Lisa
“Bumface.” Frank chortles and takes a long sip of water from the shallow restaurant glass that would do better as a candle
holder.
I cup my hand over my mouth, barely managing to contain the scrumptious rosé I’ve just taken a sip of.
“That’s what I used to call my big brother.” Frank smiles, revealing perfect teeth.
“I’m going to have to tell Griff how good he’s got it then! Bumface trumps Ratbag any day.”
“So do you have a name for Walter?”
“Walter?”
“Your, um . . . grandbrother?”
My face burns. Time to spill the beans. “Oh. He’s . . . actually not my brother,” I confess. “The truth is, I really wanted
to see you again, but Griff refused to leave his room. I thought it would be weird turning up alone, so I brought Walter.”
I grimace. “You probably think I’m crazy now!”
He frowns, shaking his head softly, like he’s not quite sure what to make of me, but he doesn’t look away. “For what it’s
worth . . . I’m really glad you came.”
I smile and pick at a loose sequin on my emerald-green dress. Is it too short? I shuffle in my seat, tugging the hem over
my knees. My fingers brush stubbly hair. Crap. I forgot to shave. They’re hidden now, but what about when we stand up?
Frank’s tall—maybe too tall to notice? His eyes must be six feet from my shins. I tilt back slightly and squint at the calves of the woman at the next table, about that distance away. I can’t tell if she has shaved or not, which is reassuring.
She catches me staring and frowns, pulling her skirt further down. I force a smile. Then, for some reason, I wink.
Why the hell did I wink? Now my neck’s locked, and I can’t look away.
“Lisa?” Frank’s voice snaps me back to the present. “You okay?”
“Sorry! Off with the fairies. What did you say?”
He motions to the waiter, who asks me what I’d like to order.
“I’ll have the special, please—the seafood linguine.” I point to the board then hesitate. “It, um . . . doesn’t have calamari
in it, does it?”
“No, madam.”
“Okay, perfect, thanks.”
“The beef cheek ravioli for me, please.” Frank hands our menus back.
I look to a nearby table where an elderly man is fighting with his coat. His hands tremble as he tries to undo the buttons.
I lean over. “Would you like a hand with that?” He nods, and I gently ease the coat from his shoulders, folding it over the
back of his chair.
“These things never behave,” I say lightly. “It’s not you—it’s the buttons.”
The gentleman gives a grateful chuckle.
“You’re good at that,” Frank says once the man is settled.
“What, coat-unbuttoning?”
“No. Seeing people. I saw how you helped the resident and his sister the other day.”
I smile. “Well, your music helps everyone who hears it. Have you always wanted to be a musician, Frank?”
“Yeah. To be honest I thought I might land a more glamorous gig . . . well, as glamorous as a classical guitarist can get. Like most musos, I wanted to be a star. But I’m glad I didn’t.
Becoming a music therapist opened up a world I didn’t even know about.
The pay isn’t great, but it means so much more, you know?
” He adjusts his glasses. “I feel I can actually help people. My parents were both doctors, and I always thought I’d follow in their footsteps.
Turns out I’m rubbish when it comes to blood, though.
Still . . . with this guitar gig, I dunno.
It can really make a difference. Music can be more powerful than penicillin, I reckon.
” He lowers his head, a shy half smile tugging at his lips.
He’s not wrong about music; it slowed my racing brain when I listened to him play and even made Griff show emotion. “So what’s
the therapy part of it?”
His eyes light up. “Well, they’ve just got me doing the group ‘concert’ type sessions at Sunny Glen for the moment, I think
because they’re the cheapest.” His cheeks color. “Sorry, I mean, that’s not to say it’s a cheap place! You’ve obviously chosen
it for your brother and . . .” He takes another swig from his glass and winces slightly.
“Pfft. Please! We originally picked it because it had no waiting list, and it was close by, which made visiting easier. I’d
done some research on which homes were queer-friendly and it significantly reduced our options. Some of the places we considered
were amazing on paper, but when you walked in the door . . . I don’t know, they felt off. All polite and shiny on the surface,
but you could just tell they’d already decided certain people didn’t belong. It didn’t feel safe for our family. Not somewhere
I’d ever trust, no matter what else they offered.”
Frank nods. “I’ve worked in facilities like that, where you can tell difference isn’t welcome. Just horrible.”
“Yeah. For all its faults, at least Sunny Glen embraces diversity. They really sold their services well on the tour, too.
We didn’t realize how bad it was until later, and by then another move would have been too disruptive. It’s an absolute shithole!”
