Page 84 of When Lemons Give You Life

But there is one good difference today: I am not alone. Frank and I sit in the squeaky plastic chairs of the crowded waiting room; he doesn’t let go of my hand.

“Lisa Barlow?” a tall woman calls.

As Frank helps me onto the padded bench, the cramped ultrasound room spins. The sonographer makes small talk as she places the cold gel-covered probe on my rounded belly. I don’t hear any of it. I just stare at the screen, my mind eerily silent. I’m not trained, but I know exactly what I’m looking for. I’ve googled it more times than I can count. The technician has a good poker face, but the images send an icy chill down my whole body.

“We’ll get these scans off to your doctor this afternoon. Do you have a follow-up appointment?”

I nod, my mouth too dry to speak.

“Great. Well, I’ll leave you to get sorted. Come to the front desk when you’re ready.” She hands me some paper towel to wipe away the gel and exits, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The moment the latch clicks, the scaffolding holding my face together collapses. I clutch the paper towel in one hand, staring at the blank monitor, and then the tears come—fast, hot, uncontrollable.

Frank is beside me instantly, rubbing my back. “Oh, darling. You must be so worried about what the results might be.”

I shake my head, gasping through a sob. “No,” I manage. “I’m worried because I already know what they are.”

51

Griff

“So now you know everything,” I say.

Scotty exhales long and hard; the lie I’ve carried now sits in his hands.

“Please don’t out me, Scotty.” The words feel too close to the bone—like every other time I’ve begged the world to let me keep one piece of myself safe. “I finally feel like I belong somewhere again. I know what I’ve done is awful, but the food—it’s brought me back to life. It’s the only way I know how to give something back, to people who really need it. A kind of penance.”

He shifts, his arms crossed tight over his chest. He looks down then back at me. “I dunno, mate. This is . . . a lot. You’re lying to everyone.” He pauses. “But then I think about what you’ve done here. The joy you’ve brought to people . . . to me. And I don’t know if I’m more freaked out or impressed.”

A beat.

“What if you get caught?” he asks.

“Then I’ll take the fall, not you. You’ve seen the difference it’s making. With your help, we can do even more. At least give me one more shift.”

He hesitates, his jaw tight, eyes flicking to the door. “I need to think,” he mutters. He turns to leave but stops with his hand on the knob. “This doesn’t mean I’m okay with it,” he says without looking back. “But I’ll do it—one more shift.”

The pancetta sizzles the moment it hits the pan, its fat sighing into heat like breath against skin. I don’t rush it. Let it render. Let it speak. I tilt the handle just so, watching the golden oil pool and shimmer.

I drag my knife through the fresh fettuccine, handmade not an hour ago for this special lunch, dusted with a fine snow of semolina. The pot boils over with impatience. I salt the water and feed the ribbons in, coiling them around my fingers before I drop them. They sink, then rise. I stir once. Only once.

Scotty appears at my elbow, tentative, eager. “Got the cream!” he says, beaming.

“The what?”

“Cream, for the carbonara sauce.”

I turn slowly, take the tub from his hands and bat it down the far end of the countertop with a wooden spoon. “Absolutely not. If you want custard, go find a bakery. If you want carbonara, watch and learn.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

“So is prison. Which is where you’d end up if you served that travesty to an Italian.”

I let him separate the eggs into a bowl. Three yolks, no whites. I whisk in grated pecorino, sharp and salty, and a good grind of black pepper—coarse, fresh, with a rude little bite that wakes the tongue.

“Cream,” I mutter. “Bloody sacrilege.”

Scotty grins sheepishly.