24. Jemma
Chapter 24
Jemma
“ A re you awake, honey?” Christine asks, softly knocking on my door.
“Yes. Come in.”
I’ve been awake for a while, but just lazing around in bed. It was after one in the morning when the taxi dropped me off. I had such a good night with Rachel—she’s fun, and I’ve become very fond of her.
She hugged me so tightly last night and told me how much she’d missed me.
“How was your night out?” Christine asks, placing a cup of coffee on my bedside table.
“I had a great time.”
“I’m glad. You two always had fun together.”
“Rachel told me last night she’s going back to New York,” I say, sitting up and reaching for my coffee.
“Really, when?”
“In a few days. She said she had some things to sort out. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
Christine sits down on the edge of my bed. “I knew it would only be a matter of time. She loves her job in New York.”
“I know. I’m going to miss her.”
“She’ll come back. She always does.”
I smile, trying to mask my true feelings. The thought of her leaving makes me sad; I’ve become accustomed to having her around.
“We’ll make her a special dinner before she leaves,” Christine suggests.
“That’ll be nice, she’d like that.”
Christine places her hand briefly on my knee and smiles, before standing. “This came for you earlier.” Excitement bubbles inside me as she holds up a letter, along with a pink sports bag. “Braxton dropped it off, as well as this bag.”
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, reaching for it.
“Your running gear.”
“I run?”
“You used to. You loved it. You even did it competitively for a while when you were younger.” She stands and walks towards my desk and returns with three medals. “You won these when you were in high school.” I’d noticed them hanging on a hook below the shelf that houses a few trophies and ornaments when I first came to live here, but I’ve never inspected them closely.
I take them out of her hand and study them. One has an inscription engraved on the back: Jemma Robinson—2005 cross-country state champion .
“You were so fast. You could have made a career out of running if you’d wanted to.”
“Why didn’t I?”
“You ran for fun. The competitive side was something that never interested you.”
“So I just gave up?” I unzip the sports bag and see that she was right: it contains shorts, tights, singlets and a pair of brightly coloured sneakers.
“You gave up competing, but you still ran every day, right up until the accident.”
“Wow.” There’s still so much of me I don’t know.
She stands and walks towards the door. “Read your letter, and when you’re ready, come downstairs and I’ll make you some breakfast.”
Letter nine …
Dearest Jemma,
The twelfth of February 2005. It was a Saturday and the day of the cross-country state championships. I’d always known you were a fast runner; you beat me in races when we were kids, and you won most of the events at all the school sports carnivals. Long-distance events were your favourite, but you never pursued athletics outside of school until one teacher suggested that you enter a local cross-country event. It took a bit of persuasion from me and your parents, but you eventually filled out the forms and started training for it.
You ran a few kilometres every morning and afternoon. On the weekends, your father would drop us at the beach so you could run along the sand. It was soft and a great way to strengthen your legs.
You ended up winning both the local and regional events, and even broke the state record previously held by a girl by the name of Natasha Wilkinson. You’d never competed against her before, but would be up against her in the state championships.
We were all up early that morning and travelled the long distance to the event. Your parents and grandparents took their seats in the grandstand, and I was sitting on the fence by the grassed area while you warmed up.
You were stretching when a blonde girl approached. You immediately smiled—nothing unusual, you were friendly to everybody—and didn’t hesitate in extending your hand to her. She didn’t take it. I couldn’t hear what she was saying from where I sat, but by the look on your face, I could tell it wasn’t good.
Jumping down off the fence, I headed towards you both. But when she saw me approaching, she pivoted and walked away.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“That was Natasha Wilkinson,” you answered, with an eye roll.
“Who?”
“The girl who held the state record. Well, she did, until I broke it.” I could tell by the scowl on your face that she had made you angry. “She told me to watch my back, and that she hoped I like the taste of dust because I’d be eating hers shortly.”
“What?”
“I know, right?”
You went back to your stretches and appeared undeterred by what she’d said. I, on the other hand, was furious. I scanned the area, looking to see what direction she’d headed in.