There comes that laugh again. Like his music, it’s therapeutic. “You’re awesome, Lisa.” His gray eyes fix on mine before darting
to his fork, which he begins lining up with his knife.
Garlic and a desire for something other than food fills the air.
“At some places, I do individual sessions too. I adapt the music to suit people’s needs.
We had one gentleman with dementia who was a huge Jimmy Barnes fan like me.
I learned all the songs and the music brought him back to life when I played.
He even thought I was Jimmy toward the end!
Not that I made it anywhere near his league, of course. ”
“I don’t know about that. If you are a star in one person’s mind, I think that counts, and you made it, after all. It’s really
admirable what you do, Frank.”
The tips of his ears turn pink as he flashes me a grin that I may be addicted to. He looks down, tracing a faint circle on
the table with his thumb.
I barely notice our meals being placed on the table until their aroma demands my attention.
Frank beams at the waiter. “Wow! How lucky are we? Look at that. Thanks heaps, mate.”
I think it says a lot about a man, how he treats waitstaff; Griff showed them no mercy. “Bon appétit!” I gush, desperate to
get those glorious carbs in my belly.
I try to eat as attractively as possible, swirling the linguine with my fork and spoon. But when I pop it into my mouth, I
instantly regret my choice. The chilli sucker-punches my tastebuds. If I were home, I’d be spitting it out and drinking a
liter of milk. Here, all I can do is swallow. I reach for my silly shallow water glass, but it’s empty, as is the jug beside
it. With no time to be polite, I grab Frank’s half-full glass from across the table and chug it in one go.
“Oh gosh, are you okay, Lisa?”
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize it would be spicy.” I blink through watery eyes, squinting at the specials board. “Seafood
linguine in chilli and garlic oil. Clearly didn’t read that properly . . .”
“Why don’t we swap? I haven’t touched mine yet—if you like ravioli, that is.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”
“Please. I was actually torn between the two, so you’d be doing me a favor.”
“Well . . . thank you. I only touched the bite I had.”
“I wouldn’t care anyway.” He winks as he switches our plates.
My heart leaps. I spear a ravioli and pop it cautiously onto my tingling tongue.
“Is it okay?”
“It’s perfect, thanks.” Oh god, I’ve just spoken with food in my mouth. How many strikes can I get on a first date? I swallow,
quickly adding, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk with my mouth full!”
“Don’t be,” Frank says through half-chewed strands of linguine. “I love eating and I love talking. I don’t know who made the
rule that you can’t do both at the same time, but I think it’s silly.”
A piece of prawn falls out of his mouth on the last word. He catches it and pops it back in, then bursts into snorts of laughter,
cupping his hand over his lips. He tries to take a sip of wine, but the giggles keep coming and the wine ends up shooting
out of his nose.
It’s one of the grossest things I’ve ever seen, but I’m in stitches.
“Oh dear,” Frank gasps. “What a prawn I am.” That sets him off again—shoulders shaking, nose scrunched, face buried in his
hands.
The diners around us have begun to stare. The woman with the debatably shaved legs shakes her head in disapproval. A man two
tables over rolls his eyes with a theatrical sigh.
I catch the waiter’s glance—his shoulders are tight, eyes flicking anxiously around the room. I clear my throat and raise
my voice. “Sorry, everyone! We’re on a first date, and apparently we’re both terrible at it.”
A few people chuckle. The tension breaks. Even the waiter lets out a relieved smile.
Frank watches me, still wheezing, his expression soft and admiring.
“Crisis management,” I say, grinning. “One of my few skills.”
The waiter tops up our water, and we drink, finally catching our breath. “Were you close to your dad, Frank?”
“Very. My brother was too, but when the cancer progressed and Dad lost his memory, he stopped visiting. Said there was no
point—Dad wouldn’t even know. You can see why he’s a bumface.”
My hand inches forward, but I quickly retract it, fiddling with my napkin. “I’m sorry. Griff’s forgotten me too, I think.”
Frank nods, his fingers creeping closer.
“What was the place like?” I ask. “Where your dad was?”
“Nicer than the shithole, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll bet! Did you ever work there?”
“Yep, when Dad moved in. That’s how I got into music therapy.”
“Amazing what the mind can hold on to. I’ve been trying to play for Griff.”
“You play guitar?” He leans forward eagerly.
“Ukulele. Self-taught from YouTube. I play for Griff sometimes. If your music’s penicillin, mine’s probably more like a laxative!”
