Page 34 of When Lemons Give You Life

“No, silly, I was born before you! That means I get the present!” the first says in a tone that only ambulance sirens should use.

“No way! You just got that breathing koala toy to help you sleep because you’re a baby!”

“I’m not a baby! I told Mum I don’t want the stupid thing,” she shouts, flinging a gray stuffed animal into Gladys’s laundry hamper. “I’d rather the present.”

“Hello!” A blond middle-aged woman, who must be Gladys’s daughter and the mum of the brats, steps forward. “Are you lost?”

“No . . . I’m a tart. I mean, I’m bringing Herb a tart.”

Her eyes narrow, and she puts a protective arm over the twins.

Maybe I should have donned the chef whites again, but I didn’t want to risk being caught in them.

Gladys pipes up from her chair. “Griff! Tina, love, it’s okay. He’s delivering the cake for Herb’s birthday.”

I open the box just enough to clarify that I’ve brought the apple tart and not one from the red-light district. Her shoulders relax as she takes the cake and places it in front of Herb. The four blue eyes of the twins widen at the sight, their grubby little fingers scrunching in and out in anticipation.

“Now, Tina, you can take that Costco mud cake back home, thank you very much! I told you I’d take care of it,” Gladys chides.

Tina’s face colors as she shoves a plastic bag to the side.

Herb, who has the unfortunate appearance of a constipated pug dog, transforms as he opens the lid. He now looks like . . . well, still a pug dog, but one that’s had a generous snort of cocaine. “Gladdy!” he yells in excitement. “It’s not . . . how . . . where did you get this from?”

A smug smile creeps onto the old woman’s face. “Yes, Herb. It’s lenja pita!”

“Where on earth did you find a Serbian baker?”

Gladys points to herself with both thumbs, pride radiating from her crinkled skin.

“What, you made it?” Tina and Herb cry in unison.

“Yep. I had a chef help me.” She shoots a wink in my direction, quite amazing given her lack of sight.

“They let her use the kitchen?” Tina asks.

“Something like that,” I mumble.

“It’s a new cooking activity, isn’t it, Griff? I plan to go every week, as long as the new chef sticks around.”

“The staff turnaround rates here are shocking, Mum. I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Nah. I have a feeling this one wants to stay. It was the highlight of my year, you know, cooking with him.”

My eyes sting. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be needed, wanted even.

“Well, it looks delicious, Mum! I’m impressed.” Tina sticks some gold candles in and lights them. She glances up at the smoke detector. “Technically I don’t think we are supposed to light these, but you only get to be eighty-two once, right?”

Or not at all. Beau didn’t even live to see his sixties. Odd that we fear aging, forgetting how lucky we are to even get the chance.

Everyone joins in a round of “Happy Birthday,” and I take in the happy sight. Gladys has lost so much, yet here she is as happy as a clam.

After three deafening cheers of “Hip Hip Hooray!” Herb plunges a plastic knife into the cake and wiggles it in unison with his bottom. “Gotta make sure it comes out dirty so I can give the nearest girl a kiss.” He grins, his eyes disappearing under a sea of wrinkles.

Sure enough, it emerges coated in thick meringue. He cups Gladys’s face in his hands and gives her a long, loud smooch reminiscent of the sound of water draining from a bath. She claps her hands together. “C’mon, Herbie! Taste it!”

He carves off a generous slice, takes one bite and stops dead, staring at Gladys for such a length of time I start wondering if he’s croaked or having an absent seizure. Then, just like that, he bursts into tears.

“Oh!” says Gladys, her lip now wobbling like the perfect panna cotta. “It’s not bad, is it, Herbie?”