Page 6 of When Lemons Give You Life

A few steps in, I look back. Frank waves goodbye from the doorway, something soft and shining in his expression.

“There she is,” says Rob, as we reach his room, pointing to a framed picture of a white fluffy cat. “That’s my girl. That’s Cottonmouth. She follows me everywhere, even the toilet, nosy little madam she is!”

“She’s a real beauty, Rob. I bet you’ve taken excellent care of her.”

He breaks into a gummy grin.

“Well, I better get back to my brother. Thank you for showing me that photo, Rob, it’s made my day.”

“No worries, love,” he says, still smiling.

Mabel’s eyes are shiny. “Lisa . . . that was amazing. You’re a natural at this.”

I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“I’m very grateful, sweetheart. I’m ever so tired these days. I have trouble getting to sleep—my mind races.”

I nod sympathetically. “Have you ever tried listening to an audiobook or relaxation track at night? I’ve discovered these marvelous headphones that are like a soft headband you can wear comfortably in bed. They really help me wind down.”

“Oh, that sounds like it would be worth a try. I’ll have to look out for them.”

I take her hands in mine. “Mabel, you are doing a wonderful job. Never forget that. Take it from me, this is one of the hardest roles there is. I hope you are being kind to yourself.”

“You too, darling girl.”

Rob’s watery eyes dart around the room. “She must be about somewhere. Cottonmouth! Here, puss-puss-puss!”

Mabel and I exchange glances. “I wish they allowed pets here,” she whispers. “Don’t worry, Rob, she’ll just be off chasing birds.”

“Cheeky beggar!” He laughs, settling himself into his armchair.

I hug Mabel and head to Griff’s room, pulling out my phone on the way. A few taps and the headphones are ordered, along with a realistic white plush cat that purrs when you stroke it. Baby dolls are great for dementia care; there’s no reason stuffed toy animals couldn’t work in the same way. Both are one-day delivery, so I’ll bring them in tomorrow.

Griff’s lunch has arrived, though it’s not even midday. Who am I to judge? I often eat lunch at ten forty-five, not that I admit that to anyone.

“Ooh, I wonder what’s on the menu today?” I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as possible. I lift the plastic cover and suppress a gag.

Nursing-home food is notoriously bad, but I wouldn’t serve this to my worst enemy. My lips force a smile for Griff’s sake, but the sloppy instant mash, canned veg, and tin of tuna isn’t fooled—even it knows what a disgrace it is. I hand him a fork, but he shakes his head. Dementia has taken his mind, not his tastebuds.

“Well, looks like we’re having bullets for lunch.” I produce the emergency bag of chocolate-coated licorice I’ve brought and extensively taste-tested for him.

“I’ve been eating terribly again this week, Ratbag,” I tell him. “Tim Tams every night.”

I’m not religious, but my brother has kind of become my own private priest, except he doesn’t dole out penance and he won’t remember a word I say. Some days it’s wonderfully liberating to dump my conscience in his lap—the chocolate binges, the bad habits, the tiny moral failures—knowing they’ll be wiped clean in seconds.

I offer the bullets. His lips twitch, a whisper of a smile, and I feel a flush of something on the edge of love, recalling a sticky summer road trip to Queensland, Mum bribing us into silence with two packets. We devoured them, bare legs glued to the sweaty vinyl seats of the unair-conditioned Ford.

“Hello, Griff!”

Tessa, the orderly, pops her head in the door, graying blond curls escaping her bun as if she’s wrestled three mobility scooters and a laundry cart on the way here. She’s been multitasking since the activities coordinator quit. “Here’s the schedule for next week. We’ve got that new musician on regularly now, that could be something exciting for you . . . ?”

I nod. “Yes. That could be very exciting for me.” Very exciting indeed . . .

Tessa tilts her head.

My cheeks warm. Did I just say that out loud? “I mean, uh, that could be exciting for him.” I jab a thumb at my brother.

You’ll be single forever, you know! Ursula shrieks. But behind the usual mental chaos, a gentler sound hums: the soothing melody of Frank’s guitar, each note laced with kindness. Even Griff was moved by it, and that’s saying something.