8. Jemma
Chapter 8
Jemma
T he persistent knocking on my bedroom door has me begrudgingly rising from the mattress. I thought if I ignored her long enough, she would go away. I know little about this woman who claims to be my mother, but one thing for sure is she’s unrelenting.
My leg is still in this ridiculous splint, so I move slowly. I’m enjoying the hydrotherapy my doctor has me doing to strengthen my leg because it means I’m free of this dreaded thing, if only temporarily. The downside to my therapy is being forced to spend time with Braxton. That’s not because he’s hard to be around; quite the opposite, he’s always friendly and nice. What I see on his face when we’re together is hard. The pleading, almost desperate look in his eyes. Like he’s silently begging me to remember him. It weighs me down with guilt.
I’ll never forget the look on his face when I told him I wasn’t going home. His devastation tore at my heart. I could feel him breaking apart in front of me without a sound or a single tear. It was a terrible thing to witness, especially knowing I caused it. It’s something I hope to never see or feel again.
He has been so good to me. So tolerant. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, but he needs to put himself in my shoes. I don’t know him. Yes, he’s become somewhat familiar over the past weeks and, yes, he seems like a wonderful guy—sweet, caring and loyal—but that’s just not enough.
I’ve been suddenly thrust into a world I don’t know, don’t remember, and it’s scary as hell. I’m surrounded by strange people loving me and fussing over me but I feel nothing for them in return. It’s extremely daunting. I don’t know anyone, but worst of all, I don’t even know myself.
What’s my favourite colour, or my favourite food? I’d settle for favourite anything right about now. Just a glimmer of the person I once was. Am I a nice person? Or am I a bitch? Even though these people come back day after day with smiles on their faces, and love in their hearts, I can’t help but lean towards the bitch side. I haven’t exactly reciprocated the affection that’s been showered upon me. Does that mean I’m uncaring, or am I just empty inside? I certainly feel empty.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Christine says with a smile when I open my bedroom door. I have an urge to roll my eyes at her statement. Even if I hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have stopped knocking until I was.
“I was just resting.” Hiding from her more like it, but she doesn’t need to hear that.
She’s been nothing but kind since I got here. She’s been giving me the space I need and isn’t trying to push too much onto me at once. Like Braxton, she seems unsure how to treat me.
I think I made the right decision coming here. I had to do what was best for me … what was safe. I do not know what the real Braxton Spencer is like behind closed doors. My gut tells me he’s a good guy. The side I see when we’re together doesn’t appear to be forced or fake, but the truth is I don’t know if that’s the real him. I know nothing about him.
“These just arrived for you,” she says, holding up an exquisite arrangement of yellow and purple flowers.
Without knowing what kind of flowers they are, or even who they’re from, they make my breath catch in my throat. I can’t explain it, but they make me feel … something. But what? I have no idea.
“It’s so nice to see you smiling,” my mother says. “I’ve missed your pretty smile.”
My gaze moves from the flowers to her, and I’m surprised to find her eyes brimming with tears. Am I smiling? I wasn’t aware that I was. And why is she crying? I study her face trying to find the answer, but all I see is sadness. Is she thinking about the old me? The daughter I once was, not the shell she’s now left with.
“They’re beautiful,” I state, trying to push the thought that I’m hurting everyone from my mind.
“They are.”
I sense there’s more behind her words, that these particular flowers hold significance and I should know that. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.
“They’re from Braxton.”
The smile drops from my face and the anxiety kicks back in. This is a more familiar feeling. Other than numbness, I have experienced little emotion since waking from my coma, but this anxiousness I cannot bear.
“The card says, ‘I hope you’re settling in’ .” She points to it. “He’s such a good man, he’s always been so thoughtful.”
“It was very nice of him,” I reply, reaching for the bouquet. She hasn’t said much about my previous relationship with Braxton, but I don’t miss her subtle hints. It’s obvious she adores him.
“You loved him, you know?” Sometimes she’s not so subtle.
“Really? And how do you know that? Could you feel what I was feeling inside?”
Her eyes widen slightly. “No, Jemma. I could see it. Everyone could.” With that, she turns and leaves. I immediately feel bad for being so aggressive towards her.
Closing my door and locking it, I walk towards the window. I’m not sure why I want these flowers near me, but I do. I find myself smiling again as I place them down in the centre of the dresser. I’ll be able to admire them from my bed.
My eyes move down to the small rectangular card pinned to the silver ribbon that adorns the white ceramic vase. There’s something about the writing that seems familiar, which is crazy. I presume it’s Braxton’s since the flowers are from him. Is it even possible that I remember his handwriting, but not him?
I cut off a small piece of crumbed chicken and hesitantly place it in my mouth. I’ve been living here for almost a week and nothing much has changed. I’m still feeling lost … just like my memory.
