9
Lisa
I lather his slender body with peach shampoo, his skin trembling at my touch. It’s even longer than I thought. My fingertips
glide over the sparse layer of thinning hair that covers his whole being. Oh god, my legs are hairier than his! I move my
hand slowly upwards over his back and neck until I reach his face. I dry retch as I catch a whiff of his breath—smells like
sardines. Would it be overstepping to offer to brush his teeth?
Reuben, the geriatric Italian greyhound, evidently detests baths as much as I detest tidying.
“Wanna swap, sweetheart?” I ask him. “You know I’d happily take a nice long bath while you Marie-Kondo the hell out of my
house. Do we have a deal?”
Reuben raises his eyebrows. At least I think he does. Do dogs have eyebrows? I consider googling it, but I can’t leave this
pitiful drowned baby a minute longer than necessary.
The poor trembling creature makes a feeble attempt to get out, his claws scraping against the deep steel wash-trough. But
even he knows there is no escape: it’s too high and slippery. I finish rinsing him and scoop him up into a big fluffy towel,
singing softly to try to calm him. How I wish someone could do that for me.
My next client, Tabitha, is waiting. At least she’s not as gassy as her sister Harriet. I sigh. Time to make this French poodle
look respectable.
The rest of the morning is a blur. One poodle, two cavoodles, one labradoodle, one groodle-schnoodle, and a cockapoo. All products of what I like to call the CHLOE: Covid Hellish Lockdown Oodle Epidemic.
Why do so many people want their dogs clean on New Year’s Day? The canines probably have better social lives than I do. Still,
it keeps dog groomers like me in high demand, and this is so much better than my admin job at the school where I first met
Beau. Sitting at a desk for hours was torturous; the pay here is less, but having inherited Mum’s place means I don’t have
a mortgage to worry about.
The house was left to both her children, but Griff gave me his half outright when he moved to Paris. I like to think it was
because he felt guilty for leaving. Money was always something he could give easily. If only love were the same.
Apart from Reuben, the only non-oodle is Augustus, an old German shepherd who comes every couple of months.
“Oh my god, Lisa!” Helen, my boss and friend since high school, bursts into the washing room, her hazel eyes wide. “Did Augustus
attack you?”
“Huh?”
She points a tattooed finger at my top. This morning, my beetroot smoothie spilled on my new white shirt, which can now pass
as a respectable costume of a CSI murder victim.
“No, Augustus would never hurt me. It’s my smoothie. I was in a rush and forgot to change.”
“You’re obsessed with those drinks! Are you still that worried about getting your mum’s kidney disease? Didn’t the risk pass
like ten years ago?”
“I know, I know. Just figured it can’t hurt.”
Helen narrows her eyes then bounces back to her sparkly self. “Okay. Don’t worry, I got you, girl.” She flings me a folded
maroon T-shirt from her locker.
I hold it up, raising my eyebrows as I read the bold yellow letters printed across the front.
“What?” she asks. “It was a freebie from the pet pharmaceutical company. At least if you spill any more beetroot beverages on it, it won’t show as much.” She serves me a saccharine smile, which I return with a playful poke of my tongue.
“Thanks,” I say, changing into the top. “I’m all over the place today.”
“Don’t apologize, you’ve had so much on your plate. And I really appreciate you coming in on New Year’s Day, we’ve had such
a backlog with the newbie sick.”
“All good. It’s not like I had anyone to kiss last night or wake up to this morning.”
“You and me both! Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know your final client has canceled, so you can leave early. You could use the extra time to finally clean your house?”
We burst out laughing, but I head home, determined to at least tidy my kitchen.
I go to get a snack first. On the fridge door, my favorite photo of Beau and me hangs under a love-heart magnet; we’re dressed
as Cinderella’s Ugly Stepsisters for a fancy-dress party. I plonk onto the kitchen chair. The grief can still turn my legs
to jelly. I have several friends, but Beau, despite our seven-year age gap, was my BFF. He knew I could quote Pretty Woman line for line and that I detested G-strings, and he once held my hand through a sketchy belly button piercing when I was
twenty-six, long before he met Griff. We understood everything about each other. Well, almost everything. I’ll never fully
understand what he saw in my brother.
