3
Lisa
Griff is scowling at Allison the manager when I arrive. His eyes ignite with the same youthful fury he had as a teenager.
I can still hear his voice echo through our weatherboard home, sharp words crashing into the walls, always directed at my
father. I’m sure he was the reason my dad left.
Poor Allison. He’s civil to the other staff, so why not her? I take in her dark-brown hair and green eyes, not unlike my own,
and wonder if that’s why he hates her. If, somewhere in his fractured mind, he sees me instead.
“I’m so sorry!” I shoot her an apologetic glance. “He’s been getting worse lately.”
It’s times like these I feel the strongest pull to walk away, but duty’s hold is tight, and it keeps me here.
“Always a pleasure, Greg.” She rolls her eyes and steps toward the door, her voice dripping sarcasm over the gray linoleum.
I pour him some water. “C’mon, Ratbag. Cool your jets, bro. It’s me, Lisa.”
Allison doesn’t blink—the staff are used to me calling him that now, but it still feels odd, using a childhood nickname for
someone who’s become a stranger.
His baby-blue eyes stare past me, blank and faraway.
He hasn’t acknowledged me or spoken my name in weeks.
The weight of everything left unsaid lingers in the silence.
I’d taken time for granted, like air, always there, endless.
I’d thought we would fix things eventually.
But time evaporated, and I was left gasping for something already gone.
I’m afraid that if he doesn’t forgive me, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
I cast my eyes over his slumped shoulders, his sunken face and silver hair. All that’s left is a body now. But a body can’t
forgive. That’s the cruelty of dementia: you lose the person and the chance for closure long before the end, unlike with other
terminal illnesses such as cancer.
My heart sinks as I picture his husband, Beau, gaunt and in anguish. He was my best friend, the one person who really understood
both of us. I came back into Griff’s life when Beau got sick, hoping to help. Then, maybe, Griff and I could fix . . . whatever
the hell this is. But it was too late. One day I was his estranged sister, the next, a stranger.
I take a seat on the spare bed. Mercifully, Beau never had to see Griff like this—silent, unable to recognize his own family.
It would’ve broken his giant heart.
I rummage in my handbag and pull out the Tupperware container of Anzac biscuits I baked for him. Mum’s recipe, of course.
It’s the one thing I never have to look up. The steps just echo in the back of my mind, steady as ever: One cup oats, one cup flour, one cup coconut, two tablespoons of golden syrup . . .
Their warm buttery scent fills the air. Griff’s eyes light up, eyebrows hidden below the manky gray beanie that is eternally
glued to his head. He grabs two at once. The nurse said he needs to cut down on sweets, but he’s already lost his memory.
I don’t have the heart to take away sugar too. At least he hasn’t forgotten his first love: food.
Crumbs tumble from his mouth, scattering across his cardigan like confetti.
There are so many things I want from him: the secret ingredient in his chocolate cake, his trick for cracking eggs one-handed, his approval. But they’re locked away in a mind that no longer remembers. Still, I keep coming, clinging to the faint hope that somehow, this will mean something.
I shake off the thought and decide to show Griff the angry-looking army of skin tags on my shoulder. Probably should see a
doctor, but that feels dramatic, and I’m too embarrassed to show my friend Helen, who already thinks I’m a hypochondriac.
Right now, I just need a second opinion from someone who won’t overreact, or indeed react at all. I roll up my sleeve and
shove my arm under Griff’s nose. “Am I imagining it, or does this look infected?”
His eye twitches.
“I think it’s a rash,” I continue, twisting my arm. “Or maybe some kind of weird flesh-eating bacteria. Unlikely to be contagious,
but you never know.”
His nostrils flare, fingers tightening slightly on the armrest, eyes still staring straight ahead.
“See? This is why I come to you. No unnecessary panic or theatrical gagging noises. Alright, I’ll google it. Again. But if
I go down a WebMD spiral and convince myself I’m dying, just know this is partly your fault.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Time for a distraction. Scanning the schedule, I’m shocked to see a new activity for New Year’s
Eve: “Fandango with Frank.” The chances of getting Griff to attend are similar to those of trying to move a rhinoceros with
a lead brick up his arse, but I try anyway.
Miraculously, he comes without protest. Likely to escape Allison, who has reappeared with a bewildered maintenance man trailing
behind. “I don’t care what your job description says!” she barks. “Toilets won’t clean themselves.”
Beautiful string notes ripple down the hall. It must be a recording to be that good, in a place like this. But then I spot
an actual musician. Though the staff assured us of their existence on our tour of Sunny Glen, I haven’t seen one until now.
