20. Braxton
Chapter 20
Braxton
B ella-Rose is not what I expected when I walked into the animal shelter. I told Diane, the manager, that I was looking for a male dog. A larger breed, something easy to train, with short hair for low maintenance. A good companion to keep me company on those lonely nights.
The dog cowering before me is none of these things. She is a small white Jack Russell with tanned patches and large, brown, pleading eyes. She looks frightened, confused, and alone—just like Jemma the day she woke from her coma.
As soon as I see her in the kennels, my heart tells me she’s the one. I have never been an impulsive person, but this dog looks lonely and afraid, which is exactly how I feel.
“Hey girl,” I say, crouching down so as not to intimidate her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won’t hurt you.” I speak in a soft soothing tone as I extend my arm towards her. She’s hesitant at first, but then to my surprise, she takes a few steps towards me, sniffing my outstretched hand and then licking one of my fingers. “That’s a good girl,” I coo as I stroke my hand gently across the top of her head, making her tail wag.
“We got her yesterday,” Diane tells me. “Her owner passed away and there was nobody else to take her. Poor little girl. She’s been like that ever since she arrived. She probably doesn’t know what’s going on. But,” she adds with a hopeful smile, “maybe now she’s found a new home?”
I smile in return.
When we arrive back at the house, I place her down on the front lawn and give her a few minutes to explore. At least we have a fence out here, so she can spend her days outside, basking in the sunshine, when I’m at work.
Bella-Rose barks at Samson, the bird, when we move into the house and I introduce them. She hovers under my feet from the moment I put her down. It’ll probably take her some time to settle in, but I have every confidence that she will.
I set up her bed near the back glass windows that overlook the ocean, and fill her bowl with water. There’s some leftover barbecue chicken in the fridge, so I chop it up and make myself a chicken sandwich for lunch, and give the rest to Bella-Rose. She practically inhales it, and I’m so pleased to see her eat. It gives me hope that she’s as happy to be here as I am to have her.
“Do you want to go for a walk along the beach, girl?” I ask, holding out the hot-pink lead I bought from the pet shop on the way home. The way she bounces around with excitement makes me laugh. It looks like she has springs in her feet.
As ever, my thoughts are on Jemma. I miss her, and I wish I had an excuse to go over and visit. My feet are propped on the coffee table, and Bella-Rose has perched herself on my lap. The television is on, but I’m not really watching it.
I’m happy that Jemma’s trips to the rehab will be less frequent—that means she’s improving—but at the same time I’m gutted, because it means I will see her a mere few times a week. I don’t see enough of her as it is. There’s a gaping hole in my heart that only she can fill. Part of me is missing … the best part … her .
I would love to call or go around to Christine’s and see Jemma face to face, but I want to give her the space she needs, so I send her a text instead.
Me: Hi.
It’s such a lame message. I have so much I want to say—I always do—but I force myself to continue with baby steps. When she’s ready for more, she’ll let me know.
I don’t expect a reply, but that doesn’t stop me from hoping for one. My wish is granted a few seconds later when my phone dings.
Jemma: Hi. How are you?
Me: I’m good. And you?
Jemma: I’m good too. I’ve just bitten the bullet and found the courage to ask Christine if she has any photos of Ma and Pa.
Me: And?
I wait for her reply, but instead of a text, my phone rings. I’m smiling like a fool when I answer it. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she replies in the sweet voice I miss so much. “I thought it would be easier if I called you. I take forever to type a response.” She pauses and I hear her let out an exasperated breath. “I’m still trying to get used to this damn thing. You don’t mind me calling, do you?”
“Not at all. You can call me anytime, you know that. So, what did Christine say?”
“She’s gone upstairs to get them.” I can hear the excitement in her voice. “After everything you told me the other day, I was hesitant to ask. I understand now why there are no photos of them in the house. I gather it’s a painful reminder for her.”
“It’s a shame, but we all do what we need to do to cope, I suppose.”
“What are you doing now?” she asks. “Rachel bailed on me. She had to go back to the hotel for a video conference with a client in New York.”
“Nothing much, why?” I inwardly hope her question is leading to an invitation.
“You should come over and look at them with us. Christine said she has a box of stuff upstairs. Umm … that’s only if you want to. No pressure. I’m sure you’re busy. I just … umm … I know how much you cared for them.”
Her nervous babble makes me smile. Doesn’t she realise wild horses couldn’t keep me away? Not only do I get to see her, but I would love to reminisce about Ma and Pa. They were like grandparents to me as well, and I hate how taboo this subject has become since their deaths.
“I’d love to.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I’d do anything to see you , I want to add, but I don’t. Not expressing how we truly feel is something we haven’t done since we were kids, so it’s taking some getting used to.
“Great. We’ll wait until you get here before we start. I’m a little worried about how Christine is going to take it all.”
I agree, it could go either way, but it’s time she remembered the good times and stop focusing on the bad. That’s the only way I’m surviving my situation with Jem.
I leave Bella-Rose happily munching on a rawhide bone, and within half an hour I pull into Christine’s driveway.
“Hi,” Jemma whispers when she answers the door.
It’s so good to see her. “Hi.”
She moves to the side allowing me to enter. “Christine’s in the lounge room.”
“Why are we whispering?” I ask with a curious smirk.
She shrugs before answering. “I’m not sure if this is a good idea. She’s gone really quiet, and is just staring at the box on the table like it’s about to jump out and bite her.”
“This is a good thing, Jem … she might get upset, but I think it will do her the world of good to remember the positive times, and stop focusing on the negative ones.”
“You know, you’re right.” The corners of her lips curve up into a smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She reaches out and places her hand on my arm. One simple touch from her has the ability to awaken every nerve ending in my body.
