82
Lisa
I never forgot her. Not once.
Griff’s words from the telly last night don’t echo—they settle. In the hollow behind my ribs, where guilt and hope have been
taking turns.
I went to bed, but sleep didn’t shift them. Part of me—the one that remembers how proud Griff is, how deeply he protects his
reputation—knows what this has cost him. But it doesn’t change what he did. Or what he didn’t do for Mum.
Frank enters, espresso in hand. He sets it gently on the bedside table, perching on the edge of the bed. “Sweetie,” he says,
“get dressed. Bring your coffee. There’s someone here who wants to talk to you.”
I hesitate. “It’s not Griff, is it? I don’t think I can—”
“It’s not Griff,” he says, passing me a hoodie and leggings.
I put on the clothes and head out to the lounge where a young man stands in the doorway. Brown-haired. Familiar.
Frank gestures to him. “Lisa, you remember Scotty from the nursing home?”
“Hi, Lisa.” Scotty shifts awkwardly.
“Hi, Scotty. It’s been awhile.”
Frank clears his throat and motions for us all to sit down.
“What brings you here?” I ask. “Did you hear about Griff? I know you were one of his carers.”
He smiles nervously. “Nah. I’m not a carer actually. I worked for him in the kitchen.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand.”
“There’s even more to Griff’s story,” Frank says. “You know how the food at the home suddenly got so much better on weekends?”
“Yeah, when the new chef arrived.”
“Yep. Well, the new chef? It was Griff.”
The words take a moment to land. “That . . . that’s not possible.”
Scotty chuckles and explains how he found Griff locked in the grog pantry and assumed he was the new weekend chef.
“Why was he in the kitchen in the first place?” I ask.
The young man’s smile falters. He glances at Frank before dropping his gaze to the floor. “He’d broken in to make himself
a last meal.”
“Last?”
Frank puts his arm around me. “Sweetheart, Griff had been planning on taking his own life shortly after Beau died.”
The words hit like a slow fall—an awful, weightless descent.
“But the cooking,” Scotty quickly adds, “it woke something up in him. Not just him but in other residents as well. I know
music does wonders for people with Alzheimer’s.” He motions to Frank. “Apparently food does, too.”
Nothing can top the shock that my brother had faked dementia, and the moment in the ICU I now refer to as “the Lazarus Incident,”
but this comes a close second. I turn to Frank for answers. “Did you know all this?”
“Not until this morning, when Scotty called. He got my number from the home and told me everything Griff had shared. I wanted
you to hear it directly from him.”
“So, are you still working at the nursing home, Scotty?” I ask.
A grin spreads across his face. “Actually, Griff’s set me up with an apprenticeship at Lorraine.
He kinda took me under his wing, taught me how to cook.
He believed in me. First person to ever do that.
” He fiddles with the zip on his jacket.
“I was the least experienced and youngest of the staff, but he saw me, if you know what I mean?”
My eyes begin to water. I know exactly what he means. It’s what I have been chasing my whole life—to be seen by Griff. “How
did he . . . how did you . . . ?”
Scotty laughs and brushes his fringe from his face. He tells me about Cliff the dummy, about their online shopping, their
movie nights, the fake call from Tom. About how Griff had become the brother I’ve always wanted.
Still want.
“He considered ending things again, when he found out you needed a kidney, until he realized it wouldn’t go to you. So, he
came clean, just enough to donate.”
My breathing shallows. I thought he didn’t love me; turns out he would’ve given his life for me. “I still can’t understand
why he’d go through all that now and wouldn’t donate to Mum back when it was simple.”
“You really need to speak to him, if you can. He’s going to move away, you know, on Friday.” The young man looks at me with
quiet earnestness. “Anyway, I’d better get out of your hair, but he also wanted me to give you this. It’s some of Beau’s things
he thought you’d like.” He picks up a box from behind the chair and sets it gently on my lap.
I run my fingers over the scuffed cardboard, unable to speak.
“I hope you feel better soon, Lisa. And please, I know he’s screwed up but consider hearing him out. He wants to make things
right, but he also doesn’t think very highly of himself so I’m not sure he’ll reach out again.”
All I can offer Scotty is a small nod as he leaves.
I climb into bed, and Frank places the box in front of me. “I’ll give you some space. If you need me, I’ll be here.” He closes
the door softly behind him.
I lift Beau’s viola, my fingers trembling as they trace the shape he once held so easily. A thin crack runs along the back of the neck—delicate, but deep.
How had I never seen it?
As I turn it over, I hear something slide inside it. A white corner peeps from the hole and I carefully ease out an old, worn
piece of paper.