Page 21 of Nineteen Letters
Chapter 9
Braxton
Iknock on the door twice before turning the handle and entering. I pray that he’s having a good day because I could do with a lift.
“Hi,” I say with a smile when my eyes land on the elderly man sitting in a chair by the window. I can’t believe how much he has aged over the past two years. He’ll always be the same man to me, but he looks well beyond his actual age of fifty-two. Sadly, this illness has knocked him for six.
“Hello, young man.” His green eyes light up as he stands slowly, extending his hand to greet me. He usually calls me ‘son’ when he remembers who I am, so I already know today is not one of his good days. I’ve struggled to come to terms with this, but even more so since Jemma’s accident. I am now a stranger to the two most important people in my life. It’s ironic and heartbreaking in equal measure.
I wrap my hand around his when I come to a stop in front of him, and I get a pang in my heart at the weak handshake he gives me in return. I hate what’s become of my father. The once strong and virile man he was, is no more.
He was diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s almost three years ago, and it has progressed rapidly since. I used to think itwas an old person’s disease, but I’ve learned that even people as young as me can be struck by it. That’s how my father eventually ended up here. It almost broke me to put him in a nursing home, but I was left with no choice.
In the beginning, we tried to convince him to move in with us, but he didn’t want to leave his house, the home he had shared with my mother, and I couldn’t blame him for that. I arranged for nurses to visit him, but when he started to wander off at all hours of the day and night, it became unsafe. He needed full-time care, which neither Jemma nor I could provide.
When the inevitable finally came, Jem and I looked at a dozen different homes before we eventually decided on this one. It was important to know he was getting the best care available; I wouldn’t have been able to go through with it otherwise.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his. It astounds me that he doesn’t know who I am, yet he’s so welcoming. I’m grateful that his illness hasn’t stolen that special trait. He has always been loved for his down-to-earth, friendly nature.
“You have a lovely view here,” I say, glancing out the large bay window beside us. His room overlooks the well-maintained gardens. Jemma had insisted on him having a room with a view of the native trees that were dotted throughout the landscape. The flowers attract the native birds and that’s what he loves. One downfall of this home was a strict no-pet policy, but it was a small price to pay for all the other benefits this place offered.
His beloved rainbow lorikeet, Samson, came to live with Jemma and me. It took a lot of patience and persistence from Jem to get Samson to eat in those first few days, but since then he has become part of our home.
“Yes,” he says as a smile brightens his face. “The birds come and visit often. I like them.” He lifts his arm and points toward the garden. “See that hollowed log over there?”
“Yes,” I reply following his gaze.
“A large blue-tongue lizard is living in it. He’s a beauty,” he says, extending his hands out in front of him to show me roughly what size it is. “I sit here for hours watching him bake in the sun.”
“That’s great.” I grin as I watch him. He seems happy here, and that helps ease the guilt somewhat.
I feel mixed emotions as I pull up outside Jemma’s mother’s house. Although Jem is now living here, I will never refer to it as her home. Her home is with me.
The letter should have arrived by now, but I have no idea how she would’ve reacted to it, or if she even read it. I pray she did. I’m so lost without her; it’s a day-to-day struggle I won’t ever get used to. A huge part of me is missing and I feel like I’m mourning her, yet she’s still alive.
With the persistence of Lucas and Rachel—separately; they still won’t speak to each other—I have finally gone back to work. I’ve been starting around midday so I can visit my dad and take Jemma to her daily physio appointments at the rehabilitation centre, and then I make up for my late start by working long into the night. Nobody is waiting for me at home, and I haven’t been sleeping well anyway. I designed every inch of that house for Jem with love and care, and now I hate being in it without her. At least while I’m working I’m not wallowing in the living hell that my life has become.
I stay seated in the car for a few minutes. I’m usually itching to see her, even if the sentiment isn’t mutual, but today I’mhesitant. These letters may be my last hope and I’m not sure I’m ready for another setback.
Eventually, I step out of the car. I’m never going to get the answers I seek by sitting out here. One thing’s for sure, though; whatever the outcome, I’m not giving up.
As I round the front of the car, I’m surprised when I see the front door open and Jemma step out. The doctor issued her with a walking stick, but she’s stubborn and refuses to use it. The limp is still visible when she walks, but she’s getting around a lot better now and improves each time I see her.
“Good morning,” I say, walking towards her.
I offer my hand when she reaches the steps. I can tell that she doesn’t like me doing this, but I can’t bring myself to stop being there for her.
“Morning,” she replies, accepting my extended hand for the first time. Her touch is brief but I savour it, and a smile curves on my lips. Any kind of contact, no matter how brief, is welcome.
I open the passenger-side door for her, and she makes eye contact with me before smiling and thanking me. Something is different about her today. Could it possibly be the letter?
My gaze moves down to her wrist when she reaches for the seatbelt, and I try hard to fight the disappointment when I notice she’s not wearing the bracelet I sent.
I’m curious to know if she’s read the letter, but the fact that she’s not wearing the bracelet has me biting my tongue. No point setting myself up for more heartache.
Usually she avoids looking at me, but today her eyes follow my every move as I seat myself in the driver’s side, again leaving me to wonder what’s going on.
“Which house did you live in?” she asks as I back out of the driveway.
