Page 105 of When Lemons Give You Life

“That’s the spirit. Gotta keep our chins up, even while these machines are trying their best to drain us dry.”

As if on cue, Dracula beeps again.

“You play blackjack?” Ruth pulls a deck from her purse.

“I’m rusty,” I say.

“Perfect,” she says with a mischievous grin. “Wanna make it interesting?” She pulls out a tenner and slaps it on the tray table.

The game helps pass the time, but I can’t wipe the worry off my face. Finally, after five long hours, I’m unhooked.

Frank takes my hand. “It’s going to be okay. You’re young, you’re a fighter.”

A tear makes its way down my cheek. “That’s exactly what the doctor said to Mum.”

67

Griff

Tonight’s insomnia is served on a bed of steamed guilt with a side of pan-fried anxiety. I’ve spent the past week battling my thoughts, flipping them over and over.

“What am I supposed to do, Beau?” I whisper into the darkness.

Turning on the bedside lamp, I remove his briefcase from the cupboard, sifting through the old work cassettes. I need to hear his voice.

One tape catches my eye—a faded label, smudged ink. I hold it to the light, my breath catching. The writing’s almost gone, but I can make out a faint scribble in Beau’s handwriting:

Griff e^(iπ) + 1 = 0

No clue what it means. I google it: Euler’s formula. The most beautiful, elegant formula in mathematics. My name, next to perfection. It undoes me.

With shaky hands I pop it into the Dictaphone and press play, greeted with the signature corny joke from a lesson. “Did you hear about the mathematician who was afraid of negative numbers? He’d stop at nothing to avoid them! Pause for laughter.”

Then, silence—the kind that makes grief even louder. I leave it on for half a minute, hoping the static noise will drown out my thoughts.

As I reach for the stop button, Beau’s voice crackles back to life. “Hi, Griff, it’s me, handsome. I hope you’ll find this.”

My body stills. I’ve never heard this before.

“If you’re listening, it means I’m not beside you in our yellow kitchen where we somehow managed to fit our whole life.

“We found out a few weeks ago that I’m in the early stages of dementia, so I want to tell you all the things I need to say before I forget them. Lately it’s like I’m walking through fog,” he whispers. “I can see shapes, but nothing’s sharp. Nothing holds still. So here we are. Firstly, I love you. I love you so very much, Griff. If”—his voice cracks—“when I’m not able to tell you that any longer, please remember that I do.”

I press my shaking palm to my chest, as if I can anchor the sound of his voice there.

“This illness will make me lie, Griff. My lips will tell you I don’t know your name. My failing mind will deny you were ever mine. Don’t believe them. In those moments, hold on to the truth: That you are written into my soul, and nothing, not even this, can ever erase you. And I wanted to say I’m sorry that you’ll have to walk this path without me—this treacherous, horrible path. I wish you didn’t have to witness this. I know we promised for better or worse, but if things get worse, much worse, my love, I give you my blessing to let go. I’ll end up in a nursing home eventually, and if that’s when you need to say goodbye . . . I understand.”

There’s a rustle of papers. “Sorry, I’ve lost my place . . . I wrote this down so I’d get it right.

“Griff, you were never the man people thought you were when they looked at you. They got the sharp edges, the precision, the armor you wore everywhere outside our door. I got the man whose shoulders loosened the moment he stepped inside, the man who stopped performing and simply was. You never realized how rare that is, to become your truest self with just one person. That was my greatest fortune.

“I loved all our ordinary things, your funny latte art on my morning coffee, our Monday picnics, regardless of the weather, the movies you pretended not to care about yet cued up for me every Sunday night. Those were my treasures. Our life was never polished: it was honest, unfiltered, ours. You gave me a home in that honesty.”

His voice dips. “I need you to hear this, Griff. The part of you that softened with me, the part you thought was a flaw, that’s the part the world needs. It’s the part Lisa needs. I know you don’t think much of yourself outside the kitchen, that there’s nothing in you worth believing in. But that’s Brent’s lie, not the truth. Your history with Lisa is messy and painful, and I know how hard you’ve worked to stay locked in a room you built out of loyalty to your mum. Those four walls were meant to keep Lisa safe, but they have also kept her out. Break them down, give her a piece of yourself. Let her see the man I saw—the one with the steady hands and a far bigger heart than he ever gave himself credit for. She’s all you’ve got now. Be kind to her, look past the chaos and see the extraordinary woman beneath it. Let her lean on you and lean back. It’s the only way you’ll both survive this. Let it be your parting gift to me.

“You’re a good man, Griffith Barlow. Better than you’ll ever believe. And when I’m not here to remind you, I hope someone else will.

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to play my viola, so I wrote this for you. It’s how I see you . . . you are in every note I ever played.”