Page 39 of Nineteen Letters
“It’s just a little pain,” she replied, brushing it off. “I’m fine, sweetheart.”
Her words were enough to ease my worry, and I quickly drifted off to sleep. It was just after midnight when my father came into my room to wake me.
“Braxton,” he said. “You need to get up, son.” I was so sleepy, I groaned and rolled over onto my side. “Braxton,” he repeated, sterner this time. “Your mother isn’t well. I’m going to take her to the hospital.”
“I don’t want to get up,” I whined. “I’m tired.”
“Please, son. Your mother’s in a lot of pain.” My father was a very patient man and rarely lost his temper with me. “If you don’t want to come to the hospital, I can phone the Robinsons and see if they’ll watch you until we return. Come downstairs once you’re dressed.”
He left the room, and I did something incredibly selfish: I fell back to sleep. I’m not sure how much time had passed, but I was woken by my father screaming. “Braxton, get out of bed now!” He threw back the covers and tugged on my arm. “I told you to get up and get dressed. Your poor mother’s in agony.”
This time I didn’t hesitate. I could tell by the tone of my father’s voice that he was very concerned for my mother.
When I got downstairs, I found her doubled over in pain. She was moaning loudly, and that’s when the panic set in. I’d never seen her like this before.
“Mumma!” I cried as I ran over to her where she was standing by the front door. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine, baby,” she replied breathlessly, forcing out a smile. But the terrified look in her eyes told me she was far from fine. It was the middle of winter, but her blonde curls were glued to her forehead from the perspiration.
“Come, Grace,” my father said sweetly, placing his arm around her. “Let me get you in the car.” She only made it down the first step when a blood-curdling moan ripped from her mouth. “Oh dear god,” my father muttered as he scooped her into his arms and dashed towards the car. “Go next door, son; the Robinsons are expecting you. They’ll take care of you until we get home.”
Just as my father said that, the porch light came on at your house. Your father emerged wearing a striped robe over his pyjamas, but I just stood there, paralysed with fear.
The next few minutes were a blur.
“I love you, Mumma!” I called out, as my father bundled her into the vehicle.
“She’s going to be okay,” your father said from beside me, placing his hand on my shoulder. It startled me because I hadn’t realised he was standing there. My eyes were fixed on the car as my dad screeched out of the driveway and sped down the street. I remember I wasfighting back the tears as your father led me towards your house. “Christine is making you up a bed on the couch.”
I wasn’t able to fall back to sleep, I’d been too worried about my mum. I was watching the time on the VCR tick over to 3.56 am when I heard my father’s car pull up next door. Although I had been awaiting his return, I felt sick inside. It’s like a part of me knew that my life was about to change forever.
The hall light came on a few seconds after he knocked on your front door, and I just lay there, too afraid to move. I saw your father sliding his arms into his robe as he passed the main room, your mother was following closely behind.
“How’s Grace?” she asked the moment they let my dad in.
I had a clear line of sight from where I lay, and the blank stare on his face when he came into view is one I’ll never forget.
He shook his head before he spoke, and I saw your mother’s hand fly up to cover her mouth. “Her appendix ruptured before we arrived at the hospital. They rushed her into theatre, but she didn’t make it … she died on the operating table.”
I heard your mother’s loud gasp moments before my father fell to his knees. My own tears silently fell as he covered his face with his hands and sobbed. It was the first and only time I had ever seen him cry.
This is the reason I turned up the radio this morning. This is a time in my life that’s too painful to revisit. If only I had got out of bed when my father had first asked me, they might have made it to the hospital in time, and maybe she’d still be alive.
To this day, just thinking about her hurts. I miss her so much. She was only thirty-three; far too young and beautiful to die.
There are another two pages of the letter, but at this stage, I have to put it down. I can no longer see the words through my tears. My heart breaks for the little boy he once was, and for what his family went through. That he’s carried around this guilt for all these years makes me feel incredibly sad. Leaning over, I pluck two tissues out of the box on my bedside table.
I wipe my eyes and move to the white desk that sits underneath the window. My fingers grip the back of the chair as I stare at the house next door; the place where he and his family used to live. I wonder about his father and why he doesn’t live there anymore. Did he remarry after his wife’s death?
I grab my handbag and rummage through it, looking for my phone. I have so many questions and so much I want to say to Braxton in this moment. I press the button on the side of the handset, bringing it to life. Opening the messages app, I findonly one text in the list, from Braxton. It says,Test; he sent it when he was giving me a rundown on how the phone works.
Clicking on that, I type a reply.
Me: I’m so sorry about what happened to your mum.
I press send. I don’t know what else to say to him, but I want him to know that I am sorry. Truly sorry. I wish I could find words deep enough to ease his pain.
I’m startled a few seconds later when my phone dings with a reply.
