72
Lisa
There’s a kind of quiet that settles on you when you’re waiting for your own body to give up. Not silence, exactly, machines
still beep, nurses still murmur outside the curtain, but a hush inside your head. Like something in you is pulling away, conserving
energy for what’s next.
It makes my usually jam-packed mind uneasy, so I try to think about something else. Like holiday destinations. Or shoes. Or
whether my overplucked eyebrows are finally uneven enough that someone will comment.
But it’s Griff who annoyingly pops into my mind. It’s been so long since I’ve visited—not that he’d even know. I keep asking
myself why. How could he be so selfish? Did Beau know he chose not to donate to Mum? And if so, would he have married him?
Frank’s next to me, coffee slowly cooling beside his knee. He’s supposedly reading one of Ruth’s cowboy novels but hasn’t
turned the page in fifteen minutes, which means he’s either deeply engrossed in a steamy scene or just keeping me company.
I know it’s the latter.
We’ve settled into this rhythm over the past couple of months—me, the chair, the machine, and Frank doing his best impersonation
of a man with nothing better to do.
My knitting needles clack softly between us, looping bright blue yarn into the beginnings of a shawl. Ruth mentioned she gets
cold during her sessions, especially around the shoulders, so I picked a bold shade to match her hair. Something cheerful
for when the room feels heavy.
“You’re sure you’re okay with it?” Frank asks, for the eighth time in as many weeks. “My new job, I mean. I know you don’t want to visit
Griff, but if I hadn’t left Sunny Glen, I could’ve at least kept an eye on him. I still could.”
“Frank,” I mumble, eyes closed, “I wouldn’t have encouraged you to take the job if I wasn’t okay with it. I’m so proud of
what you’ve achieved at the new nursing home in just two months. You’re getting to focus on individual therapy like you always
wanted to. I don’t care how Griff is.” The words are rehearsed. Almost convincing. But as much as I wish them to be true,
they aren’t. After everything, I do still care for the big lout.
“Okay,” Frank says, “if you’re sure. It is a much nicer place. The team go above and beyond for the residents, like they should.”
I think of Griff again. Even now, some part of me still longs for the brother I never really had, or maybe just glimpsed in
moments. I know it’s too late for that. But still, the ache lingers.
Is anyone caring about him? Perhaps he’s regressed even further—withdrawn and unreachable. There’s no one to bring him Anzacs
now. He’s probably watering the plants with his crappy coffee as we speak.