“So, moving in its own way then?” He smirks.
“Ha! I suppose so.”
“Were you close with Griff?”
My smile slips away. “No. I see him more now than I did before he got sick. He wasn’t a great big brother. I think I mentioned
he’s my half-brother?”
Frank nods.
“We have different fathers, and he and my dad didn’t get along. Griff pushed us away.”
“But you still visit. That says a lot about you.” His gaze lingers, gentle and warm.
Guilt rises, and I force a smile. “His husband, Beau, was my best friend before they met. He was a wonderful musician too—a
violist. He brought Griff and me back together for a time, but things got . . . complicated.” I swallow hard and tell him
about Beau’s illness and untimely passing, wondering how much I should share.
“Gosh. How awful. That’s a rare kind too. Was it really quick?”
“Slow and quick all at the same time, if that makes sense?”
Frank nods, his face awash with sympathy.
“Griff is all alone now, so I visit. I sense he still finds me annoying, though, like he has his whole life.”
“I don’t know how anyone could find you annoying.” Frank’s eyes flicker over mine, and my whole body tingles. “So you and Griff have the same mum?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you close with her?”
I instinctively twist the silver ring on my right index finger. It had been there ever since Mum got sick and her hands became
too puffy to wear it. “I was. She passed away when I was twenty-five; she was only fifty-nine. Mum was everything to me, so
her loss hit me hard.”
Frank’s expression softens. “Lisa, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how difficult that must’ve been.” He pauses, giving me a
moment. “And your dad?”
I hesitate. “He left when I was six, moved away for work somewhere. It’s funny, but I don’t remember him saying goodbye, and
after that I never heard from him again. I asked about him all the time when I was younger. Mum would always say he was fine
and very busy. Eventually I stopped asking.”
“Gosh. Did you ever try to find him?”
“Yep. When I was a teenager I went looking, but found out he’d died in a motorbike accident a couple of years before. So I
never got the chance to know him properly.” I swallow. “What I do remember of him, though . . . they’re good memories. Playing
make-believe, spinning me in his arms, sneaking me lollies. I held on to those.” I shuffle in my seat. “I still wonder how
he could leave his family. Griff was always so mad at him. He lost his own father when he was little, and I suppose the idea
of anyone replacing him was too much. He was almost thirteen when mum remarried. A tricky age for anyone: Griff was still
figuring out who he was. Throw in a new stepfather and a baby sister . . . it can’t have been easy. I came to the conclusion
that Griff must have become too much. That Dad just couldn’t handle an angry teenage stepson who never accepted him. That
also explains why Griff never talked about him. Probably felt guilty, deep down, that he pushed him away and took away my
chance to have a father . . . though he was too stubborn to ever admit that.”
Frank tilts his head. “Funny things, families. Some siblings grow up under the same roof but come away with completely different memories of their parents.”
“Yeah. I wish Mum had opened up more, especially when I was older. She was always protective of Griff. I assume she didn’t
want me to believe he was the reason Dad left, so she kept quiet about it.”
I down the rest of my rosé and pierce two ravioli with my fork.
Frank finishes a mouthful of pasta and dabs his forehead, now beaded with perspiration.
“You okay, Frank? Is it too spicy?”
“It’s all good.”
“Do you actually like chilli?”
His nodding head says yes, but his watering eyes say no.
“Frank! You shouldn’t have done that!”
“Truly, it’s okay. This is the only way to build up my tolerance if I’m to achieve my lifelong dream of winning a chilli-eating
contest. And hey, now I truly am a musician with a spicy tongue!”
So he may not be a Hemsworth, but he’s kind, and that’s worth infinitely more in my book. Add to that a quick wit and the
kind of easy charm that doesn’t feel rehearsed, and it’s a world away from the self-absorbed, phone-checking bores I’ve wasted
evenings on before.
The waiter soon returns to take our plates. “And are we having any desserts?”
Frank and I look at each other, hopeful expressions on our faces. “Tiramisu?” we say in unison. The waiter nods and heads
to the kitchen.
“Do you like cooking, Lisa?” asks Frank.
I pause. “Well, if you’re asking if I can cook, the answer is no. Apart from Anzac biscuits. Mum was great at bread and cakes, but it was really Griff who had all
the talent. I always wanted to learn, but he refused to teach me.”
Frank’s hand rests lightly on his water glass, fingers tapping. “I’d love to cook with you.”
I do a double take, hearing the words I’d longed for Griff to say my whole childhood.