Page 106 of When Lemons Give You Life

I hit pause, bracing for a moment before I can go on, knowing how much it’s going to hurt.

His viola begins with bold, fiery strokes that demand attention, before slipping into a raw, mournful melody. When the weight of it feels almost unbearable, the music lifts, transforming into a soaring, joyful conclusion full of promise and light.

“My life may be short, but know I loved every moment of it. The only thing I loved more than living was loving you. Love you forever, handsome. Until we meet again.” Beau’s voice cracks; there’s a soft sniff, and then silence.

I pull the comforter over my head, sobs ripping through me as the weight of everything crashes down, each mistake and selfish choice laid bare. What the hell have I done?

Lisa has been a ringing in my ears I longed to silence. But now that it’s quiet, I realize how much I’ve come to rely on it.

I pull out the Polaroid photo with trembling hands. I remember the day I took it.

Lisa looks happy, so sure of her place in the world, so sure of me.

I gently run my thumb over the image. The edges are soft and worn, like they’ve been handled more times than I’d like to admit. I always told myself I kept it out of guilt. But now I know the truth.

I miss her. That tiny girl. The one who used to follow me around the house, who thought I could fix anything. I miss being someone she trusted. Someone she loved, despite me keeping her at arm’s length.

And now she might die.

I can finally see what I’ve wanted all along but buried under pride and pain: a relationship with her. Not out of guilt or duty. Because I love her and want to be the kind of brother who deserves her.

I long for the friendship she had with Beau—the ease, the laughter. I want to go back, reach into the past, and be kind to the baby, the girl I pushed away, the woman I left. I want to live up to the name she once gave me: “Griff the Great.”

I must donate. But how?

Can I come clean? Can this fake priest—the one she’s unknowingly confessed to for months—finally make a confession of his own? Is what we had mendable? For a few reckless hours, I imagine it. Telling her everything. Explaining why I did it. Owning the damage. And then offering my kidney.

But the image buckles under the weight of reality. If I confess, to her, to the world, it will only hurt her more. It’s not the public fallout that troubles me now. Let them scrub my name off the wall, dump my cookbooks in the bin, slice me from the TV archives like I was never there. I’ve already lost the one thing worth keeping.

What matters is Lisa, and the truth would break her, maybe irrevocably. Knowing I faked it, that I let her suffer while I played at being absent . . . she’d grieve all over again. Relive every hurt twice, pouring salt on wounds she’s just begun to close. She may not accept my kidney. Even if she did, she should never have to feel like she owes me gratitude or forgiveness—I don’t deserve either.

So I’ll stay quiet. Not for me anymore. For Lisa. What matters now is giving her my kidney, but I have to do it while sparing her the awful truth. Maybe there’s a way to donate anonymously. Or maybe I’ll have to revisit The Death Menu—a final gesture, done quietly. Either way, I can’t be the reason she suffers again. Rewinding the tape, I listen to Beau’s voice message once more. He recorded it before he knew what I’d done. He asked me to be kind.

Mum taught me that kindness isn’t always truth, showing me how to carry things in silence, for Lisa’s sake. This is just one more thing I can hold, so my little sister doesn’t have to. If this is the only way I can love her now, the only piece of myself I can give, then let it be enough.

“I’ll do it, Beau,” I whisper. “I’ll be there for her.” Medically, at least. This way, she gets to live. Not as someone’s burden or someone’s punishment, but as someone worth saving. Worth seeing.

Even if I’m never seen again.

68

Griff

I can’t die. Turns out, donating your kidney isn’t as simple as just keeling over with excess chocolate and good intentions. The organ donation hotline makes it clear: for Lisa to be guaranteed my kidney, it has to be a directed living donation. If I die, it will go to whoever is at the top of the list.

I press my palms against the cool tile of the bathroom sink, forcing myself to breathe through the storm in my chest. Death is off the menu. The only way to donate to Lisa without her finding out is for it to be anonymous. And that means clearing myself of a dementia diagnosis and saying goodbye to Martin and life as I know it. I consider escaping through the window, but it seems easiest to get the gerontologist here to assess me. I would come clean to as few medical staff as possible, have the surgery and then leave town, head out west, some place where no one knows me or my fancy restaurant. There’s just one problem: once Lisa recovered, she would visit again, and I would no longer be here. Questions would undoubtedly be asked, and the lie eventually revealed anyway.

The kindest thing would be for her to believe I simply passed peacefully in my sleep.

I open my bedside table drawer and remove my will. It states that when I die, the nursing home is to send me straight to the undertaker to be cremated and put in with Beau.

A clatter echoes as a cleaner lugs the vacuum past my door. “Hey, boss, you want me to do the lounge or just leave it?”

“Leave it,” says Allison, following behind. “They’ve had their inspection. No one’s coming through with a clipboard today.”

“Right. By the way, we’re nearly out of detergent.”

“Just use hot water,” Allison says. “Costs less.”