“She better not do anything to you during the race.”
“I’m not scared of her. She’s just trying to put me off my game. Little does she know her words spur me on … I’ll take great pleasure in beating her now.”
You were always so driven, so I didn’t doubt it for a second, but I still had an uneasy feeling in my gut.
When the contestants were called to the starting line, I took my place with your family in the grandstand. You’d swear I was the one about to compete, judging by the butterflies in my stomach.
We had a great view of the start and finish lines from where we sat, but for the rest of the race, you would be out of sight. It was a four-kilometre open-air course that comprised hills, valleys and flat terrain, with a variety of surfaces including grass, dirt and gravel.
Nasty Natasha, as we eventually dubbed her, was giving you the evil eye as you all stood in a diagonal line, waiting for the starter to sound his pistol. I saw you glance at her briefly, and a proud smile burst onto my face when you gave her a cheeky wink. You didn’t seem to be threatened by her at all.
The next twenty minutes were an agonising wait for us all, and when the first cheers were heard, we knew that someone had entered the stadium and we all jumped to our feet.
I was so proud when I saw you powering to the line. Nasty Natasha was a good five-to-ten metres behind you, with tears streaming down her face.
“She’s in the lead, Stephen!” your mother squealed with excitement as she jumped up and down.
“Go, Jem!” I called out.
“Go, Jem-Jem! Go, you good thing!” I heard Pa scream a few seconds later.
“That’s my granddaughter,” Ma said proudly, turning to tell the people behind us.
We all hugged each other when you finally crossed the line, and I’m pretty sure he’ll never admit to this, but I swear there were tears in your father’s eyes.
You were bent over with your hands on your knees as you tried to catch your breath, and Natasha had collapsed onto the ground in a sobbing mess.
A few minutes later, I watched in awe as you approached her and offered your hand. Again she refused to take it, but this time she took it a step further by slapping your hand away. I heard a few people in the crowd gasp, including your mother and Ma.
On our drive home later that day, we stopped off at a nice restaurant for a celebratory dinner. Ma and Pa didn’t join us because they had a long drive back to the farm.
I remember watching you as we sat at a table in the small Italian restaurant you’d chosen. You’d been quiet since we left the track. Your eyes kept moving between your parents and me as you ate. The look on your face was so humbling. The three of us were beaming, still riding the high of your win. But your joy seemed to come from somewhere else—from seeing the people you loved happy. I knew you well, and it made me wonder if you were doing this more for our benefit than your own. You’d only agreed to compete because we practically begged you.
A month later, the Australian championships were held interstate. Your mother hated flying, so we left a few days earlier and drove the twelve-hour trip with your parents.
First, second and third place from each state’s championship, qualified to compete in this event, so that meant Nasty Natasha would be there.
When it was time for the race to start, I went through all the emotions I had previously. And like the previous event, we all jumped to our feet when the first runner entered the stadium for the last leg of the race. But this time it wasn’t you in the lead. It was a girl I hadn’t seen before, neck and neck with Natasha.
I didn’t see who crossed the line first. My focus was on the tunnel they had emerged from moments before. Competitor after competitor appeared, but there was still no sign of you.
“Where is she?” I heard your mother say. I couldn’t answer that, but I felt uneasy. I was about to go in search of you when you suddenly appeared. You were limping, with blood trickling down your leg and one of your running shoes clutched tightly in your hand. I had a gut feeling that Nasty Natasha was behind this.
The entire crowd stood and cheered you on as you hobbled to the line. Unlike Natasha, no tears were streaming down your face, but I could tell you were devastated, and my heart hurt for you.
After the first-aid officer cleaned you up, an official came and spoke with you. As I suspected, Natasha was behind it. Two other runners had witnessed her push you down into a small ravine.
She won the race in a photo finish, but later that day she was disqualified and stripped of her medal. She also had to face a judiciary a few weeks later, and was suspended from competing for a year.
It made me proud to learn that the officials tried to pull you from the race because of your injuries, but you refused. You wanted to finish what you started. I loved how you always fought for what you wanted, and despite the odds, you never gave up.
