Page 32 of When Lemons Give You Life

I don’t normally look at my wee. Well, I haven’t for over a decade anyway. I’m not a weirdo or anything. But the flush button isn’t working, and when I try it the second time, I’m sure I see a hint of pink where there should be yellow. My breath catches in my chest.

I inhale slowly, chanting the words of Dr. Penn like a mantra in my head. If I had it, it would show up before I was forty. If I had it, it would show up before I was forty.

It’s probably just a UTI, I tell my brain. But my heart doesn’t listen. The image of Mum’s pink wee and the beep of her dialysis machine turn my legs to jelly. Her constant nausea. The bone-deep fatigue and puffy, swollen ankles. The breathlessness that made even a few steps a struggle.

I lean against the sink. We watched her endure dialysis, kidney failure and, eventually, death. She had a rare kidney type and never found a donor before complications set in. Griff, nearly forty and free of cysts, was cleared to be tested but wasn’t a match. I was too young, still at risk of inheriting the disease myself.

We had a fifty-fifty chance that it would be passed down. Being significantly older, he’s been in the clear for ages. It was only about ten years ago that I finally believed I didn’t inherit it. The specialist said the signs usually appear in your thirties, and all my ultrasounds had been fine.

My life revolved around those scans, my mind darting to worst-case scenarios. It wasn’t logical, but in the days leading up to each checkup, I’d be racked with anxiety to the point of not being able to get out of bed, so worried about dying that I had forgotten how to live. After the last one, Beau and Helen threw me a celebration. I was too ashamed to tell them I’d forgotten to set my alarm and missed the appointment. I meant to rebook, but days slipped into weeks, and suddenly it just never happened. Still, I felt better than I had in years and assumed the risk was over.

My hands shake as I twist the tap, holding my wrists under the cold stream. I hoped stopping the scans and fretting over my health would give me space to find a man. It didn’t. I dated a few guys over the years, but I’ve never been able to fully invest. These were men who were looking to settle down and have kids. The thought of being a mum petrifies me. I don’t know what terrifies me more: the idea of being responsible for another human being when I could barely look after myself, or the fact that I could be a carrier and pass down this disease. In every relationship, I wore a mask—often several. I had more disguises than a Comic-Con lineup. I hid my fear of getting sick, said nothing about the ADHD I didn’t yet have a name for, and slipped into the role of the other Lisa—the one who passes for normal.

I sit on the edge of the cool bath, burying my head in my hands. What does it matter now anyway? Forget about Frank. No one will want to take this on.

Unless . . . could it be the red smoothies? Asparagus could make your wee smell bad, could beetroot color it? I quickly google and an article appears. Sure enough, beetroot can turn your wee pink! That’s got to be it, right? I scroll further. UTIs, cancer and kidney disease could be it too. The article turns blurry as an uneasy feeling settles in my chest. I have to be sensible. My hands tremble as I type in the GP’s website and make an appointment.

I can’t get in until next week. But that’s more than fine with me. Maybe my wee will turn yellow again, and I can cancel it. “If I had it, it would show up before I was forty . . .” But no matter how many times I say that to myself, I don’t believe it.

I stand, open the lid, and try the half-flush button. It miraculously works. Out of sight out of mind? Not for me. Sleep will be im-possible now.

Jumping into bed, I scroll Insta on my phone. My oldest friend Tom said he doesn’t believe that our phones are listening to us, but if the first three items in my feed aren’t proof, I don’t know what is: an ad for a step stool, a recipe for beetroot cake, and an article on the national shortage of kidney donors.

19

Lisa (age 25)

February 1999

I rinse Mum’s plastic pill organizer, scrubbing the Monday slot like its cleanliness will influence her ability to live until then. The doctors say we have seventy-two hours at best. If only Griff had been a match. I take a swig of pale ale, trying to drown out the grief.

The front door creaks, and I turn around, eyes pricking with anticipated tears. “Tom, is that you?” He said he’d drop by with chocolate ice cream and a hug; I don’t know which I need more.

But the footsteps are too slow, too measured.

“Griff?!” I gasp, setting eyes on my brother, who was meant to be on his way to the airport. “You’ve come back?” Dare I hope he’s changed his mind and isn’t leaving me to deal with Mum’s death alone?

“I left something behind.” He stands in the doorway, black jeans and charcoal jumper neat and deliberate as always.

I long for him to say it’s me—that he’s forgotten me all his life and now, finally, he’s going to stay. That he wants to stay for my sake. Some stupid part of me still thinks if I say the right thing, act the right way, he’ll change his mind. That he’ll look at me and see someone worth hanging around for.

But he heads straight past me for the tallboy, pulling a box from the top drawer.

“So, you’re still going then, to Paris?” I ask, my fingers white-knuckled around the sponge.

He nods without looking at me. “Flight’s in a few hours.”

“You were supposed to visit her again.”

“I did. Yesterday.”

“She’s still alive, Griff.”

“I said goodbye.” His voice catches. He reaches for his case of spare chef knives, but his hand falters at the shelf.

My sponge hits the sink with a wet slap. Of course. That’s all he came for: his old knives. Not Mum. Not me.

“Wow. You’re really something, you know that?” I say. “You came all the way back from the airport . . . for knives. You may as well stick one in my back on the way out.”