“How’s it taste?” Christine asks with a hopeful expression. She patiently waits for my answer as I slowly chew the food. It tastes good. Really good . I presume I’ve eaten this before. Christine seemed almost excited when she announced we were having chicken schnitzel for dinner. Everything is an experiment of some sort, as I’m forced into experiencing what life has to offer all over again. Tastes, smells, sights, sounds and feelings. So much of life seems foreign to me now.
“Nice,” I reply, finally swallowing. She continues to watch me like she’s waiting for me to elaborate, but I don’t. Instead, I shove a forkful of mashed potato in my mouth.
“It’s your favourite! I always made it for you on special occasions, like your birthday, or when you were feeling down.”
That statement does nothing to cheer me up, it only helps to remind me of everything I’ve lost. When is my birthday?
I know she’s trying, but I wish she’d stop. Nothing she can do will help—certainly not a piece of crumbed chicken. I’ve practically given up on my memory returning. Surely there would have been at least a minor breakthrough by now. I feel like I’m falling deeper and deeper into this black abyss that has become my existence.
Silence falls over us as we continue to eat. It’s for the best. Especially if she wants me to digest this food.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, rising from her chair at the end of the meal. “A package arrived for you.” My eyes follow her as she walks across the room to retrieve it. I do not know why anyone would send me a package. “It came while you were lying down. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
That’s the excuse I use to lock myself away from everybody. I’m tired, I’m going to lie down . My reluctance to be around anyone isn’t helping matters. I even drove Rachel away. She stayed here for the first three nights before packing her things and moving to a hotel. She assured me she wasn’t running from me, that it was only to give me the space she thought I needed. Maybe that was the case. I don’t understand why these people give so much, for so little in return.
“Here,” Christine says, placing a cream package in front of me. “Are you done?”
She points down to my plate, and I nod before answering. “Yes, thanks.”
My eyes scan the writing across the front. It’s the same handwriting that was on the card, so I know it’s from Braxton. I find it ironic that despite losing my memory I can still read. I have no recollection of who taught me how, or even which school I attended.
I can’t comprehend why that part of my brain is okay, yet people, places and all the important moments from my past have been completely wiped out. I’ve had to undergo many tests, yet the doctor couldn’t find any evidence of permanent brain injury, but it’s obvious something is going on up there.
I turn the package over, feeling suddenly uneasy. I saw him this morning when he drove me to rehab. He didn’t mention this, but I suppose I didn’t give him a chance to engage in any sort of conversation. It’s just easier that way. Easier for everyone. I don’t want to give him false hope when there’s no hope to give.
Looking up, I find my mother eyeing me sceptically from the other side of the kitchen. I wish she’d stop watching me the way she does. It’s unnerving. She might remember me as her daughter, someone she has raised and loved, but she is nothing to me. The person they loved is gone. I may look like the Jemma they once knew on the outside, but that woman is no more.
“I’m going to lie down,” I say, rising from the chair.
“Okay, sweetheart.” She forces out a smile, just like she does every time I disappear upstairs.
My past, my parents, my husband, my friends, my enemies, my first kiss, my achievements and failures, my likes and dislikes … the list of things I don’t remember is endless. I should feel grateful for surviving the accident, but I don’t. I have no idea where I belong. I would never voice this out loud, but there’s a huge part of me that wishes I didn’t wake up. That might sound selfish, but that’s exactly how I feel. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel, only darkness.
After locking my bedroom door, I walk across the room and slump down on my bed. I’m told this is the room I grew up in. Christine said she left it just the way it was when I moved away for university. There are little trinkets of my past everywhere. Trophies, medals, photos, banners, stuffed toys. None of it is familiar.
Instead of comforting me, they haunt me. It’s a past I can’t remember. Things that probably once held great significance, now mean nothing. I hate it in here, but it’s the only place I truly feel safe. I can lock myself away from everyone and just be numb. I don’t have to pretend I’m okay, or that I’m coping, because I’m not. I feel like I’m drowning in a sea of nothingness, which is ironic. How can you drown in nothing?
I stare at the package on my lap for the longest time. I’m curious to know what’s inside, but I’m apprehensive as well. According to Christine, Braxton was the love of my life. Once upon a time, he may have been, but when I look at him now, I feel nothing. Which I find strange. If I loved him as much as everyone says I did, wouldn’t my heart still feel it?
I wait till my stomach settles before I finally find the courage to open it. As desperate as I am to remember, it’s frightening when people tell me or show me things from my past. I feel like I’m hurting everyone by not remembering. Don’t they realise how much I wish things were different?
I hold my breath as I tear open the cream paper and slowly remove the contents, laying them out on the bed beside me. There’s a long red rectangular box with a card attached, as well as another, smaller envelope. The card on the box has ‘Open me first’ written on the front, so I pick it up.
