Page 49 of When Lemons Give You Life

The brass buckles make a familiar click as I snap them open. I remove Beau’s Dictaphone and a bunch of old and new cassette tapes. He was a wonderful teacher and often practiced by recording his lessons beforehand, wanting to give his best to the students, as he did to everyone in his life. Sometimes I listen to the old tapes just to hear his voice. I never get very far, though; my eardrums handle grief even less well than my heart does. But I can’t resist right now, and I hit play.

“Can anyone tell me why the equal sign was so humble? No? Because it knew it wasn’t less than or greater than anyone else! Pause for laughter.” He chuckles at his own joke.

I slap my forehead. Beau’s corniness knew no limits, but his students loved him for it.

“Today we’ll be learning about—”

I cut it off. I must focus on the task at hand.

Unwrapping a new cassette, I hit record and give my best snoring impression. I’m good at it and have a scar on my right ankle to prove it from when Beau accidentally kicked me in bed with a toenail so sharp it almost julienned my calf. I consider the length of the kitchen shifts; I’ll need at least three hours of this to be on the safe side. I fake-snore in blocks at a time, breaking for the toilet, water and Teddy Bear biscuits. Finally, I have enough.

The tape finishes rewinding just as someone knocks on the door. “He’s probably asleep, but better double-check.”

It’s Cliff’s time to shine—an earlier gig than planned, but a great chance to see if he’s up to the task. I switch on the koala toy and roll under the bed, hitting play as an agency carer enters the room.

“Yep! He’s asleep. At least that’s one less we have to help.”

I sigh. Insufferable place.

The door creaks closed, and I emerge and shake the hand formerly known as Walt’s. “Congrats, Cliff, mate. You’ve got the job! I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

To celebrate, I grab a permanent marker and draw eyes and a crooked smile on Cliff’s face. He should be happy; maybe I should be too. I’m not there yet. But now it doesn’t feel like a complete impossibility.

30

Lisa

My brain races all night. I finally fall asleep around two and wake up at . . . Does the clock really say 9:15 a.m.? Picking up my phone, I scroll through my insane smattering of alarms: 6:59, 7:01, 7:12, 7:14 a.m. Beau’s the sole person who’s seen this. Apparently, it’s not normal to have seventy-two. The only one set is 7 p.m.! A cold rush shoots through my chest. Frank is coming over!

I will have to cancel our date—there is no way I can get organized in time. Why did I procrastinate all weekend?

I lie in bed and think up a list of decent reasons to pull out.

I’m sick. The go-to easiest excuse. But what if he still insists on coming over to make me soup? Gastro! I’ll tell him it’s a stomach bug. No one plays Florence Nightingale when bodily functions are involved. But I don’t want his mental image of me to be entirely digestive. Next.

I got called into work. An urgent dog wash is needed. Urgent? I bury my hands in my face. My brain is chasing its tail. Next.

My cat died. That’s pretty good, actually! He doesn’t know that I don’t have a cat, and it’s not like he’d expect to see the dead body . . . would he? But maybe he’d think it was strange if I had no photos of my pet when he does eventually come over.

I jump onto my iPad, choose a half-decent shot of me, hit the Hollywood filter, then slap on a picture of the least scary-looking cat from Google Images. I hit print and stick it on the fridge with a Hello Kitty magnet, although a Goodbye Kitty magnet would have been more appropriate in this case. I step back to admire my handiwork. It’s not good, I look like a supervillain who’s gone too heavy on the lip fillers.

I glance at the time and jump out of my skin. I’ve been looking at freaking felines for over two hours!

It’s too late to cancel now; he’ll be here in thirty minutes. I somehow have to clean and make myself look decent. I’m going to have to “garbage-bag” it, my term for the rapid-tidy. I turn my Mary Poppins figurine to face the wall; she doesn’t need to see this.

Grabbing a bin bag, I race around the room and chuck in everything from the floor. Odd socks, a pile of letters—oh, there’s my earrings I’ve been looking for! Well, one earring.

“Hey, Siri, what’s the time?”

“Eleven forty a.m.,” she mumbles from the garbage bag.

I fish out the phone and sprint to the bathroom, which also looks like it’s been ransacked. What are the chances he’ll need to use the toilet while he’s here? What if I just don’t give him any water?

I take in my sweaty face and messy hair and google “one-minute transformative makeup application guide” on YouTube, but even that will take too long. I grab the can of deodorant and liberally spray my armpits, groin and neck. The scent rams up my nostrils . . . Where have I smelled that before? I take a second look at the can. Bloody hell! It’s Glen 20 Country Scent air freshener! Now I will remind my date of the smell that attempts to mask a number two.

The doorbell rings. The garbage bag of crap is still on the floor. Scanning the room for a place to hide the evidence, I catch my reflection in the oven door . . . perfect! My cooking skills aren’t great, yet even I know you don’t need an oven for laksa. It’s a tight squeeze, but I manage to squish the bag inside before I race to let Frank in.

“Hello,” I say, willing my pores to keep their sweat to themselves.