Page 62 of When Lemons Give You Life

As I climb the steps, a rotten board gives way, and I almost fall through, catching my balance just in time. The young man’s eyes are glued to me, like he’s watching a slow-motion disaster. I slap on the biggest grin I can muster, give a thumbs-up and enter the pitch-black house. Something scuttles across the floor, and I swallow a yelp.

Setting the bags down, I flick on my phone torch. Mouse shit. Everywhere. Perfect. I snatch the groceries off the floor as the blessed crunch of tires signals the car pulling away. Thank god. But then, because the universe never misses a punch line, it starts to rain—slowly at first, then in fast smacking drops, like mock applause for my poor life choices.

I sigh and begin the arduous task of hauling the groceries through the fence and in through the window like a reverse burglar. They won’t fit in my bar fridge, so I exit the dementia ward and haul them to the walk-in refrigerator. What was I thinking? I can’t do this every week!

I’m on my third trip to the kitchen when I spy a wheelchair in the storage closet near my room. You little ripper! I load all the remaining bags onto it, before tossing a sheet from the linen closet on top, in case anyone comes by.

I’m halfway down the long hall when I run into an agency nurse. “Hello! What are you doing out of bed?” she says, checking an iPad. “I’ll take you back to the dementia ward. What’s that you’ve got there?”

My mind goes blank, perhaps from months of practice. But I can’t let her lift the sheet, so I break my usual silence. “I’m taking my baby for a walk,” I blurt.

She tilts her head, peering at the suspiciously lumpy bundle. “Oh! What a gorgeous baby you have!” she says in the play-along, make-believe tone of a Play School presenter commonly heard in this place.

I stretch my lips into what I hope is a smile but suspect is more of a taxidermy grimace.

She reaches for the sheet.

“Don’t touch my baby!”

“Okay, okay. Baby is safe. Why don’t we get you back to bed so you can rest, just like your little one?”

I press my lips together. With A-grade porterhouse in there, this food baby is about as precious as an infant. “I want to bring him.”

“How about I tuck you in, and I’ll look after him, okay?”

Absolutely not. But if I push too hard, she’ll get suspicious.

I let her guide me back to bed, relieved I hadn’t put Cliff there. The second she’s out of sight, I’m up, punching in the code to exit the dementia wing again.

She makes a beeline for the shopping then veers to the staff toilet.

I don’t have long. Power walking through the corridor, I duck into the five closest rooms, pressing call bells like a naughty kid hitting unnecessary buttons in an elevator. Then it’s a mad dash back to my sweet bundle of joy, shoving him down the hall and out of sight.

Peeking around the corner, I spot the poor nurse dashing from room to room, trying to figure out why half the South Wing is suddenly in distress. I shove the groceries into the fridge then tear open the goat cheese and pop a tart, creamy piece into my mouth. It’s divine. The residents have no idea what’s coming.

On my way to my room, I dump the wheelchair back in the closet.

“Oi!” calls the nurse. “How did you get out again, and where’s your baby?”

I glance at the empty hallway. Then at my slippers. “I ate my baby.”

She shrugs. “Well, better you than a dingo, hey?”

I keep a straight face and let her lead me to my room. I get changed, trading my damp pj’s for a dry Scotch, knowing that in a few hours I’ll be back to cook and feed my baby to everyone.

37

Lisa

I scream into a pillow so often that Beau bought me a designated scream cushion for my fortieth. It’s a custom-photo one with his big goofy face in an exaggerated howl. “So you never have to scream alone, Lis.” His warm voice echoes in my ears. What I wouldn’t do to hear it now. How can a house so full of stuff feel so empty? I throw the pillow onto my clothes-covered bed. There’s one easy way to gauge how close I am to someone: the state of my house when they arrive.

It’s a scientifically rigorous scale, ranging from “spotless and staged real estate listing” (one out of ten, we just met, and I’m pretending I have my life together) to “there’s a questionably clean sock on the kitchen counter, you walk in to find me in pajamas, surrounded by laundry piles I’ve given up on, and I don’t even apologize” (ten out of ten). Beau was my solitary ten. Even my oldest friends Helen and Tom only made it to a nine. Griff, despite having known me my whole life, has always been a two. He hates my mess, always saw it as laziness.

I pick up the cause of the most recent scream: a National Geographic Year in Review magazine addressed to Mr. Beau Barlow. The subscription wasn’t canceled when he died, and since Griff went into care, all their mail is being forwarded to me. I run my hands over his name. Someone out there believes Beau is alive, and I’m so jealous of that person it makes my whole body ache. When a person passes away, people think grief is about their absence. But no one talks about what it’s like to come across a footprint in a subscription, and be the one asked to erase it.

I go to throw out the magazine but decide Griff might like to look at the pictures. They used to love traveling together.

I arrive at the nursing home in a flustered mess, already running late for work. As I barrel through the automatic doors, I collide full-speed into someone, dropping the magazine.