Page 24 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Okay, perfect, thanks.”

“The beef cheek ravioli for me, please.” Frank hands our menus back.

I look to a nearby table where an elderly man is fighting with his coat. His hands tremble as he tries to undo the buttons. I lean over. “Would you like a hand with that?” He nods, and I gently ease the coat from his shoulders, folding it over the back of his chair.

“These things never behave,” I say lightly. “It’s not you—it’s the buttons.”

The gentleman gives a grateful chuckle.

“You’re good at that,” Frank says once the man is settled.

“What, coat-unbuttoning?”

“No. Seeing people. I saw how you helped the resident and his sister the other day.”

I smile. “Well, your music helps everyone who hears it. Have you always wanted to be a musician, Frank?”

“Yeah. To be honest I thought I might land a more glamorous gig . . . well, as glamorous as a classical guitarist can get. Like most musos, I wanted to be a star. But I’m glad I didn’t. Becoming a music therapist opened up a world I didn’t even know about. The pay isn’t great, but it means so much more, you know?” He adjusts his glasses. “I feel I can actually help people. My parents were both doctors, and I always thought I’d follow in their footsteps. Turns out I’m rubbish when it comes to blood, though. Still . . . with this guitar gig, I dunno. It can really make a difference. Music can be more powerful than penicillin, I reckon.” He lowers his head, a shy half smile tugging at his lips.

He’s not wrong about music; it slowed my racing brain when I listened to him play and even made Griff show emotion. “So what’s the therapy part of it?”

His eyes light up. “Well, they’ve just got me doing the group ‘concert’ type sessions at Sunny Glen for the moment, I think because they’re the cheapest.” His cheeks color. “Sorry, I mean, that’s not to say it’s a cheap place! You’ve obviously chosen it for your brother and . . .” He takes another swig from his glass and winces slightly.

“Pfft. Please! We originally picked it because it had no waiting list, and it was close by, which made visiting easier. I’d done some research on which homes were queer-friendly and it significantly reduced our options. Some of the places we considered were amazing on paper, but when you walked in the door . . . I don’t know, they felt off. All polite and shiny on the surface, but you could just tell they’d already decided certain people didn’t belong. It didn’t feel safe for our family. Not somewhere I’d ever trust, no matter what else they offered.”

Frank nods. “I’ve worked in facilities like that, where you can tell difference isn’t welcome. Just horrible.”

“Yeah. For all its faults, at least Sunny Glen embraces diversity. They really sold their services well on the tour, too. We didn’t realize how bad it was until later, and by then another move would have been too disruptive. It’s an absolute shithole!”

There comes that laugh again. Like his music, it’s therapeutic. “You’re awesome, Lisa.” His gray eyes fix on mine before darting to his fork, which he begins lining up with his knife.

Garlic and a desire for something other than food fills the air.

“At some places, I do individual sessions too. I adapt the music to suit people’s needs. We had one gentleman with dementia who was a huge Jimmy Barnes fan like me. I learned all the songs and the music brought him back to life when I played. He even thought I was Jimmy toward the end! Not that I made it anywhere near his league, of course.”

“I don’t know about that. If you are a star in one person’s mind, I think that counts, and you made it, after all. It’s really admirable what you do, Frank.”

The tips of his ears turn pink as he flashes me a grin that I may be addicted to. He looks down, tracing a faint circle on the table with his thumb.

I barely notice our meals being placed on the table until their aroma demands my attention.

Frank beams at the waiter. “Wow! How lucky are we? Look at that. Thanks heaps, mate.”

I think it says a lot about a man, how he treats waitstaff; Griff showed them no mercy. “Bon appétit!” I gush, desperate to get those glorious carbs in my belly.

I try to eat as attractively as possible, swirling the linguine with my fork and spoon. But when I pop it into my mouth, I instantly regret my choice. The chilli sucker-punches my tastebuds. If I were home, I’d be spitting it out and drinking a liter of milk. Here, all I can do is swallow. I reach for my silly shallow water glass, but it’s empty, as is the jug beside it. With no time to be polite, I grab Frank’s half-full glass from across the table and chug it in one go.

“Oh gosh, are you okay, Lisa?”

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize it would be spicy.” I blink through watery eyes, squinting at the specials board. “Seafood linguine in chilli and garlic oil. Clearly didn’t read that properly . . .”

“Why don’t we swap? I haven’t touched mine yet—if you like ravioli, that is.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Please. I was actually torn between the two, so you’d be doing me a favor.”

“Well . . . thank you. I only touched the bite I had.”