That night as we lay in bed at the hotel, you whispered into the darkness. “Braxton, are you awake?”
We were in single beds, and your parents were sharing a double bed just a few metres away.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” I whispered back.
I rolled onto my side to face you, and you did the same. I couldn’t see your face, but I could make out your silhouette in the moonlight that was shining through the window.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Compete. I still want to run, I love it, but only for fun.”
“Don’t let Natasha’s actions turn you off doing something you love.”
“That’s just it. I love the running part, but the competing not so much.”
“In my heart, I suspected that,” I confessed.
“Because you get me, Brax. Nobody knows me like you do.”
Your words made me smile. “You can still run without competing.”
“Did you hear Mum and Dad on the drive back to the hotel?” You sighed before continuing. “They kept saying how next year I’ll show them. Next year will be my year.”
“Yeah, I heard them.”
“I’m worried I’ll disappoint them, but I don’t want to compete next year.”
“Just tell them the truth, Jem, they’ll understand. We can tell them together if you like.”
“I’m so glad I have you on my side,” you said, stretching your hand out towards me. I reached for you, interlacing my fingers with yours.
“Always.”
“Night, Brax.”
“Night, Jem.”
Our fingers remained entwined as we both fell asleep.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
The running gear Braxton sent over now makes sense. I can’t help but wonder: is he trying to share a memory, or rekindle my passion? Either way, he has me thinking that if I loved to run so much before the accident, maybe it’s something I should get back into. It’s not like I have much else to do. I could run through the neighbourhood or on the beach.
Although I still have a slight limp when I walk, I’ve been doing small sprints on the treadmill during my rehab sessions, to help strengthen my legs. Maybe I could try running on the beach next time I’m there. I should probably check with my physiotherapist first.
I smile when I see the tiny running-shoe charm at the bottom of the envelope. I look down at the memory bracelet on my wrist. It’s so full of memories of my past, but there’s still room for many more.
I don’t want these letters to ever stop.
“You’re up early,” Christine says, coming into the kitchen and rubbing her eyes.
“I’m sorry if I woke you. I was just writing you a note.”
She eyes me up and down, and I see a smile form on her face. “You’re going for a run?”
“I am.” I originally put on the shorts, but the horrible red scars on my leg were visible, so I opted for the three-quarter tights instead. “There’s a bus due in fifteen minutes.”
“A bus?”
“Yes, I want to run on the beach.”
“That was always your favourite place. It’s still dark outside, are you going to be okay?”
“The sun should come up by the time I arrive.”
“It’s times like this I wish I had a driver’s licence,” she says. “I wondered about that. Why don’t you?”
“I’m a shocking driver.” She laughs, shaking her head. “There wasn’t much need for a car growing up in the country. I’d ride my horse everywhere.”
“You had a horse as well?”
“Yes, her name was Frostie,” she says, her smile widening. “I loved that horse. My father bought her for me one Christmas.”
I release a contented sigh. “Pa sounds like he was a good man.”
“He was.”
“It still doesn’t explain why you’re a bad driver. If you’ve never driven, how would you know?”
“Your dad thought it would be a good idea for me to have my licence when we found out I was expecting you. I had a few lessons, but I was dreadful. Nobody wanted to get in the car with me. Even the instructor your father hired to teach me quit after the first lesson.”
“Oh my god,” I say, giggling. “You must’ve been bad.”
“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’m afraid: you weren’t much better when you first got behind the wheel.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You’re lucky your father has the patience of a saint, otherwise, you may never have got your licence either.”
As I head out the front door my smile fades as a thought occurs: was my poor driving the reason I had my accident? Nobody has ever told me what happened that day.
The sun is rising by the time I arrive at the beach. I pause as soon as my feet hit the sand, inhaling the fresh salty air.
I set off down the beach at a slow pace—even though I have done this a thousand times before, it’s a new sensation and it takes a bit of getting used to. A few minutes in, I can already feel the muscles in my legs burning. My heart is racing and my breathing laboured, but I feel wonderful. My eyes are focused on Braxton’s house as I draw nearer, and I feel the sting of disappointment when I don’t see him sitting on the back deck.
