Page 77 of When Lemons Give You Life

As we settle on the couch that night, Beau scrolls through the streaming menu, landing triumphantly on the second Avatar. I groan. We’ve already seen it twice at the cinema, and I’m pretty sure he and Lisa saw it at the drive-in too.

Beau pumps a fist in the air. “I told you they’d make another one! Apparently it’s even better than the original!”

I rub a thumb over my knuckles. Beau never forgets movies. He has an uncanny knack for knowing actors and pinpointing where we’ve seen them before. Me? I don’t think I’d recognize Nicolas Cage if he were my new urologist, and I’m lucky if I can stay awake until the end. But even I know we’ve seen this. We never expected them to make a sequel, and it’s not the kind of cinematic magic you forget.

As the title flashes on the screen, I set down my grilled Gruyère sourdough. A heavy sense of foreboding sits with me through the whole movie; I can’t see past it. I grip Beau’s hand tightly and don’t let go.

That’s the start of many things over the coming weeks. I find his keys in the oven. His toothbrush in the dishwasher. He forgets the name of Django Reinhardt—his all-time favorite jazz guitarist. The school calls, telling me he’s been acting strangely. I google “memory loss.” It could be a virus. A treatable brain tumor. It moves so fast I have whiplash.

The day I find him searching frantically for our lost dog is the day I call the GP. We don’t have a dog.

Dr. Lorne apologizes for the cold, muttering something about a broken heater, but I don’t feel it. I can’t feel anything. He asks when the memory loss began.

I tell him about the tea bags. For a while I thought that was the start.

But as I sit there, I think back further. The picnic. The strawberries he was sure we’d packed, the conversation he forgot. The sunscreen name that slipped his tongue. The odd socks he wore to work one day. Little things I brushed off, strung out over months.

Next is the Mini-Mental State Examination. Though it annoys Beau, I come prepared with my notebook. I always like to write things down; maybe it’s all those years in the kitchen, taking notes in culinary school and developing recipes.

Dr. Lorne clicks his pen. “So, can you tell me what year it is?”

Beau’s eyes light up. “Twenty twenty-two.”

Thank god.

“What season is it?”

Beau looks at his fingerless gloves. “Winter.”

Tick.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Saturday.”

Strike one.

It’s Wednesday, but we’ve taken the day off work to come, so no wonder he thinks it’s the weekend.

“Now,” Dr. Lorne continues, “I’m going to name three objects. Repeat them after me, and later I’ll ask you what they are, okay?”

A wave of nausea hits. This feels like a test for kindergartners.

“Apple, pen, window,” the GP says slowly.

Beau repeats them perfectly. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“Now, I’d like you to count backward from a hundred by fives.”

“One hundred, ninety-five, ninety . . .” Then he stalls. Mouth half-open, brow furrowed. Like the numbers have fallen out of his reach.

“You’re doing great,” the doctor says gently.

Beau flashes him a lopsided grin. “Sorry, doc, must be time for my afternoon espresso, I reckon!”

“Can you go any further, mate?”

Beau reaches for my hand. He’s a math teacher at the local high school, making what is already a blow into a sucker punch. This is a man who can do Sudoku in his sleep.