An extremely tall, lanky man is perched on a bar stool. His graying red hair hangs in a thin, uneven mop above his glasses. I swear I hear multiple players, yet it’s just him. His long fingers blur across the guitar strings, but I still try to spot a ring.
Why is it that whenever I see a man my age, I immediately picture us together and wonder if he could finally be “the one”?
I always thought that by the time I hit fifty, the wanting would fade, that the urge to find someone would shrink along with
my chances. But no. My body may have closed up shop for childbearing, but I’m not sure my heart will ever get the memo.
I scan the sea of gray heads. Will I still be doing this at eighty? Imagining someone to sit with, someone to knit scarves
for, somebody who laughs at the same silly TV shows?
The musician looks up. His gray eyes smile, meeting mine, and I feel my cheeks color.
I quickly find seats in the back row. The melody washes over us, dipping into joy then sorrow and back to joy again. And for
that half hour I feel peace. It finishes all too soon, and I join in with the residents’ applause.
Mr. Tall beams. “Thanks, everyone! It’s been lovely to be with you today. I’ll be back again soon.”
“Ready to go, Griff?” I ask.
My brother doesn’t move; his gaze is fixed on the window, the damp glass blurred by rain. His eyes catch the light, a sheen
that looks dangerously like emotion. My throat tightens. Beau was a brilliant violist—Griff must hear him in the music.
As I help him shuffle toward the door, I steal a glance at the musician, who’s easing his guitar back into its case.
“Hi,” I venture as we pass.
He startles slightly, then blinks down at me. “Oh, hello!” His voice is deep but hesitant. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to be in
the way.”
“You’re not. Your music was beautiful.”
His face blooms crimson as he fiddles with the latch on his case. “Thank you. I . . . I sometimes get a bit carried away.
I hope it wasn’t too loud for you and your dad.”
I get a mild kick out of that. It’s a common misconception because of our thirteen-year age gap and my youthful skin, one thing I was happy to inherit from Mum. “He’s actually my half-brother.”
The guitarist nods quickly. “Right. Of course. Sorry . . . No offense, mate.”
“He has early-onset Alzheimer’s. He won’t take offense. I loved your take on the Beatles.”
His blush deepens as he removes glasses that haven’t been in style since the 1970s. “Thank you. The music in these places
often gets stuck too far in the past. At the last facility, they were still playing the old war songs even though that would
have been from the generation before.”
“Yeah, it’s the same with movies here too. Not everyone wants to watch Easter Parade.”
He throws his head back and laughs generously, and his whole face changes. Well, what I can see of it from a foot and a half
below.
“The old activities coordinator even forced the residents to make Easter bonnets last year. Who even wears bonnets anymore?”
I scrunch my eyes tight, picturing the photo I have of Griff, the very definition of curmudgeonly, in a straw hat with a sunflower
as droopy and dry as he is. Was it wrong that I framed it and put it in pride of place in my living room?
“Funny to think they’ll be playing Taylor Swift in here one day, isn’t it?” he muses.
I giggle, trying to envision centenarians grooving to “Shake It Off.”
“I’m Frank, by the way.” He extends his hand; my arms tingle as I feel the calluses on his fingertips.
“Lisa. Nice to meet you.”
“Do you visit often?”
“As often as I can. I’m all he’s got.”
“Oh, no wife or kids?”
Beau’s beautiful smile pops into mind. “His husband passed away. They never had children. His friends stopped visiting after
his diagnosis, and there weren’t many of them to begin with. So I come every other day. It’s the least I can do.”
Frank slides his glasses back on, magnifying the compassion in his ashen eyes. “That must be heavy sometimes . . . ?”
I frown, taken aback by his candor. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“My dad had brain cancer. I was his sole carer for years before he passed, after my brother stopped visiting. So yeah. I know
what heavy feels like.” He looks out the window at the rain, as though the memory is taking place on the other side of the
wet glass.
Two older women shuffle past and shower him with so many compliments I half expect to see him drenched through. He thanks
them warmly, even cracks a joke I can’t quite hear. Completely at ease.
But when he turns back to me, the bumbling awkwardness returns. “Anyway, if you, um, ever need anyone to vent to or help carry
the load, I’ll . . . be here. Well, not here exactly, per se, but around.” He rubs the back of his neck.
My heart stumbles, racing to catch up with the rush of warmth. “Thanks,” I manage. “Well, I’d better get him back to his room.
Hope to see you again, Frank.”
“I—I hope so too, Lisa.” He turns to Griff. “See ya, mate.”