My gaze drifts to the living room, once filled with our endless chatter about nothing and everything. It drowned out the silence
I didn’t realize I hated until I lost him.
I turn over the closest cushion, which still bears the bird-poo stain from the infamous magpie incident. I can almost smell
his citrus cologne and hear our shrieks as the maggie from hell flew in the open door with the pizza delivery guy. That was
before complications set in. Like the bird, Beau’s gone too. Now it’s just me and the stain, irremovable like my guilt.
The dishes stare at me from the sink but all motivation has evaporated, so I pop Mabel and Rob’s gifts into my tote bag and head to the nursing home.
My heart skips a beat when I see on the noticeboard that Frank is playing again today. Maybe they’re trying to impress some
wealthy potential clients.
I go to Griff’s room first. “Why don’t we go to the guitar session?” I ask him. “It was beautiful yesterday, wasn’t it?”
He says nothing.
“C’mon, it’ll do you good to get out of this room.”
He stares through me as though I’m invisible, a look not unfamiliar even when he remembered who I was. I try to pull him to
his feet, but it’s no use. Not even the bribe of a Lindt chocolate ball, from the packet I brought in for the staff, will
get him moving today.
Damn. I want to see Frank again, but it’s not like I can attend a nursing-home activity without a resident . . . can I? I
bite my lip, weighing up how suss it would be if I went without Griff.
A faint squeak of rubber makes me glance up. Walter, another gentleman with dementia, inches past, adjusting his beanie that’s
not dissimilar to the one stuck to Griff’s head.
I stroke my chin. Frank’s new, and has only met Griff briefly once—surely he won’t remember him too well yet.
I catch up to Walt, link my arm through his and flinch when I realize it’s a prosthetic. “Hi, Walt! Going to Music, are we?
Do you mind if I accompany you?”
He gives no reply, but his wide grin doesn’t protest.
We stop outside Rob’s room where Mabel is arranging some flowers.
Rob paces the room. “Puss! Where have you got to?”
Mabel catches my eye. “Hi, Lisa! Oh . . . hello, Walt! You two headed to see the guitarist?”
“Sure are. I wanted to give you these on the way.” I hand over a padded envelope. “The headband earphones I was telling you
about yesterday.”
“Oh, darling! You didn’t!” The old woman gives me a kiss on the cheek.
I remove the toy cat from my bag and turn on the battery. “And Rob . . . look who I have here!”
He throws his hands in the air with pure, unfiltered joy. “Cottonmouth! There’s my girl! Where’ve you been, Miss Monkey? I
was worried about you.” He gathers her gently into his arms, stroking her with trembling fingers. When she lets out a soft,
realistic purr, he beams. “She remembers me,” he whispers. “Good girl. Clever girl. We’ll both be as right as rain now, won’t
we.”
Mabel tears up. “You are a treasure, Lisa. Please let me pay you for these.”
I shake my head. “I won’t hear of it!”
“Well, I’m shouting coffees for the next month!”
“We’ll see!” I say with a wink. “You coming this morning?”
“Yes, I think we may even have to bring Cottonmouth! See you there, darling.”
We’re a bit early, and Frank hasn’t arrived yet. Ducking to the nearby toilet, I plunge my fingers into my grab-bag of a purse
and locate a lipstick, my heart throbbing through my chest. Then it hits me, and I breathe it in: the rush of shame.
Who are you kidding? mocks Ursula.
She’s right. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager desperate for her first boyfriend.
The sound of applause vibrates through the bathroom door, and I slink out. Frank’s face lights up when he sees me. Shit. I wave back and then proceed to stumble and fall onto a man’s lap in the front row. Double shit.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the large gentleman in a wheelchair whose knee I’m sitting on and who ironically looks like a shopping-center
Santa.
“No worries, love, it’s the most excitement I’ve had all year!” he croons, his twinkling blue eyes as wide as saucers.
I straighten up and dare to glance at Frank, who’s stifling a laugh. A giggle escapes me as I shoot him a look and return
to Walter.
