Page 116 of When Lemons Give You Life

“He may not be particularly talkative,” says Jane.

Particularly talkative!? I know some people have a dark sense of humor, but this is next level!

“I’ll give you two some privacy.”

A beep sounds steadily from the ECG machine to my right. I rub my eyes. There’s a green squiggle making waves. Maybe he had a massive stroke and was declared brain-dead, and they’re keeping him on life support long enough to find recipients for his other organs.

I take Griff’s hand. My god, it’s still warm. I squeeze hard, pressing my grief and anger into his skin. “You bloody ratbag! You stupid, big arse.” Rage and devastation bubble and then boil over. I stopped chasing his affection months ago. But sitting here now, I still want one last chance. “Why didn’t you love me! Why couldn’t you have done this for Mum! You just let her die!” I collapse my head onto his hand, my face soaked in tears. “Why do I still love you?”

“I love you too,” I can almost hear him whisper back. “I love you too, Lisa.”

I flinch as fingers comb through my hair. I try to scream, but no sound comes. What the actual!?

Griff’s eyes are open! He is looking at me! Talking to me!

I scramble for the call button, but Griff removes his oxygen mask and raises his hand in a stop sign.

“Lisa.” He’s staring deep into my eyes, directly, lucidly.

I drop the buzzer, my hand trembling.

“Don’t call anyone in yet. We need to talk. They told me you found out. I never expected to see you, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

I blink hard. I must be on some very strong drugs. He hasn’t spoken so intently, so logically, since the dementia began. “Griff . . . ?” I say his name as if it’s something that doesn’t exist. “How . . . how come you’re still alive? I thought you . . . How did they let you give a kidney? You can’t donate unless you’re dead.”

“They didn’t tell you . . . ?” His gray brows knit in confusion.

“You . . . you can’t consent with the dementia . . .”

“About that.” Terror crosses his reddening face. “I need to tell you something.”

The room blurs at the edges, and I get that strange feeling that I’m not really present, that I’m an observer, watching this play out on a stage.

“The thing is, Lisa, I . . . I don’t have it.”

“Have what?”

“Dementia—I don’t have dementia.”

The words sit in the air like a feather that is too heavy to float but too light to sink. I rub my forehead, convinced I’m losing my mind. I glance over at the drip attached to his arm; maybe whatever meds he is on are causing a lucid moment.

“Lisa, did you hear me? I don’t have Alzheimer’s. I never did.” His eyes, though tired, have never been so clear.

Before I can speak, another nurse comes in. “Hello, Mr. Barlow, it’s lovely to see you awake.” She checks the monitor, adjusting the drip before taking his blood pressure. “How are you feeling?”

He gives no reply.

She looks to me and frowns. “Is everything okay?”

“He’s saying that he doesn’t have dementia. Has his medication made him lucid?”

She narrows her eyes, tapping her iPad. “No, Mr. Barlow doesn’t have dementia. He couldn’t be a living organ donor if he did.”

“No. No. That’s not right. He’s been in a nursing home. He moved there over a year ago. His husband Beau had it first . . . then he got it . . . he . . . he . . .” Surely Griff couldn’t have . . . My breathing becomes rapid and shallow.

An irritating buzz sounds from the nurse’s beeper. “I’ll be back in a sec,” she says with a wave.

Griff’s gaze remains fixed on me.