Page 22 of When Lemons Give You Life

I glare at her, my eyeballs practically bursting. It’s do or die . . . or do and die in this case.

“It’d mean the world to me, to love him like that one last time. I don’t know that he’ll have another birthday with his bad heart and all, and—”

Whether by choice or sheer necessity, my mouth erupts, spurting pills and precious whisky in a spectacular fountain.

Fortunately Gladys only cops a small splatter in her hair. “Good gracious! What was that?” She raises her cane as if ready to beat away a dragon.

“Sorry, Gladys, um, just a sneeze.”

“The staff think I’m a fruitcake, as they tell me there is no new chef. But Rob’s sister Mabel swears she met him, and she’s a straight shooter. I thought maybe you’d heard of him, seeing as you used to be in the cooking game.”

“Um . . .” I lean forward to look out the door. Don’t want anyone eavesdropping. “Well, there sort of was . . . temporarily. He told me he was just here for a day though, so I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” Hopefully she’ll take the hint and toddle off.

“So you saw him? Do you know him?”

I glance beyond her at my reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. “Yeah . . . I know him. Pretty well actually, we go way back.”

Gladys leans closer. “Oh really! Is he a friend of yours?”

“Well . . . we used to work at the same place. I wouldn’t say ‘friend’ exactly.” Friends were people you liked.

“And you’re sure he’s not coming back?”

I stare at the pills scattered on the floor. Had she come in ten seconds later, the answer to that question would have been certain. But now . . . I don’t know. I’d been dead a long time before those tablets were in my mouth. Is coming back even a remote possibility?

I sigh. “When’s his birthday?”

Gladys smiles, revealing a toothy grin. “In two days, on Friday. He’s turning eighty-two. I’m eighty-seven, you know! I’m what they call a cradle-snatcher!” She chuckles. “I hate to ask, but seeing as you know the chef, do you think you could speak to him about it? I mean, I could ask my daughter to make something, but I want it to be a secret. I used to love planning surprises for the family. Nowadays, when you have a disability like me and need help to go to the toilet, you can’t even take a surprise bowel movement.”

My common sense would tell me to walk away; pity it retired before I did. I try to summon a hard no, the kind I used like salt in the kitchen. It sticks somewhere between my chest and throat. “Maybe,” I say. “I doubt he’d do it, though.”

Her face falls.

I lean back, my arms crossed. Guess I could take a rain check—a death check, as it were. I’ve waited this long. What do another couple of days matter? I know I’ll regret what I’m about to say, yet I hear myself saying it anyway. “Maybe I could twist his arm. Friday, hey?”

The old woman claps her hands in delight. “Thank you! It’ll be the next best thing to cooking it myself.” A luminous smile lights her face, and the years etched into her skin seem to loosen their grip. “Gosh, I miss it. What I wouldn’t do for one more day in the kitchen. I knew when I moved into care that was it. A part of me disappeared when I walked through these doors. I don’t suppose I could . . .” Her face sinks back, the skin heavy with sadness. “Never mind, who am I kidding?” She takes a step toward the door.

It’s not the first time a woman has asked to cook with me. How many times did I say no to little Lisa and her pigtail braids?

An ill-fitting feeling catches me off guard. I try to ignore it, to not let it topple me, yet it snatches my breath because it has Beau written all over it, his influence on me. I thought it died when he did. Bloody kindness. I press my lips together, like well-sealed tortellini. But there’s a hole, and the unwilling filling comes spilling out. “Gladys . . .”

She turns around.

“That chef, he’s been known to let residents cook with him on occasion.”

She claps her hand over her mouth. “You’re not serious! I mean, do you think he would let me? Even though I’m blind and—”

“I’m pretty sure. However, as I said, he’s not rostered on, so he may have to make the cake at an unusual hour when the kitchen is available. I’ll ask him to come in tomorrow night to wake you . . . ?”

“Absolutely. I can sleep when I’m dead! Let me cook when I’m alive.”

Her words hit hard.

She approaches me with outstretched arms, lips puckering. Why, Gladys, why? I blink as my eyes focus on her. Holy shit! A few sleeping tablets are stuck in her hair, dangling like sheep-dags. The Scotch must have acted like glue. I lean back to avoid the kiss while trying to pluck the tablets away. But she’s too fast, and the sloppy smooch lands on my cheek. “You taste like whisky,” she titters, and with a tap of her cane, she’s off. She pauses at the doorway, her right hand reaching upwards. “Ooh, dear me, I’ve still got some Rice Bubbles in my hair from breakfast! I’m a bit of a messy eater these days.”

I try to form the word “no” as I leap from my chair.

Before I can say anything, she’s detached three of the pills and swallowed them.