Page 4 of When Lemons Give You Life

Crumbs tumble from his mouth, scattering across his cardigan like confetti.

There are so many things I want from him: the secret ingredient in his chocolate cake, his trick for cracking eggs one-handed, his approval. But they’re locked away in a mind that no longer remembers. Still, I keep coming, clinging to the faint hope that somehow, this will mean something.

I shake off the thought and decide to show Griff the angry-looking army of skin tags on my shoulder. Probably should see a doctor, but that feels dramatic, and I’m too embarrassed to show my friend Helen, who already thinks I’m a hypochondriac. Right now, I just need a second opinion from someone who won’t overreact, or indeed react at all. I roll up my sleeve and shove my arm under Griff’s nose. “Am I imagining it, or does this look infected?”

His eye twitches.

“I think it’s a rash,” I continue, twisting my arm. “Or maybe some kind of weird flesh-eating bacteria. Unlikely to be contagious, but you never know.”

His nostrils flare, fingers tightening slightly on the armrest, eyes still staring straight ahead.

“See? This is why I come to you. No unnecessary panic or theatrical gagging noises. Alright, I’ll google it. Again. But if I go down a WebMD spiral and convince myself I’m dying, just know this is partly your fault.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Time for a distraction. Scanning the schedule, I’m shocked to see a new activity for New Year’s Eve: “Fandango with Frank.” The chances of getting Griff to attend are similar to those of trying to move a rhinoceros with a lead brick up his arse, but I try anyway.

Miraculously, he comes without protest. Likely to escape Allison, who has reappeared with a bewildered maintenance man trailing behind. “I don’t care what your job description says!” she barks. “Toilets won’t clean themselves.”

Beautiful string notes ripple down the hall. It must be a recording to be that good, in a place like this. But then I spot an actual musician. Though the staff assured us of their existence on our tour of Sunny Glen, I haven’t seen one until now.

An extremely tall, lanky man is perched on a bar stool. His graying red hair hangs in a thin, uneven mop above his glasses. I swear I hear multiple players, yet it’s just him. His long fingers blur across the guitar strings, but I still try to spot a ring.

Why is it that whenever I see a man my age, I immediately picture us together and wonder if he could finally be “the one”? I always thought that by the time I hit fifty, the wanting would fade, that the urge to find someone would shrink along with my chances. But no. My body may have closed up shop for childbearing, but I’m not sure my heart will ever get the memo.

I scan the sea of gray heads. Will I still be doing this at eighty? Imagining someone to sit with, someone to knit scarves for, somebody who laughs at the same silly TV shows?

The musician looks up. His gray eyes smile, meeting mine, and I feel my cheeks color.

I quickly find seats in the back row. The melody washes over us, dipping into joy then sorrow and back to joy again. And for that half hour I feel peace. It finishes all too soon, and I join in with the residents’ applause.

Mr. Tall beams. “Thanks, everyone! It’s been lovely to be with you today. I’ll be back again soon.”

“Ready to go, Griff?” I ask.

My brother doesn’t move; his gaze is fixed on the window, the damp glass blurred by rain. His eyes catch the light, a sheen that looks dangerously like emotion. My throat tightens. Beau was a brilliant violist—Griff must hear him in the music.

As I help him shuffle toward the door, I steal a glance at the musician, who’s easing his guitar back into its case.

“Hi,” I venture as we pass.

He startles slightly, then blinks down at me. “Oh, hello!” His voice is deep but hesitant. “Sorry, I—I didn’t mean to be in the way.”

“You’re not. Your music was beautiful.”

His face blooms crimson as he fiddles with the latch on his case. “Thank you. I . . . I sometimes get a bit carried away. I hope it wasn’t too loud for you and your dad.”

I get a mild kick out of that. It’s a common misconception because of our thirteen-year age gap and my youthful skin, one thing I was happy to inherit from Mum. “He’s actually my half-brother.”

The guitarist nods quickly. “Right. Of course. Sorry . . . No offense, mate.”

“He has early-onset Alzheimer’s. He won’t take offense. I loved your take on the Beatles.”

His blush deepens as he removes glasses that haven’t been in style since the 1970s. “Thank you. The music in these places often gets stuck too far in the past. At the last facility, they were still playing the old war songs even though that would have been from the generation before.”

“Yeah, it’s the same with movies here too. Not everyone wants to watch Easter Parade.”

He throws his head back and laughs generously, and his whole face changes. Well, what I can see of it from a foot and a half below.

“The old activities coordinator even forced the residents to make Easter bonnets last year. Who even wears bonnets anymore?” I scrunch my eyes tight, picturing the photo I have of Griff, the very definition of curmudgeonly, in a straw hat with a sunflower as droopy and dry as he is. Was it wrong that I framed it and put it in pride of place in my living room?