Page 89 of When Lemons Give You Life

I take his hand and place it on my chest, so he can feel my heart beating. “You are with me, Beau.”

His breathing slows, his gaze coming to rest on mine. “That means I’m home.”

So much has been taken from Beau: his voice, his dignity. But not me. Not yet.

His language deteriorates daily, his face filled with the frustration of lost words. At these times, I pass him his viola. His fingers remember what his mind fumbles, the melody settling something in his chest that I can’t reach with words. It steadies him; it’s how he speaks now, both to me and to the parts of his mind still fighting to be heard.

For months, the music remains—faithful, steady, the highlight of my day. Then one December morning, a few weeks before Christmas, Allison walks in as Beau is finishing a song, a clipboard tucked under her arm.

The door hasn’t even swung shut before she’s muttering. “Not that thing again.” She sighs, brushing a stray hair from her eyes. “One of my exes was a cellist, you know. Ran off with a twenty-four-year-old double bassist. I can’t hear string instruments now without feeling homicidal.”

Beau lays the instrument on the shelf then nods off in his chair.

Allison clicks her pen and starts ticking boxes with performative efficiency, her sighs louder than necessary. Her eyes dart to the viola; a flicker of calculation crosses her face. As she reaches for the hand sanitizer, her elbow bumps the ledge, a tiny nudge, but enough. The viola slips, topples, and hits the lino with a sickening crack.

She winces—a quick, exaggerated grimace—before her eyes drop to the damage, tracing it with the cool precision of someone deciding how much it’s going to hurt. “Oops. I’m sorry. Shelf must be loose. I’ll log it with maintenance.” And with that sarcasm-coated statement, she’s gone.

My chest seizes. I crouch down slowly, my bones heavy. There’s a fracture in the neck.

Beau’s voice. Gone. Not because of time or illness or memory, but because someone chose not to see the man behind the music. Someone decided he didn’t matter anymore.

Rage scorches through me as I hold the instrument in my hands—my husband’s love made audible, muted in an instant.

That afternoon I make some calls in secret to the handful of repairers Beau would have trusted his instrument to. Maybe I could courier it to them under the radar? But one is retired, one is already on Christmas holidays and the last is booked solid for the foreseeable future. I search online for a replacement from his beloved viola maker in Cremona, Italy. He used to joke that if we ever won the lottery, he’d fly there just to smell the timber. They still make violas the old way, each one a work of art. I find one that looks almost identical. But there’s a huge waitlist and international shipping delays. It’s fully insured, but it’s not about the money. Even if I pay extra, I know deep in my heart that it won’t arrive in time. Beau is slipping fast.

I say nothing to Allison but make a silent vow that one day, I will get my revenge.

56

Lisa

My finger hovers over Tom’s name on my phone, tears threatening. I still haven’t called my childhood friend back and I need to tell someone about my visit to the specialist, but once I do, it will become real. I can’t bring myself to call Helen either—she’ll smother me. Hover. Fix. At least this time, she can’t call me a hypochondriac. Thankfully I have someone I can tell who won’t pander to me, let alone remember.

I arrive at the nursing home with dry eyes, Anzacs and a meter-long licorice roll from the milk bar in hand, my nerve to spill all rapidly diminishing. Perhaps I’ll ease into it with a question I’ve been dying to know the answer to.

“Do you think it’s true, Ratbag?” I ask, taking a seat opposite him. “What they say about the size of men’s feet.”

My brother averts his gaze, his eyes just visible under the beanie.

This week’s bombshell and a third cup of coffee have provided a jetpack to my motormouth. “You know, about the length relating to the size of their—”

Griff erupts into a coughing fit.

I startle and hand him a cup of water. “I mean, maybe generally it does. But like, what if the man is a giant? I’m talking around the seven-foot mark.”

Griff drops his glass on the ground.

Perhaps some sugar will placate him. I measure out the licorice wheel to roughly the size of Frank’s feet and hold it up to Griff. “You dated that super-tall French guy, right? Can it be this long?”

I swear I see his eyes widen before he’s out like a light, snoring and all.

Lucky bugger. I wish I could fall asleep that fast.

Then the smell hits me. Oh, Griff! I open the window to let in some fresh air.

“Hi, Lisa, I’ve been hoping to see you,” Mabel calls from the doorway as the odor dissipates. “I wanted to thank you for those amazing headphones, they’ve really helped, and—” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Oops, sorry, I didn’t know your brother was asleep. Rob’s taking a nap too.”

I stand to give her a hug. “Griff is dozing more than ever these days, but usually in bed. Don’t worry about waking him, though. I came in on the weekend and couldn’t have roused him if I’d played the trumpet!”