“Hello, everyone, it’s so lovely to see you all here again, and thank you for that unexpected applause! Today I am going to
take you on a journey to Spain.”
I close my eyes as the melody dances over me; my noisy mind surrenders to the notes.
“Hello, Lisa.”
I blink.
The music has stopped, and Frank is standing in front of me. He shifts his guitar case from one shoulder to the other, his
long fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “That’s a nice, um . . . color of top.”
I frown, confused—I was just wearing my white T-shirt, wasn’t I?
The floor drops from under me as I follow his gaze to the bold writing across my maroon chest: “GOT WORMS?”
Right. The pharmaceutical company freebie I’d changed into. Perfect.
“How are you, Lisa?” His voice softens as he says my name, like he’s trying it out. Something about the way he says it makes
me feel momentarily seen—and not in the terrifying, spotlight way.
I blink again. I want to blurt out the truth. That I’m not okay. That my brain doesn’t work, and I’m pretty sure my undies
are on backward. But people don’t say that; they use two words to cover a multitude of sins. “I’m fine.”
His eyes search mine, longer than most people allow for silence. Then he turns to Walter, who’s still sporting a huge grin.
Frank does a double take, tilting his head. “Oh, sorry, is this your brother? He looks a bit different today. Happier, but
also . . . much older?”
“Oh yes, it’s him,” I say quickly, staring at my feet. “He just, um . . . didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Lisa!” I look up to see Allison marching toward me, a disgruntled Griff in tow. “There you are. Can you take your brother?
He’s been tipping his coffee on the pot plant again!”
My mouth goes dry.
Frank glances from Walter to Griff, then back to me, a flicker of confusion in his expression as my embarrassment barometer
soars off the scale.
I let out a nervous laugh.
Walt is still beaming at Frank, oblivious, while Allison deposits Griff at my side.
I loop my arm through his, now flanked by two very different older men—one euphoric, the other sardonic—like a scene straight out of a cartoon, with an angel and devil perched on either shoulder.
The corner of Frank’s lip turns up. “Oh. You have two brothers?”
“No, just the one, but Walt here is like a brother—or grandbrother, if you will.”
Frank frowns.
I bite my lip. Grandbrother?! God help me!
Just when I might pass out from embarrassment, I’m rescued by Dayna coming to take Walt for a checkup.
“So . . . Griff?” Frank motions to him, and I nod sheepishly in confirmation. “Good to see you again, mate.”
He extends a hand, but Griff doesn’t take it.
“C’mon, Ratbag, Frank is trying to shake your hand.”
“Ratbag?”
“It’s my nickname for him from when I was a kid, it kind of stuck.”
“I see. I used to have a nickname for my brother too, but I can’t share it aloud—not here at work anyway! Residents don’t
appreciate a musician with a spicy tongue.” His eyes twinkle, and my heart flutters.
“Well, now you have to tell me!” I say.
He looks at his Rockports and then at me as a carer takes Griff back to his room. “I don’t suppose you’d . . . um . . . like
to get a drink sometime, Lisa? So that I can tell you, that is,” he adds quickly, before clearing his throat. “It’s fine if
you don’t want to. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry. It’s okay if you think I’m too tall or something . . .”
I stare up at him. Was he really asking me out? Chaotic, parasite-shirt-wearing me? “I—uh, yes. That would be fine.” Fine. I’d used the word twice.
But he doesn’t seem fazed. “How would tomorrow night be?”
Don’t say “fine.” Don’t say “fine.”
“Fine. I mean, divine—that would be divine!” I bite my tongue.
“Really? Wow. I mean that’s fabulous. I hear the Italian restaurant down the road is amazing . . . if you don’t mind getting dinner too? Sorry, I only said drinks before, didn’t I? I mean, do you eat?” He slaps his hand to his forehead. “Of course you eat. I—”
“I’d love to. How’s six?” I ask, ignoring the urge to suggest my usual dinnertime of four forty-five.
He beams. “That’d be fine,” he says, with a wink so earnest it nearly knocks the air out of me.
And for the first time in ages, I feel the tiniest glimmer of hope that things could be more than just fine.