Page 3 of When Lemons Give You Life

I trip over a shoe, sloshing red liquid onto an open Cosmopolitan magazine. The headline screams up at me: “10 Signs You’ve Finally Got Your Life Together.” I break into a chuckle. At least my sense of humor is intact.

At the ripe old age of fifty-one, I now have a label for my brain. Yes, folks, Lisa’s chaotic life is brought to you by ADHD. Turns out it’s not just for hyperactive boys who can’t sit still in class: it also applies to impulsive, emotionally dysregulated women like me who feel excessive amounts of guilt and are locked in a perpetual game of hide-and-seek with their thoughts, time and possessions. Still, I like to think I keep track of what matters. I can tell when someone needs a hug or a pick-me-up doughnut. Passwords vanish. Shoes disappear. But people? They stick.

I give up on my phone and head to the kitchen to reheat my forgotten coffee, to find there’s already a cup in the microwave. Tossing it, I pop the new one in for a thirty-second zap, as a vibrating noise emanates from the cutlery drawer. My phone, screen cracked, leaps on top of the forks like a kid on a sugar high.

It’s the nursing home asking about contributing to their fundraiser.

“Okay, I’m visiting him this morning,” I tell them. “I’ll pop into the office. Also, would the residents like some new craft supplies? I noticed you were running low, and I’d love to make up a box for them. Yes? Okay, great.”

I hang up, my thoughts drifting. Should I have cared for my half-brother here instead? No. Forget tripping hazards, he’d drown in mismatched socks and Amazon parcels. So, I live alone. No husband, no kids, no boyfriend. Just me and a drawer full of spare greeting cards, bought in case someone needs cheering up.

Where would love even fit? Certainly not in my overflowing cupboards, or my volcanic laundry hamper with its constant eruption of dirty clothes. Not at my desk, crowded with five half-full water glasses, or in my garden shed, stacked with dried paint tins and homemade presents for friends that usually stall somewhere between idea and execution.

I head to the bathroom for a layer of makeup—armor for the day ahead. In the mirror, the polished version of me stares back. The one I hide behind. The one without ADHD. The one without the relentless inner critic I’ve named Ursula, after the tentacled sea witch from The Little Mermaid who gave me nightmares as a child and an unnatural fear of calamari.

I glance at the clock. Time to go if I want a decent visit to the home before work. I can’t be late—my first client is Harriet the bitch, who has the nerve to pass wind in front of me with no remorse. I’ll still offer her the nice biscuits, though.

“HEY, SIRI!”

“Uh-huh?” she answers from the top of the microwave.

My coffee is still in there. Lukewarm again.

Grabbing the phone, I notice a missed call from Tom. Must’ve been at least a year since we last spoke. He’s my oldest friend, but the calls have been less frequent ever since he so rudely ignored my pleas to stay and moved six hours away to Echuca. I make a mental note to call him tonight.

Starting the ignition of my Jeep, I crank up Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” and sing along at the top of my voice, throwing in some tragic shoulder moves for good measure. A fitting soundtrack to my life.

As I back out of the driveway, something shatters, brown liquid dribbling down the windscreen. Not the first time I’ve put my coffee on the roof of the car. I flick on the wipers, smearing my mistake across the glass, and drive into my blurry, loveless, slightly ridiculous future to visit Griff—a man who no longer remembers who I am, but who still matters to me more than I like to admit.

3

Lisa

Griff is scowling at Allison the manager when I arrive. His eyes ignite with the same youthful fury he had as a teenager. I can still hear his voice echo through our weatherboard home, sharp words crashing into the walls, always directed at my father. I’m sure he was the reason my dad left.

Poor Allison. He’s civil to the other staff, so why not her? I take in her dark-brown hair and green eyes, not unlike my own, and wonder if that’s why he hates her. If, somewhere in his fractured mind, he sees me instead.

“I’m so sorry!” I shoot her an apologetic glance. “He’s been getting worse lately.”

It’s times like these I feel the strongest pull to walk away, but duty’s hold is tight, and it keeps me here.

“Always a pleasure, Greg.” She rolls her eyes and steps toward the door, her voice dripping sarcasm over the gray linoleum.

I pour him some water. “C’mon, Ratbag. Cool your jets, bro. It’s me, Lisa.”

Allison doesn’t blink—the staff are used to me calling him that now, but it still feels odd, using a childhood nickname for someone who’s become a stranger.

His baby-blue eyes stare past me, blank and faraway. He hasn’t acknowledged me or spoken my name in weeks. The weight of everything left unsaid lingers in the silence. I’d taken time for granted, like air, always there, endless. I’d thought we would fix things eventually. But time evaporated, and I was left gasping for something already gone. I’m afraid that if he doesn’t forgive me, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.

I cast my eyes over his slumped shoulders, his sunken face and silver hair. All that’s left is a body now. But a body can’t forgive. That’s the cruelty of dementia: you lose the person and the chance for closure long before the end, unlike with other terminal illnesses such as cancer.

My heart sinks as I picture his husband, Beau, gaunt and in anguish. He was my best friend, the one person who really understood both of us. I came back into Griff’s life when Beau got sick, hoping to help. Then, maybe, Griff and I could fix . . . whatever the hell this is. But it was too late. One day I was his estranged sister, the next, a stranger.

I take a seat on the spare bed. Mercifully, Beau never had to see Griff like this—silent, unable to recognize his own family. It would’ve broken his giant heart.

I rummage in my handbag and pull out the Tupperware container of Anzac biscuits I baked for him. Mum’s recipe, of course. It’s the one thing I never have to look up. The steps just echo in the back of my mind, steady as ever: One cup oats, one cup flour, one cup coconut, two tablespoons of golden syrup . . .

Their warm buttery scent fills the air. Griff’s eyes light up, eyebrows hidden below the manky gray beanie that is eternally glued to his head. He grabs two at once. The nurse said he needs to cut down on sweets, but he’s already lost his memory. I don’t have the heart to take away sugar too. At least he hasn’t forgotten his first love: food.