Page 70 of Nineteen Letters
Christine unlocks the door, and I gather the grocery bags and carry them into the kitchen.
“This came for you,” she says, passing me a letter and a small parcel. My pulse quickens. They’re from Braxton.
I place them down beside me and quickly unpack the groceries, eager to get this done so I can read my letter.
“Let me do that,” Christine says. “Go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I slide my arms around her waist, hugging her tight. “Thank you for today … it was nice.”
“It was just like old times,” she replies with a smile.
Letter eight…
Dearest Jemma,
The twenty-fourth of December 2004. The ice-cream parlour was closed over the Christmas period, so I was looking forward to spending the next two days with you. You’d worked almost every day of the school holidays leading up to Christmas, and I was missing you so much. I spent a lot of time at the hardware store with my dad. He didn’t expect me to be there, but I was happy to help him and, to be honest, I was completely lost without you around.
Your shift finished at 4 pm, so I made sure I left the hardware store in plenty of time to pick you up. I did this every day, and we’d catch the bus home together. It was summer, so the ice-cream business was booming and you were run off your feet. You always looked so tired when I’d collect you from work, which I hated, but the way your face would light up as soon as you saw me melted my heart.
“Promise me you won’t leave my side for the next two days,” you said once we’d taken our seats on the bus. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too.” If only you knew how much.
“Promise me, Braxton.”
“I promise I won’t leave your side.” I used my fingertip to cross my heart for added effect. “Except when I go to the bathroom, of course. Unless you insist on coming in there with me as well.”
“Eww, gross. No way!” you screeched, bumping your shoulder with mine. “Solo bathroom breaks are definitely allowed.”
Ma and Pa had arrived at your place by the time we got home. They’d always come down at Christmas time. We’d spend Christmas Eve decorating your tree, while your mother and Ma were busy in the kitchen getting a start on our Christmas feast for the next day.
This holiday was no longer celebrated in our house. Since my mother’s death, my father had lost interest. He always had a wrapped gift for me on Christmas morning, and joined us at your place for Christmas lunch—your parents insisted on it—but that was the extent of it. For him, it wasn’t Christmas without her.
It was around 10 pm when we finished decorating the tree. Your parents and grandparents gathered in the main room for the official turning-on of the Christmas lights. It’s a job that your father usually did, being the man of the house, but this particular year I was bestowed withthe honours. You have no idea how much that meant to me.
I stood beside the tree while carols played softly in the background. The moment your father gave me the nod, I flicked the switch and watched as all your faces lit up with smiles. I loved my time with your family, I truly did, but it was also a constant reminder of everything I’d lost.
I smiled along with you all, but the entire time I was fighting back tears. Seeing you all together and so happy made me think of my mum, and how much I missed her. It also made my heart ache for my dad. We both lost so much the day she died.
My mum loved Christmas; it was her favourite time of the year. My dad’s store would close for a few days, and we would be together as a family. She would decorate the entire house in the weeks leading up to it, and when she was home, she would play Christmas carols and sing along. If I was in close proximity, she would grab me and make me dance with her.
I can still picture the smile on her face as we waltzed around the room. I loved seeing her smile like that. On Christmas Eve, she would stay up late making Christmas cake for the following day, along with her special custard;she’d make it from scratch because she hated that powdered stuff. Her honey-glazed ham was to die for.
“I can’t wait to give you your present in the morning,” you said, linking your arm through mine as you walked me to the door. You were practically bouncing with excitement. “I hope you like it.”
“I’ll love it.”
You’d worked hard to earn the money for that gift, and that alone was enough. It meant so much that you’d go to such lengths for me.
Christmas morning I woke to a loud banging on my front door. “Braxton,” I heard my father call out a few minutes later. “Jemma’s here.”
Jumping out of bed I rummaged through my top drawer for the small wrapped present I’d stowed inside. My father had given me fifty dollars for all the work I’d done at the hardware store in the weeks prior. I didn’t want his money, but he insisted.
I used it to buy you a gift.
