Page 30 of Nineteen Letters
“I am,” I reply, taking it from her.
“It’s nice to see you smiling again, sweetheart. Braxton was the only boy to ever make you smile like that. I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”
“I’m going to open this,” I say, lifting the box.
“Of course.”
“Thank you for bringing it up to me.”
“You’re welcome. Rachel should be here soon, and I’ve made a cake for our afternoon tea. It’s your grandmother’s recipe. It was always one of your favourites.”
“Sounds nice. I’ll be down soon.”
I wait until she descends the stairs before I close my bedroom door and rush towards the bed. Unlike the caution I showed opening the first two letters, I tear straight into this one. This time I don’t search for the charm inside. It’s the written words I crave.
My hands tremble slightly with anticipation as I carefully unfold the letter.
Letter three…
Dearest Jemma,
The twenty-first of December 1998. I remember the date only because it was the day after my tenth birthday. It was a stinking hot day. Your father and my parents were all working, so you’d begged your mum to take us to the beach.
The three of us caught the bus, and you were so excited that you practically bounced the whole way. I used to get a kick out of watching you.
Unlike you, I grew up around water, so it wasn’t a big deal to me. You, on the other hand, were a country girl. The first six years of your life were spent on a farm. Your family only moved to the city because your father had beenoffered a promotion through the bank he worked for—to come and manage our local branch. Your parents were hesitant to leave the country life behind and head to the big smoke, but they knew it was a great opportunity.
When we arrived, we stripped down to our bathers and laid our towels out on the sand under your mum’s big red umbrella, before running down to the shore.
It was a hot day, so the beach was crowded. You weren’t a strong swimmer back then, so you were only allowed to splash around in the shallows. I was okay with that. Sometimes we’d sit near the water’s edge and build sandcastles, or dig large holes in the sand and bury ourselves until only our heads were visible. On Boxing Day we built snowmen out of sand. We always had fun no matter what we were doing.
After lunch, your mum bought us ice-creams. She told us we’d be leaving to go home soon, so we used this time to walk further down the beach towards the rock pools. It’s where all the good shells were. It was our thing. On your first ever trip to the beach, I found a pretty shell that had been washed up on the shore and gave it to you.
You loved it so much that I made it my mission to collect one for you every time we visited the beach. Even back then there was nothing I wouldn’t do to see you smile.
I stepped up onto the rocks first, then reached for your hand. “Be careful, the rocks can be slippery,” I warned. I’m pretty sure I said that to you every time. I’d slipped on some moss one day when I was rock-fishing with my dad, and the jagged edges had cut deep into my arm resulting in numerous stitches. I didn’t want the same fate for you.
You squatted down and poked around in the rock pool with a small stick, while I headed over to the sandy patch to find you a shell.
“Come and look at this, Brax. It’s so blue and pretty.”
Shoving the shell I’d just found into my pocket, I headed towards you. “Don’t—” I called out as soon as I saw what you were doing, but before I had time to finish, you moved your hand through the water and scooped the pretty blue thing into your palm. It wasn’t pretty. It was a bluebottle.
Your scream was high-pitched as you dropped the bluebottle onto the rocks below. I’d seen it happen before with others, so I knew you’d be okay, but I hated the thought of you being in pain.
I tried to steer you back towards your mum, but you were so upset. I remember trying to lift you, but I think I only made it about two steps before I had to put you down.I’d turned ten the day before, but it would be another few years before I had a growth spurt. So instead, I sat you down on the edge of a rock and ran to get your mum.
“Jemma’s been stung by a bluebottle,” I blurted out as soon as I reached her. “I’m going to run up to the surf club and get one of the lifeguards.”
“Where is she?” your mother asked in a panic as she dropped the book she was reading and stood.
“On the rocks.” I turned and pointed in your direction.
I was out of breath by the time I arrived at the watchtower, but relieved when the guy radioed to the lifeguard on patrol. Once I knew help was on the way I bolted back down the beach. But my knees turned to jelly when I got close enough to hear your mother calling out in a panicked voice, “Somebody help me, please … my daughter can’t breathe.”
We hadn’t known you were severely allergic to jellyfish, and you were experiencing an anaphylactic reaction.
I held your hand while your mother encouraged you to breathe. The terrified look in your eyes and the blue tinge around your lips is a sight I will never forget.
