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not special because of the way it looks—chipped glaze, scratches from half a dozen moves—but because of what it’s held for
over twenty years: two toothbrushes.
My knuckles turn white as they grip the handbasin, eyes bloodshot, face drawn.
I thought that packing Beau’s clothes would be the hardest part. But the toothbrush? It’s caught me by surprise. I can’t bring
myself to do it.
“For Christ’s sake, get a hold of yourself, Griff!” I shout at the mirror. I’m in desperate need of a haircut. But he was
always the one who reminded me to get one. Now my hair hangs limp over my ears, my beard a wiry mess that makes me look half
wild, half forgotten. None of it matters anymore.
A hand squeezes my shoulder. “Come here.” Lisa’s voice is soft with compassion.
Without opening my eyes, I turn around and hug her tight despite myself, my body heaving.
She doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t need to.
I pull away quickly. “It’s just a bloody toothbrush.”
“Yeah, but it’s his bloody toothbrush, and that’s where it belongs, isn’t it?”
I nod, refusing to let any tears fall.
“Don’t even worry about it,” Lisa says, her mile-a-minute voice unusually slow and assured. “Let’s just leave that one there, where it should be. I’ll buy him another.”
I can bear that. Just.
The drive to the nursing home is both endless and too fast. Beau hums under his breath beside me like we are going to the
movies.
We pull up. The place looks charming. The sign out front is freshly painted, a soft sage green. Neatly trimmed hedges frame
the entry path, and someone’s planted hydrangeas in perfect symmetry, their blue petals so bright they look artificial.
As we walk down the hall, I glance at the glossy brochure promising art therapy, cultural outings, and a kitchen garden. We
pass several residents slumped in vinyl chairs near a muted TV. Most look at least twenty years older than Beau.
I’ve filled his room with the familiar: wedding photos, teaching degrees, the geometric map of Canberra he loves, his plants,
his Pollocks. Sewing name labels into every collar felt like being a parent leaving a child at a daycare he’d never come home
from—my final, private act of surrender.
Lunch arrives: a baked potato that appears it’s been trampled on. Nothing like the handmade gnocchi with pesto we were shown
on the tour. Hopefully it’s just an off day for the chef.
When the nurse says it’s time for us to leave, Beau’s smile falters. “Where are you going, Griffy?”
“Just to the car. I’ll be back before you know it.” I’ve rehearsed that line more times than I care to admit.
I force my feet forward, but the sound of him calling after me drags like barbed wire through my chest.
The nurse murmurs reassurances, her voice gentle but practiced.
I don’t look back. I know what I’d see: him standing there, waiting for me to turn around. And I can’t survive that.
The door to the visitor toilet clicks open. Lisa steps out, her eyes swollen, a balled-up tissue in one hand. Our eyes lock,
and no words are needed in this moment.
Outside, the air feels wrong. Too bright. Too hot. I stumble into the car park, past the hedges, and drop to my knees. I vomit, once, twice, until there’s nothing left. My hands won’t stop shaking.
Lisa cleans me up and drops me back to the house. She offers to stay over, but I refuse. I’ve pushed her away my whole life,
that’s not about to change now.
I run upstairs with barely a goodbye and collapse onto our empty king bed. Grief, loss, liberation and relief crash over me
in the same breath. Liberation in being free from the constant watch, knowing he’s safe, and I can sleep without bracing for
the next crisis. And then the guilt comes, swift and smothering, for daring to feel that relief. I can’t eat, and sleep only
comes at the bottom of a bottle of whisky.
I wake with my head pounding, the hangover and grief braided so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Trudging downstairs to get coffee, I spot Lisa, fully clothed, asleep on the couch. A batch of freshly made Anzacs on the
countertop.