37
Lisa
I scream into a pillow so often that Beau bought me a designated scream cushion for my fortieth. It’s a custom-photo one with
his big goofy face in an exaggerated howl. “So you never have to scream alone, Lis.” His warm voice echoes in my ears. What
I wouldn’t do to hear it now. How can a house so full of stuff feel so empty? I throw the pillow onto my clothes-covered bed.
There’s one easy way to gauge how close I am to someone: the state of my house when they arrive.
It’s a scientifically rigorous scale, ranging from “spotless and staged real estate listing” (one out of ten, we just met,
and I’m pretending I have my life together) to “there’s a questionably clean sock on the kitchen counter, you walk in to find
me in pajamas, surrounded by laundry piles I’ve given up on, and I don’t even apologize” (ten out of ten). Beau was my solitary
ten. Even my oldest friends Helen and Tom only made it to a nine. Griff, despite having known me my whole life, has always
been a two. He hates my mess, always saw it as laziness.
I pick up the cause of the most recent scream: a National Geographic Year in Review magazine addressed to Mr. Beau Barlow. The subscription wasn’t canceled when he died, and since Griff went into care, all
their mail is being forwarded to me. I run my hands over his name. Someone out there believes Beau is alive, and I’m so jealous
of that person it makes my whole body ache. When a person passes away, people think grief is about their absence. But no one
talks about what it’s like to come across a footprint in a subscription, and be the one asked to erase it.
I go to throw out the magazine but decide Griff might like to look at the pictures. They used to love traveling together.
I arrive at the nursing home in a flustered mess, already running late for work. As I barrel through the automatic doors,
I collide full-speed into someone, dropping the magazine.
The poor young guy I’ve just body-slammed barely stumbles. “Are you okay?” His voice is too deep for his baby face.
“Yes, I’m fine, sorry.” I clutch the fallen magazine to my chest, trying to compose myself but instead burst into tears.
That’s the other thing about grief. It doesn’t heal in a straight line, if it heals at all. It’s not a neat, scabbing-over
kind of wound. Some days, it’s a dull ache in the background, easy to ignore. But then something, anything, can rip it open
again, fresh and raw, as though no time has passed.
The young man gestures to a chair. “Come sit for a minute. I’ll grab you something to drink.” He disappears and returns with
a Styrofoam cup of tea and a packet of individually wrapped Scotch Finger biscuits.
I’m still blubbering, which makes the whole thing even more pathetic.
He places a tentative hand on my shoulder then quickly pulls back, as if he’s worried I might combust. “Sorry, don’t know
how you take your tea, so it’s just black.”
I wipe my eyes. “This is great. Thank you. It’s been one of those days. I’m missing my friend Beau terribly.”
“Oh,” he says, frowning. “Where is he?”
“He died,” I whisper, crying again. “He was so young. He got sick, and it moved so fast. There was nothing anyone could do.”
The boy nods, his own eyes dimming. “Yeah. I get it. My nan died last year. Cancer. Moved like lightning.”
“I’m so sorry.” I open the packet and offer him a biscuit.
He eyes it hesitantly. “You sure? These are meant for visitors.”
I break one in half and offer it to him. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
He barks out a laugh. “Fair point.”
We sit in comfortable silence, munching on the buttery shortbread.
“So, you visiting a parent?” he asks.
“My brother. Griff. He has dementia. Beau was his husband; this was his magazine subscription.”
“It’s good of you to visit. Must be difficult.”
“Yeah. He doesn’t speak anymore, which is hard. I’ve spent so much time in this place, I should be on the payroll. Have you
been here long?” I ask, glancing at his uniform.
“Couple of months. I’m hoping they’ll give me more shifts; I just do weekends at the moment.”
The glass doors slide open and a family steps through, a shaggy golden retriever trotting proudly at their heels.
The young man’s face lights up as they pass.
“You like dogs?” I ask
“Love them. I lost my kelpie a couple of years back but haven’t been ready to get another. Cheeky thing. She used to eat socks
from the clothesline.”
I smile. “Well, if you’re ever looking for extra work, my friend runs the doggy day spa on Ray Street. I work there as a groomer
and I know she’s desperate for dog walkers at the moment. Pays cash.”
“Oh, really? Yeah, I’d be very keen.”
“Great! Give me your number and I’ll text you the details.”
He rattles it off and I key it in.
“I’m Lisa, by the way. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name . . . ?”
“Hi, Lisa, I’m Scotty.”