Page 100 of When Lemons Give You Life

64

Griff

I spot Allison through the window, striding past with her usual businesslike march, a cheap wig covering her scarecrow hairdo. Instinctively, I tug my beanie lower over my ears and dip my head. I’m still in her bad books after the Haircut Incident—or at least Martin is. I told her the gum had done too much damage and that technically I hadn’t cut her hair so much as set it free. My last client was a chicken fillet, after all. She didn’t laugh. I’m shocked she didn’t fire me. Then again, she probably can’t afford to. She’s started doing tours on weekends so she doesn’t have to order in the special meals, as what’s being served is genuinely impressive.

As I get up to close the curtain, something sharp jabs into my heel. I bend down to survey the skirting board to find a bent bobby pin, clinging to a strand of dark hair. Classic Lisa—she trails the things like breadcrumbs. I set it on the table and notice the empty chair by the door. It’s still angled toward the bed, like she might walk back in any second and launch into a story about dog dandruff or confess that she’s killed yet another innocent pot plant. I frown as the silence clicks into focus.

How long has it been since she’s visited? Weeks? A month even? Silence is a sneaky bastard. Once it was my sanctuary, but now?

I hate that I notice. It’s not like I miss her or anything, and it’s easier for my new gig that she isn’t here. But I get the niggling feeling that something is up. The hard thing about faking dementia is I can’t exactly pick up the phone to ask her how she’s going. Unless, that is, it’s not me calling her . . .

I have always had a great knack for impersonations and voices. My David Attenborough was Beau’s favorite. I used to commentate while he was folding laundry, “And here we observe the Beau in the midst of an intricate courtship display—folding fitted sheets. A task few attempt, and fewer still survive unscathed.” He was in fits of laughter a few words in.

I scratch my chin, running through a mental Teledex of people who might ring her to check in. It has to be a man—my falsetto wouldn’t fool a toddler.

A face appears: her childhood best friend, Tom. He grew up next door, and they were attached at the hip until he moved to the country. I have no idea when they last spoke, but it’s worth a shot.

I wait until a respectable hour and turn off caller ID.

She answers on the third ring. “Hello, Lisa speaking.”

Something isn’t right; her voice is brittle.

“Hi, Care Bear,” I say, coating Tom’s nickname for her with an extra strong Aussie twang to match his.

“He-Man! I almost didn’t answer, thought it was a telemarketing call.”

“Yeah, calling from a different phone, left mine at work.” I hope she buys it.

“Boy, am I glad to hear your voice! I never called you back, did I? I’m sorry, it’s been far too long.”

“No worries, I’m just glad we can talk now. So how are you, Lis?”

“How long have you got?” She laughs then pauses. “You sound a bit different.”

I fake a cough. “Just getting over tonsilitis,” I say hurriedly.

“You had your tonsils out when you were ten. Remember all the honeycomb ice cream I smuggled into your room?”

“Ha! Yes, I was just testing you! I’ve got a bug. But I’m fine.” My hand tightens around the phone, ready to hang up.

“Oh, I hope it’s not Covid. I had that recently.”

I exhale. Covid could explain a long absence. “Poor thing, how are you now?”

Silence followed by a shaky breath and a muffled sniff. She’s crying. Has the giant man dumped her? An old brotherly reflex kicks in, protective and surprising. He’s pretty tall, but I think I could take him.

“I’ve got it, Tom,” she says. “I thought I didn’t, but I do.”

“Got what?” My mind races.

“What Mum died of. The kidney disease.”

The oxygen in the room evaporates, my throat closing around her words. She can’t have it. She’s too old. The risk has passed.

“Tom, are you still there?”

“What . . . are you sure?” I splutter.