Enclosed you’ll find a memory bracelet. For now, it’s empty, but over time you’ll understand why I’ve called it this. Since you’re not comfortable talking to me, I’ve decided to write to you instead. I hope you take the time to read my letters when you’re ready. They’re letters about our past, and of the happier times we’ve spent together. Memories of your life through my eyes. It’s my way of trying to give you back a piece of what you’ve lost. Whether or not these letters lead you back to me, I feel you still need to know what we once shared, and what life was like for us.
Closing the card, I ponder his words. I’m touched that he has gone to these lengths, but I can’t see how a few letters are going to help. How he can show up here day after day with a smile on his face when I treat him the way I do. He’s a better person than I am; I would have given up on me weeks ago.
My fingers hover over the lid, and then I take a breath and open it. I run my fingertips over the white-gold chain. He wasn’t lying when he said the memory bracelet was empty. Just like me.
I continue to run my fingers over the links. Deep inside I know this is my way of stalling. I’m afraid to read the letter. I don’t want to be freaked out by a past I’ve forgotten, yet there’s a part of me that yearns to read what he has to say.
Letter one …
Dearest Jemma,
The nineteenth of January 1996 was an important day from our past. I’ll never forget it. It was the day we met, and the day that changed my life forever.
For you to get a clearer picture of the impact this day had on me, I should start by telling you what my life was like before we met.
Like you, I’m an only child. My father, John Spencer, owned and managed the local hardware store. It’s something he inherited when his father died. Hardware was never his thing, but he wanted to keep my grandfather’s dream alive, and gave up his own aspirations in life to do just that. He’s a good man, my father; one of the best.
There wasn’t a lot of money in hardware, so things were pretty tight. Apart from two casual employees, he ran the store on his own, which meant long hours away from his home and family. What I remember most when I think of him is his absence, but I understand why it had to be that way.
He would leave for the store before I woke, and some nights I was already in bed when he returned. Once I started school, my mother, Grace, took a job as a receptionist to help make ends meet. I heard my dad telling my mum one night that we were in danger of losing our house.
I had a great childhood nevertheless. I was happy enough, but when I think back to the times before you moved in next door, what stands out the most is the loneliness I felt. With both parents working, I was home on my own a lot. No other children were living in our street. I used to look forward to going to school so I could play with the other kids. Then you came along, and everything changed.
I still remember that day vividly. It was a hot summer Friday afternoon. Unlike most kids, I didn’t look forward to the weekends. Sure, I got to watch cartoons on a Saturday morning, but once they were finished, there wasn’t much to do. My father was at the store, and my mother used that time to catch up on housework, laundry, and preparing meals for the coming week. My days were spent riding my bike up and down the street or kicking a ball around the yard on my own.
Sunday afternoon was my favourite time. My mum would cook a roast dinner every Sunday, and it was also the one day my father closed the store early. It was our family night. If the weather was good, he’d kick the ball around with me in the backyard, until Mum called us inside for dinner.
When I close my eyes, I can still remember the delicious aromas that filled the house as the roast cooked in the oven. After dinner, we played board games. I miss those times.
It was the school holidays, so I was bored out of my brain. I was lying on the sofa watching television when I heard the loud rumble of an engine coming from outside. I jumped up, and through the window, I saw a large truck parked in the driveway next door. I can’t remember the name of the company—I was only seven—but I remember the large, bold, blue letters and the word ‘REMOVALIST’ down the side.
The fact that we were getting new neighbours should have excited me, but it didn’t. I missed the old couple, Mr and Mrs Gardener, who used to live next door. She used to bake chocolate chip cookies every weekend and would bring me a special batch with extra chocolate chips. To this day, I still miss those cookies.
I didn’t want new neighbours. All I could think about were the cookies I would never get to eat again. Cookies are important to seven-year-olds.
My shoulders were slumped and I’m pretty sure my feet were dragging as I headed into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of milk. Thinking about those cookies made me thirsty.
I’d only managed to take a sip when the phone rang. I climbed onto the countertop and reached for the receiver that hung high on the wall. I already knew it would be my mum or dad. They called many times throughout the day to make sure I was okay. My parents hated I was left alone so much, but we needed the money that their jobs provided.
“New people are moving in next door,” I told my dad.
“Oh yes, Joe mentioned it.” Joe Pentecost was the local real estate agent and a friend of my father’s. “I believe they have a daughter who’s about your age.”
Those words instantly got my attention and gave me the pick-me-up I needed. Having someone my age living next door far outweighed my need for chocolate chip cookies.
The moment I was off the phone, I gulped down my milk and grabbed my bike from the back shed. I was desperate to get a glimpse of you as I pushed my bike down the driveway. I wasn’t even disappointed that you were a girl. I was just excited by the prospect of a new friend.
