Page 47 of When Lemons Give You Life

I stare at the fingertips dangling below the white sheet and hang my head. Poor Walt, aka Lisa’s “grandbrother,” was an amputee from his time in Vietnam and had the most amazing prosthetic arm. It even came with a flesh-like silicone hand. The first time he popped it off, it scared the bejesus out of me.

I squint at the fingers but am not quick enough to identify if they are his real or fake ones. I bet this is how the judges feel on the cooking show Is It Cake?, trying to decipher whether each contestant’s creation is a real object or a hyper-realistic dessert disguised under layers of fondant.

“I’m afraid our policy means your father can’t be cremated with the prosthetic arm,” a softly spoken funeral director says to Walt’s daughter. “Would you like to keep it?”

“No.” She sobs. “It’d be too strange. Can someone dispose of it for me, please? It’s still in his room.”

“No problem, madam.”

I glance at the lumpy pillows I used as an alibi under my sheet, an idea coming to the boil. The gurney moves on, and I don’t waste my chance. Dashing to Walt’s room, I find the arm under the bed—my favorite hiding place as a teen. The thing even has hair and veins!

Footsteps approach. It’s now or never.

I grab it, stuff it under my jumper and head to the door. Act casual. Easier said than done, with a metal socket sticking into my clavicle.

“Look, Mum, isn’t this a lovely place? You’d be so happy here!” A man with a fake tan and faker smile beams at an elderly woman, who clearly knows she’s being lied to. “Gosh! The bedrooms are a good size, aren’t they?” he says, as though talking to a toddler.

At what point does a child begin to treat a parent like they’re the kid? Is there a magic age when the two switch places? Is it seventy? Eighty? Or does it change when the parent’s hair turns completely gray?

“Oooh, Mum! They even have a knitting group! You can probably bring your own needles.”

Her expression says exactly where she’d like him to stick those needles.

Lisa and I bought the lies these poor people have no doubt been fed on the initial tour. Should I tell them that meaningful activities here are about as real as Big Foot’s arse? Or should I, a native of this micro-city, provide translations for them?

Musical Mondays: sit and listen to a crackly radio.

Travel Tuesdays: watch a travel documentary. (This wouldn’t be too bad if they didn’t have just one DVD. As much as I love Italy, there are only so many times one can see the Leaning Tower of Pisa until one’s brain starts to tilt itself.)

Wacky Wednesdays: have a sparkly hat forced onto your unwilling head during kindergarten craft.

Thirsty Thursdays: drink warm shandies or “mimosas” made from Tang and cask wine.

Fun Fridays: play board games. (But the only game is Scrabble, and all the vowels are missing because Winifred, the oldest resident, gobbled the lot.)

Sleepy Saturdays: be allowed to sleep in. (As in, the staff have an excuse to be more negligent and not get us out of bed until nine.)

Spiritual Sundays: be able to attend one of the religious services offered by the chapel, which even gets its own new brochure, showing Gladys standing next to a priest and a gentleman in a turban. (That would be all well and good, except I was there when the photo was taken and know that the priest is just poor Rob, whom they dressed in a black shirt and white clerical collar, and the gentleman is Raj, the friendly Sikh who delivers the incontinence pads.)

The one real activity is listening to that new guitarist.

“No, Mum,” the son chides, “the other residents are not perverts. I’m sure they’re all lovely. Look, there’s a nice chap.”

I freeze as they approach.

Their smiles fall away as their eyes catch on my belt area.

“Please, please don’t make me live here!” the woman cries, dragging her aghast son away. “I told you this place is full of unsavory characters!”

I glance down. The fake hand is poking out of my jumper and clutching my crotch. Bloody hell.

I stumble to my room in fits of laughter. Beau would have been in hysterics.

No sooner do I start to shut the door than Patricia, the resident flirt, swans in without warning, a skin-tight dress clinging to her meager frame. Gladys told me she got kicked out of her nursing home up north for indecent behavior. I don’t believe she has dementia, but she was stuck on this ward after a spectacular escape—they eventually found her in a five-star hotel in the city, sharing cocktails with a gentleman friend.

“Hello, handsome!” she purrs. “Oooh! I was about to ask you if you need a hand with anything, but I can see you’ve got things covered!”

I frown, then realize Walt’s fake hand is still on my groin.