Page 22 of Nineteen Letters
She read the letter.
Her words spark a ray of hope inside me. She could’ve asked her mother that question, but she saved it for me. It’s the first one she’s asked since she woke from her coma. It’s been as if there is a part of her that doesn’t want to remember, or be reminded. She has shut all of us down every time we have mentioned her past, but it seems today is the beginning of … something.
“That one there,” I say, leaning forward and pointing to the two-storey red-brick house next door. It pained me greatly when I had to sell it to pay for my father’s room at the nursing home, and I still get a sick feeling in my gut every time I see it. Some of my best, and my worst, moments happened in that house, but selling it was the only way to guarantee that my father would get the care he needed.
“Do your parents still live there?”
I glance at her briefly before focusing back on the road. “No. No, they don’t.” I hope she’s satisfied with that answer because I don’t feel like elaborating. It’s too depressing. There was no happy ending for my family.
Looking out the passenger-side window, she studies the house as we pass. It still looks the same as it did when I lived there. Does it seem familiar to her?
“Did we go to the same school? Was it around here?”
“Yes, and yes,” I say as a smile forms on my face. “We can drive past on our way home if you like.”
“I’d like that.”
I close my eyes briefly and chant a silent thank you. My letter has ignited something within her, I’m sure of it. That spark of hope is growing. I’m eager to write to her again. I’ve only just touched on the beauty we once were.
Chapter 10
Braxton
“Shit!”
I screw up another piece of paper. The first letter came easily—it made sense to start at the very beginning—but now that I know she’s going to read them, my approach has changed. I’m compelled to cram as much as I can into this one. There’s so much I yearn to say.
Resting my elbows on the desk in front of me, I bury my face in my hands. I can’t rush this.
With that in mind, I put pen to paper. Her interest was piqued when we stopped off at the primary school we both attended. She even got out of the car and walked around the perimeter of the entire school, taking it all in. It’s odd, yet sad to know she’s seeing these old, familiar things through fresh eyes.
Letter two …
Dearest Jemma,
The seventeenth of March 1997 was a pinnacle time in our young lives. We’d been neighbours for over a year atthis stage, and our friendship was growing stronger with each passing day.
The fact that I was a year older than you meant we were in different grades, and we never played together at school. I’d smile whenever we passed each other, though, because just seeing you made me happy.
In the playground, you hung around the girls in your grade, and I played with my mates. In the beginning, I was scared to tell my friends about you. To them, any girl was a germ-infested no-go zone. You were never like that to me; from that very first day I found you different. You were funny, easy to get along with, and incredibly sweet.
Now that your mother knew I was home alone in the afternoons, she insisted I stay at your house until my mum got back from work. I looked forward to that hour each day because you were all mine. You seemed just as happy to be around me.
In those moments I didn’t have to pretend not to like you, because I did. A lot. It would have been impossible for me not to. I was at an impressionable age, and to an eight-year-old boy reputation is everything.
Little did we know that year would be a game changer for us. One incident in the school playground changedeverything. It was a moment that put my entire reputation on the line.
It was a Monday. I only remember that because I’d spent the entire Sunday with you and your parents at the beach. I was still on a high from it and sought you out in the playground. On the down-low, of course.
I steered my mates around to the grassed area at the back of the school when the lunch bell sounded, because I knew that’s where you played elastics, or skipped rope with your friends. It was a risky move on my part, but one I was willing to take. I just needed a glimpse of you to get me through to the end of the day. It sounds silly when I say it like that, but that’s exactly how you made me feel … how you still make me feel.
When there was no sign of you, I started to worry. Call it a sixth sense, but I knew something was off. I didn’t hesitate to leave my friends to go in search of you. I looked high and low—the front playground, the library, I even checked the sick bay in the office in case you’d been hurt. But, nothing, and now I was getting desperate.
I ran back to your friends to ask them if they’d seen you. One of them said you’d gone back to the classroom because you’d forgotten to bring your lunch down to theplayground, so I headed in that direction. I remember bounding up the stairs two at a time.
As soon as I hit the landing, I heard you. You were crying. I called your name as I broke into a run. The moment you stepped out from behind the partition wall, I was filled with a mixture of relief and confusion. It was the first time I’d ever seen you cry. “What’s wrong?” I asked, placing my hands on your shoulders.
“Larry … Larry Wilson.” When you buried your face in my chest and wept, I wrapped you in my arms. No other words were needed. ‘The Looter’ was what everyone called Larry Wilson behind his back. He was the school bully and ruled the playground with his iron fist. He was in grade five, and although only ten, he was enormous. Even the sixth graders were frightened of him. He was notorious for preying on the weak and taking whatever he wanted. In this case, your lunch.
