. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel, only darkness.
After locking my bedroom door, I walk across the room and slump down on my bed. I’m told this is the room I grew up in. Christine said she left it just the way it was when I moved awayfor university. There are little trinkets of my past everywhere. Trophies, medals, photos, banners, stuffed toys. None of it is familiar.
Instead of comforting me, they haunt me. It’s a past I can’t remember. Things that probably once held great significance, now mean nothing. I hate it in here, but it’s the only place I truly feel safe. I can lock myself away from everyone and just be numb. I don’t have to pretend I’m okay, or that I’m coping, because I’m not. I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of nothingness, which is ironic. How can you drown in nothing?
I stare at the package on my lap for the longest time. I’m curious to know what’s inside, but I’m apprehensive as well. According to Christine, Braxton was the love of my life. Once upon a time, he may have been, but when I look at him now, I feel nothing. Which I find strange. If I loved him as much as everyone says I did, wouldn’t my heart still feel it?
I wait till my stomach settles before I finally find the courage to open it. As desperate as I am to remember, it’s frightening when people tell me or show me things from my past. I feel like I’m hurting everyone by not remembering. Don’t they realise how much I wish things were different?
I hold my breath as I tear open the cream paper and slowly remove the contents, laying them out on the bed beside me. There’s a long red rectangular box with a card attached, as well as another, smaller envelope. The card on the box has‘Open me first’written on the front, so I pick it up.
Enclosed you’ll find a memory bracelet. For now, it’s empty, but over time you’ll understand why I’ve called it this. Since you’re not comfortable talking to me, I’ve decided to write to you instead. I hope you take the time to read my letterswhen you’re ready. They’re letters about our past, and of the happier times we’ve spent together. Memories of your life through my eyes. It’s my way of trying to give you back a piece of what you’ve lost. Whether or not these letters lead you back to me, I feel you still need to know what we once shared, and what life was like for us.
