Page 102 of When Lemons Give You Life

The door creaks open. “Phone’s about to die,” I blurt, hitting the mute button. Dayna pokes her head in with a student nurse.

Our mum used to say if you forget the lyrics in choir, just mouth the words “rhubarb and custard.” Supposedly, it covers a multitude of sins. But mouthing’s not for emergencies.

“Rhubarb and custard, rhubarb and custard!” I sing in my drunkest voice, rocking back and forth.

Dayna grins. “Hello, Griff!”

I hang up. Bugger. If Lisa rings the real Tom now, I’m screwed. She’s never been great at calling people back though, and hopefully he’s off mustering cattle or whatever country people do.

“His phone isn’t connected, but he likes to pretend to make calls every now and then—no harm in it. Doesn’t usually talk much these days anyway,” Dayna explains to the student nurse as she straps the blood pressure cuff on. “Pressure’s a bit high today, mister,” she says as they leave. “I’m going to keep an eye on that.”

My head drops into my hands, too heavy to hold up. Lisa needs me. A part of me, at least. And I’ve locked myself into a lie so tight I can barely exhale without bursting the seams.

I need to find out more.

“Okay, so I just talked to Lisa,” Scotty says. “Pretended I was calling about more dog-walking work. She mentioned she’s taking leave from the salon to focus on her health. So I asked a bit more. Thought she might get suspicious with all my questions, but she just seemed . . . relieved. Like she needed someone to talk to. We ended up speaking for almost an hour.”

I nod; Lisa is one of those people who it’s impossible to end a conversation with, and she’s always been an oversharer, especially when it comes to medical matters.

“So how is she?” I brace for impact.

“She’s not good. Starting dialysis in a week at St. Mary’s. She’s a rare type, definitely the same as your mum. I even offered to get tested. She was hesitant at first but sent me a photo of her results. I already know I’m the wrong blood type, otherwise I would’ve been happy to.”

A lump forms in my throat. “That’s . . . incredibly generous, mate. I don’t know what to say.”

He smiles and shows me the photo.

“She said they’ve been told people can live for years on dialysis.”

I lower my head between my knees. “They can, but it’s no picnic, especially for someone with so much left to give, who may have just found the love of her life.”

Scotty sits on the edge of the bed. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. If she finds out I’ve been lying all this time, it’ll break her. I already walked out on her once.” I pause, staring at my hands, veined and knotted. A chef’s hands. A coward’s hands. “It’ll destroy me too. Everything I’ve built. My entire legacy. The restaurant, the staff, they all know about my diagnosis. The whole cooking world does.”

The food-poisoning incident had been unfortunate, but things had settled and I still went down as one of the greats. People continue to rave about my recipes online. My dementia diagnosis probably even earned sympathy. A soft, dignified exit.

What if I just stay the course? Keep my story intact, keep a job I’ve grown to love, this strange little life I’ve built from scraps. I’d never have to confess to the world that I faked dementia. Once the press gets wind of that, there’s not a restaurant in the country that would have me on. Who would want to eat the food of a fraud? If I want to work in a kitchen, Sunny Glen is my only option. No one has discovered me here yet; I could potentially go on for months, even years. Perhaps Lisa will get lucky, and they’ll find an alternative donor. But if they don’t, if she dies . . . I would have to live with that. Knowing I could’ve stepped in. That I had the power to save her and didn’t. They say there is time, but what if she has sudden complications like Mum?

I pull out the Polaroid. The child I read Mum’s Anzac recipe to. The girl who was oblivious to how her father treated me. The woman who fell in love with my husband.

And there it is—the jagged thing I pretend I’ve sanded down. The kiss, the public humiliation, wasn’t just betrayal, it was confirmation. Proof that the punishment hadn’t ended.

Brent told me Dad’s death was my fault and that Lisa and he were the dark-haired, green-eyed price. Constant reminders of everything I broke. I believed I deserved everything he brought into our home. Yet she never saw it. Never understood the words he spat at me, the names that hit harder than his fists. Sometimes I burn with fury at her blindness—how could she not know? But then I remember: I was the one who hid it. I shut doors, raised my voice, blocked her path so she’d never hear the worst of it. I wanted her to be spared, and now I can’t stand that she was.

I told myself I resented Lisa, convinced myself I needed to erase her, to shrink her down to a version I could tolerate. But the truth is, I didn’t hate her, not really. If I couldn’t see her, I didn’t have to see myself. The parts of me I detested; the ones I held responsible. I’ve spent months being invisible—ignored, dismissed, spoken over like I’m not there, like I have no abilities. It makes me doubt I was ever real.

I did that to her. I let her believe she was the problem. Let her carry the blame, because it was easier than carrying my own. And still, she showed up, even when I didn’t.

65

Griff (age 63)

September 2023

The precious red cup can barely fit 250 milliliters of water, yet it holds the weight of everything I’m about to lose. It’s not special because of the way it looks—chipped glaze, scratches from half a dozen moves—but because of what it’s held for over twenty years: two toothbrushes.

My knuckles turn white as they grip the handbasin, eyes bloodshot, face drawn.