Page 42 of Nineteen Letters
“But I want to. I want to for so many reasons. I want to hug you for the loss of your mother. I want to hug you for saving me from the snake. I want to hug you for everything you’ve given me since the accident. In the weeks that followed my coma … there was no hope. I can’t even put into words how I felt back then. There were times I even wished I hadn’t survived.”
“Jem,” I say as a lump rises to my throat. I knew she was down, with good reason, but never once did I think things were that desperate.
“Then you started writing the letters.” Although tears are brimming in her eyes, there’s a smile on her face as she speaks. “You have no idea what those letters have done for me. They’ve given me hope where there was none.”
Her words have me smiling. “I’m glad they’re helping.”
“They are.” A blush creeps across her face as her expression turns hopeful. “So, can I hug you?”
“Hug away,” I say, opening my arms wide.
She giggles nervously as her hands slide around my waist, her touch awakening all my nerve endings.
Folding her in my arms, I pull her in tight against me. “You never need to ask permission to hug me, Jem. Never. Consider me your own personal hugging machine going forward.”
A sweet laugh falls from her lips as she buries her face in my chest. “Mmm. You smell so good.”
My smile widens. The old Jemma used to say that all the time.
Everything in me wants to bury my face in her hair and inhale deeply. She’s always had the most intoxicating scent, butI don’t want to freak her out. Instead, I close my eyes and savour the feeling of having her in my arms again.
“Is my grandparents’ farm a long drive from here?” she asks as soon as we’re seated in the car.
“A couple of hours,” I reply. “My father’s being discharged from hospital today, so I won’t have time to take you, but we can go for a drive up there on the weekend if you like.”
When I glance in her direction, I find her grinning. “I’d love that, and I’m pleased to hear your father’s doing better. I’d love to meet him.”
“Whenever you’re ready, just say the word.”
“I know technically I’ve already met him, but …”
“You could come to the hospital with me after your physio if you’re feeling up to it?”
“Okay. I’d like that.”
And so would I.
“I need to warn you,” I say to Jemma as we walk down the long corridor towards my father’s room, “he might not remember you, so don’t be disillusioned if he doesn’t.”
I guess it works both ways, she won’t remember him either.
“Why wouldn’t he remember me?”
“He has Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh Braxton,” she says in a sympathetic tone. “I’m so sorry.”
I force a tight smile instead of replying. I’m sorry too. I feel helpless not being able to stop this disease from progressing, but mostly my heart aches for him. It’s just so unfair.
When we enter his room, I find him sitting up in bed drinking a cup of tea. “Hi, Pop,” I say as we approach his bed.
“Hi there,” he replies, but I can already tell by the dazed look in his eyes that he doesn’t know who we are.
“You’re checking out of this joint today.” I hold up the bag in my hand. “I brought you some clothes.”
I see his gaze drift towards Jemma, and when I look at her, she’s staring at him intently. “And who is this pretty little thing?” my father asks.
“This is Jemma.”