“Hi, Christine,” I say as I enter the lounge room, making my way towards her. Jemma was right, she looks frightened. She remains seated when I come to a stop in front of her, so I lean down and kiss her cheek.
“I might make us all a coffee before we start,” Jemma says, rubbing her hands together nervously.
“Sounds great. Do you want a hand?”
“No. I can manage.” She gives me a tight smile before turning and leaving the room.
“How are you?” I ask Christine, taking a seat beside her.
“I’m not sure if I can do this,” she mumbles.
“You know you can.” I place my hand over the top of hers. “It’s time. Your parents wouldn’t want this. They’d want you to remember the good times, and there were so many of them.”
She turns her face towards me and I see the tears glistening in her eyes. I can sympathise with what she’s going through, I lost a parent as well. In a way, I’ve lost them both. I don’t think I’ll ever truly get over my mother’s death, but trying not to focus on that dreadful day, and instead remembering all that we were, has helped me live on.
“There were so many good times,” she agrees, with the beginnings of a smile.
“Don’t just do this for Jem, do it for yourself. Hold on to those wonderful memories because that’s all you have now. It helps … I know.”
“You’re right.”
I remove my hand from hers, and she leans forward, reaching for the large chocolate-coloured, leather-bound box on the table. She takes a deep breath, as she slowly removes the lid.
“My mother gave me this box the night before she died. I think she already knew that she was leaving us to be with my father. She handed it to me just before she went to bed. ‘I want you to have this,’ was all she said. She hugged me so tight and told me how much she loved me. I didn’t suspect for a moment it would be the last time I’d ever hear her say those words to me.” She places the lid down beside the box and wipes the tears from her eyes. “I don’t know what’s in here. I’ve never looked inside.”
“Well, maybe it’s time that you did. She gave it to you for a reason.”
“You’ve started without me?” Jemma says, entering the room carrying a large wooden tray with the coffees and a plate of biscuits on board.
“Let me help you.” Standing, I meet her halfway and take the tray out of her hands.
“I baked the cookies last night. They probably don’t hold a candle to Mrs Gardener’s, but I hope you like them.”
I’m so touched I barely sound normal when I reply. “I’m sure they’ll be delicious.”
I carefully place the tray of drinks on the table, and Jemma passes one to Christine. “Here you go, Mum.” I notice my coffee has milk in it as well, but again, I don’t have the heart to tell her. “This one is yours,” she says to me.
“Thank you.” I reach for a cookie before taking my seat beside Christine, and Jemma moves around to the other side of her. I dunk the cookie in the coffee for a few seconds before bringing it to my mouth. “Mmm.” When my gaze flickers to Jemma, I find her watching me intently. “They are delicious,” I tell her.
She gives me a bashful smile before taking a sip of her coffee. “Do you always dunk your food into your drinks?” She pulls a funny face as she says it, like it’s a weird habit to have. Little does she know she was the one who taught me that trick.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.” They were the same words she said to me all those years ago.
She shrugs before leaning forward and picking up a cookie. She was never one to shy away from trying new things. I always loved that about her.
I forget to mention the part about not leaving the cookie in for too long. I can’t help but laugh when she pulls it out and half of it is missing. The look on her face is priceless. Her eyes widen and her forehead scrunches up as she looks down into the coffee mug.
“There’s a two-second rule. Any longer and you risk having it turn into gooey mush and sink to the bottom of the cup.”
“Oh.”
The sweet giggle that falls from her mouth is like music to my ears. She always had a great sense of humour.
Christine finally makes the move and lifts out a pile of photographs from the box. The one on top is a black-and-white image of a younger Ma and Pa. They’re holding a baby in their arms; presumably Christine. A small strangled sob bubbles in the back of her throat as her fingertip lightly runs over the image. It’s the first time I’ve seen a picture of Ma and Pa in their youth. They’re a handsome couple. Jemma leans forward and gives me a small smile when we both automatically place a hand on each of Christine’s legs for comfort.
“Tell me about them,” Jemma says as Christine flips through the images before passing them on to us. “What was your life like growing up?”
“I have very fond memories of my childhood.”
Again, Jemma leans forward and looks at me. I wonder if she’s thinking about our childhood memories—the ones I’ve written about in the letters.
“This is your grandfather,” Christine says, holding up a picture of a young Pa in his army uniform. “He served in World War Two. That’s where he met my mother. There should be a photo of her in here. I remember seeing it when I was young.” She shuffles through the images until she finds what she’s looking for. “Here it is. She was a nurse with the Red Cross.”
“I know her,” Jemma says, taking it out of Christine’s hand before I have time to see it. “I remember her from the hospital.”
“That’s impossible. This photo was taken over forty years before you were born.” She leans over and takes the image from her daughter’s hand. I see a smile cross her face as she stares down at the photograph. “She had a smile that would light up a room … I miss her so much.” She passes the photo to me. “Here’s another one of her during wartime.”
“It’s her, it’s definitely her,” Jemma whispers.
“Impossible,” Christine replies in a dismissive tone. “You weren’t even born when these were taken. This was during the Second World War.”
Ignoring her mother, Jemma turns her attention to me. “Can you remember ever seeing this nurse at the hospital?” She passes me the other photograph. “She worked the night shift, and she’d hold my hand and sing to me. You remember her, don’t you?”
The hopeful look on her face tugs at my heart, but I have to tell her the truth. “No. I can’t honestly say I do.”
“Of course you don’t,” Christine snaps, standing and leaving the room. My eyes move back to Jemma and I see her bite her bottom lip to hide the quiver.
Reaching out, I grab hold of her hand.
“I’m not lying,” she whispers.