It takes me about twenty minutes to reach the end of the beach. I contemplate stopping to catch my breath, but I’m on a high. I completely understand now why I always loved to run, and I’m grateful to Braxton for reminding me.
I steal a glance towards his place again as I make my way back down the beach. There’s still no sign of him. I try not to dwell on it, but as I get closer my heart skips a beat when I see the glass sliding door open. Bella-Rose appears on the deck first, closely followed by Braxton. Butterflies erupt in my stomach the moment my eyes land on him. I can’t explain all these feelings I get when I’m around him, but I like them. I like them a lot.
As if lured by a magnetic force, his attention is immediately drawn in my direction. Without thinking, I raise my hand and wave, and he reciprocates. It’s hard to tell from this far away, but I think he’s smiling. I know I am.
The moment Bella-Rose spots me, she comes bounding down the stairs and sprints across the sand towards me.
I stop running and crouch down. “Hey, girl,” I say, trying to catch my breath as she licks the side of my face.
I’m busy giggling and patting her when a shadow falls over me. Looking up, I see Braxton’s handsome face smiling down at me.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” I reply, and my voice sounds a little strange to me. Standing, I wipe my palms nervously down the side of my tights. Although I was hoping to see him this morning, I suddenly feel self-conscious about my appearance. I’m sweating and must look like a hot mess. I brush away the damp hair that has been glued to my forehead, tucking the loose strands behind my ears.
“It’s good to see you running again.”
I smile, my nerves fading. “Your letter inspired me.”
“I’m glad. You used to run on this beach every morning. You’d say it was the perfect way to start the day.”
“Did you ever come with me?”
“Never. I couldn’t keep up with you,” he chuckles.
Is it crazy that I miss my old life, a life I don’t even remember? Things just seem to have been much simpler back then.
“Do you have time for a coffee?” His question has me beaming. I was hoping he’d invite me up. “I was just about to make myself one.”
“I’d love one.”
“Shall we?” He gestures towards the house, then holds his elbow out towards me. I slide my arm through his, trying not to blush at the look he gives me when I do.
We walk in silence, with Bella-Rose following closely behind. I’m immensely aware of my skin against his, but again I’m mortified that I’m so gross and sweaty. God, I hope I don’t smell.
This time he doesn’t invite me inside, and I’m glad. I hope one day I’ll be ready, but for now, I’m happy to just sit on the back deck and enjoy the view, and of course the company.
I sit on the bench seat, and my eyes flit around the space. I love it out here.
I eye him as he settles back into the seat and takes a sip of his coffee; he has beautiful full lips. He’s drinking out of that old cup again, and today I can see the writing on it. ‘You’re cute, can I keep you?’ I know there’s a story behind that, and I hope he will share it with me one day.
“What?” he says, when he notices me watching him.
“Nothing.” I bring my coffee cup to my lips to avoid saying more.
“Can I ask you something?”
His eyes leave the road briefly, landing on me. “Sure. You can ask me anything.”
“Did my poor driving have anything to do with my accident?”
“Your poor driving?”
“Yes, Christine said I was a terrible driver, like her.”
I see him trying to suppress a smile as he speaks. “In the beginning, you were pretty bad, but you got better over time.”
“So, my accident had nothing to do with my driving ability?”
He exhales a large breath before he answers. “You ran a stop sign, but the weather was terrible that day, and visibility was poor.”
“The accident was my fault?” My eyes widen and my mouth gapes open.
“Yes.” His gaze darts in my direction, before focusing back on the road. “Yes, it was.”
“Was anyone else injured?” I feel incredibly selfish for not knowing this, or asking before now.
“The other driver suffered minor injuries, but basically walked away from it unscathed.”
“I see.”
“His car T-boned the side of yours, so you took most of the impact.” He reaches across the centre console and grabs hold of my hand. “It was an accident, Jem. You were a good driver.”
We’re silent for the rest of the drive. He doesn’t let go of my hand, and I’m thankful.