79
Griff
The phone rings out for the seventh time. Lisa doesn’t answer. I want to believe that she’s just lost her mobile and not her
final shred of respect for me, but I know better.
I stare at the text I sent her until the screen dims. Then I place the phone on the bedside table next to the remote I haven’t
touched.
A knock at the door. A nurse in navy scrubs steps in with a clipboard and a too-bright smile. “Hello, Mr. Barlow. We’ve got
your discharge paperwork ready. You can go home this afternoon.”
Home. Such a simple word, and one I haven’t had in a long time. The closest thing now is the crappy furnished unit I’m renting,
scattered with the last remnants of my life.
“Do you have someone coming to pick you up?” she asks.
“No. I’ll get an Uber.”
Her smile falters. “I’m sorry, but we need someone to be with you. You’ve just had major surgery. Is there anyone you can
call?”
My phone pings with Lisa’s reply.
Please don’t contact me again, Griff.
The emptiness hits harder than the incision.
I sigh. There’s really just one person I can ring.
Scotty pulls up to the hospital pick-up bay in his red Mazda, window down, arm resting on the door. “Hey, chef.”
“Thanks for coming, mate.”
“No worries. I’m so glad you called.” He pops the boot and lifts my bag inside. As I climb into the passenger seat, he gives
me a sidelong glance. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I lie.
Back at the unit, I make us both a cuppa.
Scotty sinks into the armchair with his mug, surrounded by half-open boxes. “So,” he says, “talk to me. How are you really
going?”
I lower myself onto the couch, my hand instinctively going to my side as the stitches tug. “Lisa found out.”
His eyes snap up. “About the donation? The faking? How?”
“A nursing student let something slip.”
“Far out! How’d she take it?”
“As you’d expect. She’s furious and so hurt. Wants nothing to do with me.”
“Bloody hell. But I guess it would’ve felt like someone coming back from the dead.”
“Only to be buried all over again.”
He nods, silent for a moment. “Did you get a chance to tell her why you did it?”
“Not in full. But I’ve no doubt she knows.”
His gaze lingers, thoughtful. “Maybe she just needs some space. How long have you got this place for?”
“Until the end of the month. They’ve got another booking after that.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t know,” I say, staring out the window. “Now I know there’s no hope with Lisa, I’ll probably stick with the original
plan and move out west. Someplace where no one gives a damn who I used to be.”
We sit in silence for a while sipping our tea.
“So tell me, how was your first day at Lorraine?” I ask, keen to change the subject. “You started last week, right?”
He leans in, his eyes lighting up. “It’s epic! The kitchen, the thrill . . . My feet hurt, and I’m dead tired, but I’ve never felt so alive. Matilda is amazing! Thank you so much for setting it up with her, that can’t have been an easy call to make.”
“It’s my pleasure.” I smile, recalling the strange and embarrassing call with my former sous-chef. We’d had to FaceTime twice
before she could believe it was true.
I get up and cross to the corner where the box marked “Lisa” waits. Inside are a few mementos of Beau I hope might bring her
some joy: a few photos, the old map of Canberra I’d taken down after he died, the viola. I couldn’t be the one to comfort
her now, but maybe he still could. “Would you give these to her, please?”
“Sure.”
I jot her address on a scrap of paper and hand it to him.
“Don’t be a stranger, Griff.”
I nod and clasp his shoulder. “Take care, mate.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I sit back down. The tea is cold. The silence, complete.
And I realize that I already am a stranger. To Lisa. To myself. To everyone who ever knew of me.
I open another box and pull out a photo of Beau and me. He’s laughing, doing a silly pose. I study the man beside him—sharp
suit, clear eyes, standing tall. I run my thumb over his face. Even Beau wouldn’t recognize me now. Not in the man who ran,
who faked, who disappeared and stayed gone even when he came home.
I’m tired of being that man. Of still choosing a fake life over the real one.
I read her text again. I know I can’t have her back now, and I can’t control how she feels. But I can stop running. Own it.
Fully. Publicly. Without disguise or excuse. Because if I want to be someone she can respect, even from a distance, then I
have to stop pretending once and for all. I have to show her that I see the damage and am willing to face it, even though
it means giving up my reputation.
I remove an old honey jar from the box and stare at the gray ashes within. In truth, the urn I gave Allison no longer contained Beau but the remains of three roast chickens I’d incinerated in the commercial oven the week before. My Beau will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Outside, a couple of contractors sit on the curb, chewing their way through sad-looking sandwiches that could’ve come straight
off the cart at Sunny Glen.
I thought all I had left to give was my kidney. I’ve spent months convincing everyone, including myself, that I’m already
gone. That there’s nothing left of me worth saving. But maybe I still have a voice, too. And maybe it’s time I spoke up. I
used to believe food could fix anything. That it was love made visible. Now I see it’s also a responsibility, one I can no
longer be silent about.
I reach for the phone. It’s time to speak up. It’s time to come clean.
Not only to Lisa. To the world.