Page 121 of When Lemons Give You Life

He doesn’t answer, just hums faintly, and I sit there, holding his hand, as the music drifts through the hallway and the night folds in. I’d been so afraid of the gaps—the hollow spaces where pieces of him used to be. But in the slow undoing of who he was, when memory failed and nothing else held, love always showed up to pay the balance.

He lies down in the single bed across from mine, eyelids drifting shut, exhaling, soft and full. “Griff?”

“Yes, love?”

“Will you stay?”

“Yes. I promise.”

After lights-out, I slip into his bed and rest my hand on his chest, counting each breath. The room smells of lavender and antiseptic. But there’s still something of him beneath it all, that faint trace of soap and citrus and Beau. I inhale it until mercifully sleep arrives.

Light slips through the curtain in pale ribbons. The room is still, too still. He’s curled in my arms, but something’s wrong.

I shift, heart thudding, and press my palm to his chest. Nothing.

My fingers fumble over his neck, his wrist—searching, begging. Still warm. But gone.

A sound escapes me, torn from somewhere deep. Not a sob, not yet, just the beginning of breaking. I gather him closer, burying my face in the hollow of his shoulder. The cruel grip of Alzheimer’s has at last let him go. And it took everything with it.

“Morning, boys—” Navneet stops cold, then comes forward to check Beau. Her fingers hover for a moment longer than they need to. “Oh no. I’m so sorry, Griff.” She backs out quietly. I hear her voice in the hall. Then Lisa’s name.

Lisa arrives minutes later. Still in her pajamas, puffer jacket zipped halfway up, hair tied back with a pink fluffy sleep mask. She crumples over us, crying into his chest.

Neither of us says a word.

Everything blurs. The funeral home staff come after lunch. Lift him with efficient hands. Wheel him away like he’s something ordinary and not the most precious thing in the whole world. And I can’t say anything. Just like that, he’s gone.

I stay in his bed, numb, curled around the dent he left behind, face buried where his scent lingers. Still breathing, still pretending.

When Lisa finally leaves, I reach for a notebook and write three words: The Death Menu.

79

Griff

The phone rings out for the seventh time. Lisa doesn’t answer. I want to believe that she’s just lost her mobile and not her final shred of respect for me, but I know better.

I stare at the text I sent her until the screen dims. Then I place the phone on the bedside table next to the remote I haven’t touched.

A knock at the door. A nurse in navy scrubs steps in with a clipboard and a too-bright smile. “Hello, Mr. Barlow. We’ve got your discharge paperwork ready. You can go home this afternoon.”

Home. Such a simple word, and one I haven’t had in a long time. The closest thing now is the crappy furnished unit I’m renting, scattered with the last remnants of my life.

“Do you have someone coming to pick you up?” she asks.

“No. I’ll get an Uber.”

Her smile falters. “I’m sorry, but we need someone to be with you. You’ve just had major surgery. Is there anyone you can call?”

My phone pings with Lisa’s reply.

Please don’t contact me again, Griff.

The emptiness hits harder than the incision.

I sigh. There’s really just one person I can ring.

Scotty pulls up to the hospital pick-up bay in his red Mazda, window down, arm resting on the door. “Hey, chef.”