Page 5 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Funny to think they’ll be playing Taylor Swift in here one day, isn’t it?” he muses.

I giggle, trying to envision centenarians grooving to “Shake It Off.”

“I’m Frank, by the way.” He extends his hand; my arms tingle as I feel the calluses on his fingertips.

“Lisa. Nice to meet you.”

“Do you visit often?”

“As often as I can. I’m all he’s got.”

“Oh, no wife or kids?”

Beau’s beautiful smile pops into mind. “His husband passed away. They never had children. His friends stopped visiting after his diagnosis, and there weren’t many of them to begin with. So I come every other day. It’s the least I can do.”

Frank slides his glasses back on, magnifying the compassion in his ashen eyes. “That must be heavy sometimes . . . ?”

I frown, taken aback by his candor. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“My dad had brain cancer. I was his sole carer for years before he passed, after my brother stopped visiting. So yeah. I know what heavy feels like.” He looks out the window at the rain, as though the memory is taking place on the other side of the wet glass.

Two older women shuffle past and shower him with so many compliments I half expect to see him drenched through. He thanks them warmly, even cracks a joke I can’t quite hear. Completely at ease.

But when he turns back to me, the bumbling awkwardness returns. “Anyway, if you, um, ever need anyone to vent to or help carry the load, I’ll . . . be here. Well, not here exactly, per se, but around.” He rubs the back of his neck.

My heart stumbles, racing to catch up with the rush of warmth. “Thanks,” I manage. “Well, I’d better get him back to his room. Hope to see you again, Frank.”

“I—I hope so too, Lisa.” He turns to Griff. “See ya, mate.”

As Griff and I head for the hallway, I catch sight of Mabel in the corner, her slight frame crouched beside her brother Rob, another resident with dementia. We were introduced at a meeting for residents’ families a few months ago and have been friends ever since.

“Have a little walk, Rob,” says Mabel. “Please.”

The small, white-haired man jerks away with a sharp flick of his hand. “Get off me! I’m sick of your bloody fussing!”

Mabel runs her shaky fingers through her gray bob, her brown eyes smudged with exhaustion. “It’s alright,” she says, to no one in particular. “He’s just tired.” She tries again; he flinches, and her shoulders sag.

I ask one of the carers to take Griff and step toward the siblings. “Hey, Rob,” I say gently, bending to get to his eye level. “I’m Lisa.”

“Go away!” he yells.

“We met a while back at the cafe. You told me that story about your cat stealing your neighbor’s dentures.”

He glances at me, confused, then lets out a low chuckle. “Best cat I’ve ever had. Never did like that neighbor.”

I give his hand a pat. “She sounds like she’s got real gumption! Can you tell me again what her name is?”

“Cottonmouth.”

“Wow, that’s a great name, I don’t suppose you have a photo I could see?”

“I do on my wall at home. I live somewhere near here, I think?” Rob looks up to Mabel, who nods in confirmation.

I offer my hand without pressure. “I’m headed that way. If you like, I’ll walk with you, and you can tell me more about Cottonmouth.”

The old man pushes himself up, and I steady him.

Smiling, I guide Rob toward the hallway. And before I realize I’m doing it, I start whistling—some sweet, aimless tune I don’t even recognize. Something about the music, or the rain, or maybe the way Frank said my name, has stirred a feeling I thought was long gone.