13. Jemma
Chapter 13
Jemma
I lie on my side on top of the bed and stare at the shell Braxton found for me at the rock pool. I’ve put it on my bedside table because I wanted it close. I reach for it and run my fingertip over the smooth porcelain surface.
Closing my eyes, I bring it to my ear. I feel my lips curve up as I listen to the sound of the ocean trapped inside. My smile widens as I think back to that moment on the beach. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was surprised to see that the rock pool was brimming with sea life. My favourites were a small starfish and a crab no bigger than my thumbnail—I was enthralled when it ran sideways on its journey back to the vast ocean.
I watched on as Braxton headed towards a small sandy patch nestled between the rocks. The area was littered with remnants of the sea. He picked up a few things and brushed them over with his fingertips. “Nope,” he said as he discarded each one. “Nope, has a chip in it.” I’m pretty sure he was talking to himself, and it was amusing to watch him. “Yes … perfect.” He climbed back up to where I stood and opened the palm of his hand to reveal a shell.
“For me?” I asked as he pushed his outstretched arm closer towards me.
“Yes.”
“Thank you. It’s so pretty.” I took the white cone-shaped shell and studied it.
“Hold it to your ear,” he said. “You’ll be able to hear the ocean inside.”
By the time we got back to the car, my cheeks ached from all the smiling. I clutched the shell in my hand all the way home. It was my very first treasured memory. Not only did I have the shell to keep, but I also got to experience this memory firsthand. Every beautiful second of it.
I paid special attention on our drive back to Christine’s. I wanted to remember how to get there again. I even memorised some of the street names and wrote them down as soon as I got home. I’m not sure how I’ll get back there, but I’ll find a way.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when there’s a knock on my bedroom door. “It’s me, sweetheart,” Christine calls out. “A delivery just arrived for you.”
I sit up so fast I feel dizzy, so I wait until my head stops spinning before I stand.
“Coming.”
I think I startle Christine with how eagerly I open the door.
“Hi.”
“Hi. This just arrived,” she replies smiling as she holds out a parcel. It’s a lot larger than the last one, at least ten times the size of the one that held my memory bracelet. But that’s not what excites me. It’s the letter I see attached to it. He wrote me another letter . “Someone’s getting spoilt.”
“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 been offered 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.
It felt like a lifetime had passed before help finally reached you. They moved everyone back so they could assess you. I sat on a rock a few metres away and buried my head in my hands when they placed an oxygen mask over your face. I’d never been so frightened; it took all my strength not to cry. I was petrified I was going to lose you that day.
My body was trembling by the time they lifted you onto a stretcher and rushed you across the sand towards the waiting ambulance. You’d been given a shot of adrenaline, so by the time we arrived at the hospital there was a marked improvement, but it did nothing to ease my worry or stop me from feeling responsible.
The hospital admitted you, and you stayed for several hours for observation. You slept for most of the time. I sat on a chair in the corner, while your parents hovered over your bed. Your father had rushed straight to the hospital when he got word. The worry that was etched on their faces as they watched you made me feel sick in the stomach.
My parents called by to pick me up a few hours later, but I refused to leave. I broke down in my mother’s arms the moment she got there. I’d stayed strong for you for as long as I could, but my mum’s hug was my undoing. She gave the best hugs. After begging them not to take me home, they let me stay. I couldn’t leave you … I just couldn’t.
When you finally woke, the first thing you asked your parents was, “Where’s Braxton?” You have no idea how happy that made me. Even more so when I reached your bedside and saw your face light up.
When you got home, your mum wouldn’t let you leave the house, so we just laid around your place talking and watching television for the next few days.
The twenty-fifth of December 1998. Christmas morning arrived, and I was barely out of bed when you bashed on my front door.
“Merry Christmas, sweet girl,” my mum had said to you as she embraced you in a hug. She always called you that. I think she saw you as the daughter she never had.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs Spencer.”
I was so excited to give you your Christmas present. Usually, we just exchanged handmade cards, but that year I’d made you something special.
The week before, your family had spent a few days at your grandparents’ place. I’d spent that time with my dad, at his hardware store where he helped me make your gift.
“Merry Christmas, Jem,” I said, grabbing the large wrapped gift from under our tree and passing it to you.
“You bought me a present?”
I was beaming when your eyes widened.
“No, I made it,” I replied proudly. My gaze briefly met my father’s across the room, and he winked at me.
As much as I had missed you in those few days you were away, I’d enjoyed my special time with my dad. There was never enough of it. He was such a kind and patient man and I always loved being around him.
I held my breath as you tore into the wrapping paper.
“Braxton,” you whispered as you looked down at the wooden box I’d made you. I’d carved ‘JEM’S TREASURES’ into the lid.
“It’s a box to put your shells in.”
“I love it,” you said, throwing your arms around me and squeezing me tight. “I love it so much.”
When you let go of me, I saw tears brimming in your eyes. I was so pleased you loved your gift. I was so proud of it.
“I only have a card for you,” you said. You looked sad as you passed it to me.
“That’s okay.” I honestly didn’t mind. I loved all the cards you made for me over the years. I still have them. Every single one.
This one had a large green Christmas tree on the front, with colourful balls all over it. MERRY CHRISTMAS was written in multicolour underneath, and the large yellow star on top had way too many points. Drawing stars wasn’t your forte, but I thought it was spectacular. This card will always hold a special meaning to me because that year you wrote something different inside.
To my best friend Braxton,
I love you.
From your best friend Jemma.
You even signed it with three kisses.
Your words far outweighed any gift you could’ve given me. “I love it, Jem. Thank you.”
You smiled when I said that.
I already knew I loved you too, but I wasn’t good at expressing my feelings. Actions speak louder than words, my mother always said. Many more years would pass before you heard those three magic words from me.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
I sit for the longest time trying to digest his words. I love his descriptive writing; it holds just enough detail that if I close my eyes, I can almost picture these scenes in my mind.
When I eventually place the letter down, I pick up the envelope in search of my charm. I’m surprised when I find two—a heart-shaped one that says ‘ Best Friends’ , and a tiny clam-shaped shell. I clench them both in the palm of my hand as a smile spreads across my face.
I feel equally nervous and excited as I remove the paper from the large parcel. I gasp the moment the contents are revealed. The first thing I see are the words ‘JEM’S TREASURES’ . It’s the box he made me all those years ago. Tears fill my eyes when I lift the lid and see hundreds, possibly a thousand, shells inside, in a variety of shapes, colours and sizes. All together, that’s exactly what they look like … treasure.
I remove a few shells from the top and study them. It’s not until I go to put them back that I find something sitting just below the surface. It’s wrapped in plain white paper. When I unravel it, I find a small pink shell inside. There’s writing on the inside of the paper, so I flatten it out with my hand so I can read it.
This is the shell I picked out for you the day you were stung by the bluebottle. I found it in my pocket that night when I got home from the hospital, and I’ve kept it all these years. I never ended up giving it to you because at the time this was a moment I didn’t want you to remember. I see things differently now. I’m learning to appreciate every second, because you never know when it can be taken away from you. Good or bad, it was a chapter in your life, so it’s meaningful. x
He’s wrong. His words are just as beautiful as his actions.