Page 73 of Nineteen Letters

“No, she’s not,” I answer as he stands to hug me.

“Where is she? Is she coming to see me later?”

I briefly think about making up some elaborate story, but I’ve never lied to him and I’m not about to start. “She … umm … can’t be here today.”

I feel terrible when I see his face drop.

“Why not?” he asks.

I scratch my head as I think of the best way to put this, but there’s no good way to tell him she is no longer with us.

“She passed away a long time ago, Pop.”

His whole body deflates, and I hate the look of confusion I see on his face. “What? How?” He sinks back down into his chair and stares off into the distance as he tries to make sense of what I’m telling him. When his eyes finally meet mine again, I see they are now clouded with tears. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone to the funeral if I’d known.”

I take a seat beside him and place my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Pop.”

A lump rises to my throat when he covers his face with his hands and weeps. It was hard enough seeing him going through this when he first lost her. I hate that he has to relive it all these years later.

“I can’t believe she’s gone. Not my Grace. How am I supposed to go on without her?”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I rub his back instead. Again that nagging guilt I’ve carried around all this time comes flooding to the surface.

“It’s all my fault,” I whisper.

He stops crying and looks up at me. His tear-stained face does nothing to ease my pain. “What do you mean it’s all your fault?”

We’ve never discussed this before, but maybe it’s time we did. “You woke me in the middle of the night because you needed to take her to the hospital. I was supposed to get up, but I fell back asleep …” I pause, then force myself to keep going. “Her appendix burst on the way to the hospital, and she died a little while later on the operating table. If only I’d got out of bed straightaway and hadn’t held you up …”

He looks away and gazes out the window for the longest time, and I’d love to know what is going through his mind. He probably understands nothing I’ve just said, and it makes me wish we’d had this conversation before he got sick.

“That’s right … I remember,” I hear him whisper. Minutes pass before he makes eye contact again. “Braxton.” It’s been so long since I’ve heard him say my name. “Do you actually think it’s your fault?”

“It’s what I know.”

He straightens his posture and clears his throat before answering. “Well, you’re wrong. Your mother had those pains for two days. I kept telling her to go to the doctor, but she refused. She was stubborn like that. She hated doctors. The only time she went without a fight is when it was for you.”

“You remember?”

“Of course I do,” he says, flicking his hand. It almost makes me want to laugh. He’s obviously forgotten he has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t even remember his own name most days. I don’t know what to make of all this because he gets so confused, but I remember her not liking doctors. “She died because she left it too late. It had nothing to do with you.”

“I feel responsible, Pop.”

“Well, don’t. Have you been carrying this around with you all these years?” He sighs when he looks at me. “I wish you’d talked to me. I could’ve set you straight.” He drapes his arm around my shoulder, pulling my body towards his. “I’m so sorry you felt that way, son. Please know it wasn’t your fault.”

He speaks with such confidence, and there’s a huge part of me that yearns for his words to be true. But it’s irrelevant, it’s still not going to lessen my feeling of loss, or bring my mother back.

I stay a little longer than usual, and I’m pleased that by the time I leave, he has reverted to no memory of me—because thatalso means he’s forgotten our conversation. It would have been impossible for me to walk away if he was still upset.

As soon as I arrive at the office, Lucas notices something is off. “Hey, buddy,” he says, following me into my office. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” I stow my briefcase beside my desk and take a seat in the leather chair.

“What’s got you looking so sullen? Is it Jemma?”

I can’t help but give him a half-smile; he can read me like a book. “No … my dad.”

There’s no point in denying it, he won’t let it go until I open up.