Page 112 of When Lemons Give You Life

I assumed this would move fast. But the transplant team have their own timeline. More forms. More waiting. An ethics committee.

At last it’s over, and I just have to wait for the official call to go ahead. After more than two decades, I’m finally donating my kidney.

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.

73

Griff

“Extra strong flat white, please,” I say.

The cafe next to the hospital is filled with people and the sweet aroma of chai. I take a seat on the squeaky vinyl chair near the door, watching people go in and out.

The large coffee is rich and bitter. As the caffeine buzz starts to kick in, a familiar face ducks his head under the doorframe. Every muscle in my body locks. I never paid much attention to the gigantic guitarist who used to play at the home. I heard and loved his music but never really saw him. Now I could be looking at my future brother-in-law. If he’s as kind as he is tall, then we might be alright.

I scramble for a menu to hide my face, but it’s too late.

Frank scans the room for a spare table, initially overlooking me, before his head snaps back in my direction. He stumbles over into the chair opposite me, his long jaw wide open. The guy looks like crap—the bags under his eyes wouldn’t fit in a carry-on compartment.

Finally, he speaks. “Griff? Are you . . . allowed out? Is there a carer with you?”

I take a deep breath. “Let’s order you a coffee, extra strong. You’re going to need it.”

Frank, still wide-eyed, is soon cradling a cappuccino, his hands so large that the mug is hidden beneath his trembling fingers.

I down a second flat white and explain everything from the start. About Beau’s diagnosis and my big charade. He doesn’t say much—must be a great match for my motormouth sister. I start to get to the bottom line. “So, long story short, I came clean so that I could d—”

But Frank slams his cup down on the table. “How could you, Griff? You let her think you were disappearing, like Beau. You let Lisa mourn you while you were sitting right in front of her.”

I blink, surprised that the mild man’s voice could live up to his size. “I didn’t—”

“You did. And you, what? Thought you were doing her a favor?”

“I never meant to hurt her.”