I hovered around the front yard waiting, but there was no sign of you. That’s when I climbed on my bike and moved to the street. I rode around in circles waiting for you to come out of the house, but your father and the removal guys were the only people I saw.
A lot of time passed, and I was ready to give up and go inside, but for some reason, my eyes were drawn to one of the windows on the upper floor. I think my heart actually skipped a beat when I saw you leaning against the glass windowpane, looking down at me.
A smile exploded onto your face, and I immediately reciprocated. I still remember the way my heart raced. I was so focused on you that I hadn’t noticed how close I’d come to the gutter until it was too late. Before I knew what was happening, I’d been flung over the handlebars and landed with a thud on the asphalt.
I lay there for a short time. I wasn’t going to cry, no matter how much my fall had hurt. I’d already embarrassed myself enough.
I finally found the strength to move, and when I did, I flinched. It took every bit of strength I had not to cry. As I tried to stand, a shadow fell over me. When my gaze snapped up to you, I swear you looked like an angel with the sun forming a bright halo around your pretty face.
“Are you okay?” you asked, crouching down to my level. I wasn’t okay, but I forced out a tight smile, trying to brush it off. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding,” you said quickly.
Looking down at my grazed knee, and the blood that was now trickling down my leg, made the milk I’d drunk earlier rise to the back of my throat. I kept telling myself not to throw up in front of you. I’d already made a horrible first impression; if I could have had a re-do, I would have chucked a really cool wheelie instead of stacking it.
“Come, can you stand?” You held out your hand and helped me to my feet, and then you picked my buckled bike off the road as I hobbled towards my house. “Let me help you up the stairs.”
“I’m fine,” I said, trying my best to remain brave. I wasn’t fine. I was in pain … and humiliated. You rushed ahead of me, banging on the front door. I had to grab onto the rail to help propel me up the stairs. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting your mum. You’re hurt bad.”
My parents didn’t like me telling people I was home alone, but I told you anyway. “My mum’s not home … she’s at work.”
I could tell by your widening eyes that you were shocked, but it didn’t deter you from opening the door and waltzing straight into my house. Even back then, I knew it was extremely careless of you to enter a stranger’s home like that, but your actions made me smile. In that moment, I knew we were going to be great friends.
After you got me seated on a chair in the kitchen and placed a wet cloth on my bleeding knee, you ran next door to get your mum.
Your mum wasn’t impressed that I was left alone at such a young age, and she let my mum know when she met her later that afternoon.
Your mother placed the first-aid kit she’d brought with her on the table and cleaned up my wounds. She was very sweet to me that day, just like you were.
“This is going to sting,” she said as she poured some antiseptic onto a cotton ball.
She wasn’t lying; it hurt like hell. It felt like she was dabbing my knee with a burning hot coal, not a soft cotton ball. The more she dabbed, the more it stung. The tears I’d kept at bay until now threatened to fall.
You were standing beside me, and out of the corner of my eye I could see you staring intently, but I refused to look at you. The moment my vision became blurry, I clenched my eyes closed. I refused to let you see me cry.
When a tear leaked from the corner of my eye, I turned my head away. I wasn’t expecting you to reach for my hand, but that’s exactly what you did. I’ve never told you this, but it helped. It really did. So, thank you.
You didn’t let go until your mum had finished.
“You were so brave,” you said as your mum packed everything away.
Those words made me feel so much better. “I’m Braxton,” I replied, holding out my hand to you. “Braxton Spencer.” If we were going to be best friends, you needed to know my name.
“Jemma … Jemma Isabella Rosalie Robinson,” you stated proudly.
“That’s a pretty name.”
I felt my face flush the moment those words left my mouth. It was a ridiculous thing for a seven-year-old to say, but it was the truth. Your name was almost as pretty as you were.
“If your leg is better tomorrow, do you want to come over and play?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.
You gave me a beautiful toothless smile, and my heart raced for the second time that day.
I’m going to marry this girl one day, was the first thought that entered my mind.
That thought only grew stronger in the years that followed.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
A tight feeling forms in the back of my throat as I look down at the tiny bike charm in my hand. It was inside the letter along with a photo of us as kids sitting on our bikes. The memory bracelet now makes sense.
A small smile creeps onto my lips when I pick up the photo and study it. My two front teeth are missing, and the toothless smile he mentioned in the letter is present. We look so happy. I swallow hard, but the lump that’s formed doesn’t go away. This slight gesture has me feeling somewhat surprised and strangely overwhelmed. He was right: in a way; it has given me a tiny piece of my life back. A tiny yet significant moment from my past.
I’ve been anything but nice to Braxton since the moment I woke from my coma, yet his commitment has never wavered despite me constantly pushing him away. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own sense of loss that I haven’t considered how much this has affected him.
Pulling the letter towards me, I clutch it tightly against my chest as I make a silent promise to myself. Tomorrow when I see him, I will make more of an effort.