Page 117 of When Lemons Give You Life

“How . . . ?”

He looks at his hands, fumbling with his IV. “I faked it.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Smiles are something you fake, or cat ownership—not a debilitating neurological disease!

“I had to do it. I had to be close to . . .” He shuts his eyes. “I couldn’t bear . . .”

I blink away hot tears. “How could you, Griff?! How dare you do that to me. Do you know how awful it’s been?” My mind flashes through the past year, of all the visits, of all the things I said to him, of all the nursing care he received. And the rashes I showed him! Oh god, the rashes!

“I’m sorry. Lisa, please, you have to understand, Beau was everything . . . I . . . I had no one else—”

“No one else? NO ONE? Really, Griff?” My voice is getting louder, my pulse faster. “What about me? Don’t I count?”

“Of course you do, I—”

“I’ve never meant anything to you, have I? You never wanted me. You always pushed me away. First my dad and then me!”

“When Beau was diagnosed—”

“You weren’t the only one grieving him! He was my best friend. I’m sorry I bloody kissed him, but he cared for me more than you ever did! He would have given his kidney in a heartbeat to his mother.”

Griff’s face turns white.

“Do you think I don’t know about what happened? I found the paperwork!”

His monitor beeps faster. “Lisa, you have to listen, you don’t understand—”

“Why did you lie? How could you be a match and refuse to donate? You left me to pick up the pieces so you could bugger off and learn to make fancy bloody tarts—”

“Please, I—”

“I was so alone, organizing everything after Mum died and then after Beau died, all while grieving the loss of you, too. Well, you know what the good thing about that is? I’ve already grieved you. You really are DEAD to me, Griff!”

The words visibly wound him.

The nurse sticks her head in the door. “What’s going on in here? I heard yelling.”

“Take me away now!” I plead.

“Your heart rate is very high, Mr. Barlow,” she says, glancing at Griff’s monitor.

“Please! I have to leave now!”

She motions to an orderly, who wheels me to the lift. I don’t even look back.

“Lisa! Lisa! Wait! There’s something you have to . . .”

The elevator door closes.

“Well, that was a first,” says the young male orderly, whose BO is rapidly filling the small space.

“Huh?”

“I mean, recipients don’t usually yell at their donors.”

Frank is waiting for me when we return, his gray eyes brimming with worry. “Ah, there you are!” He studies my face intently. “How was he?”

“Well, he was bloody alive, I can tell you that! I thought he was DEAD!”