Page 33 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Mum gave them to me. I wanted to bring them for the new job.”

“Of course you do.”

He looks at me then. Finally. “She told me to go. You know she did.”

“Yeah. Because she didn’t want you to feel guilty. Because that’s what she always did—let you off the hook. Just like when my dad left.”

He averts his gaze again. “You know he left for work.”

“So you and Mum keep saying.”

“You think this is easy for me?” His voice is harsh but wobbly.

“I think you’re good at disappearing when it’s convenient.”

He sets the knives on the counter, but his hand stays on the bundle. Like letting them go might make him accountable. “I don’t do well with endings,” he says, staring at my bottle of beer, eyes wide.

“No one does,” I snap. “You think I want to watch her slip away? But I’m doing it. And you—” My voice cracks. “You’re so far gone I can’t even see you anymore, even when you’re right in front of me.”

“You’ll be better at this than I ever could be,” he says, not making eye contact.

“I don’t want to be better. I just don’t want to do it alone.”

Silence settles between us. The kind that stretches years wide.

“I need to get back to—” he begins.

“Back where? What urgent booking are you missing, Griff? What parfait needs you more than I do?”

He turns away, his voice tight. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you from Paris.”

“Don’t bother.”

He picks up his bag. “Tell Mum that—”

“You tell her yourself,” I say. “She’s still breathing.”

He opens the door. Pauses. Looks back once. Then vanishes.

20

Griff

The lenja pita smells like a holiday; I can almost picture myself on the cobblestone streets of Belgrade. I never thought I’d have the chance to try any new cuisine in here; though I suppose the meat pie with a squirt of black vegemite and white mayonnaise, served one despicable day when the Magpies were in the preliminary football finals, was something new.

Gladys’s room is chock full of noisy relatives, including her granddaughters, who zip about like they’ve just had new batteries put in.

I knock softly on the ajar door. The sea of family parts to reveal Gladys and a stout balding man with hearing aids I assume to be Herb.

Gladys takes Herb’s face and gently feels the contours of his cheeks. It’s how she sees people now.

A memory of holding Beau’s face in the dark resurfaces, the one time I agreed to go camping. Okay, well, it may have technically been glamping, but there was no way I was digging a toilet. My fingers tingle as if they can still feel his stubbled face, his dancing eyebrows. Gladys is right: memories lie in the fingertips too.

“Who are you?” A young girl with long blond pigtails and a snotty nose pulls on my shirt.

“What have you got in the box? Is it a present? Is it for me?” says another identical girl.

I squint. Twins.