Page 69 of When Lemons Give You Life

“It’s very uncommon that the disease would develop this late, but it’s not impossible. Please go next door for a blood test, and they will send the urine to the lab as well. We’ll order an ultrasound and get you an updated referral to your nephrologist. Does that sound okay?”

Her words blur. The printer springs to life, its screech grating against my nerves.

“Okay,” I hear myself say, as I jump down the rabbit hole in my mind. Pain, dialysis. Who is going to visit Griff? Forget about sex with a giant man; you can’t have sex with anyone, regardless of how tall they are, if you’re dead.

“Lisa?” The GP’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “No matter what it is, we will get through it. Even if it is PKD, it can be very well managed these days, and usually it’s slow progressing. This isn’t the end of the world.”

I smile on autopilot, but I’m unable to shake the image of Mum in her final weeks.

I get home, though I don’t remember the drive. I drop my handbag and the form onto the coffee table, where they skid to a stop against a small mountain of paper.

Sensible Lisa pipes up straightaway: Book it now. Before you forget. Don’t be a chicken.

Everyday Lisa pretends not to hear. Because I know I won’t. Not today. Not when this is supposed to be the start of an exciting new chapter. I’ve carried the fear of this disease for years, but now that the next step is right here in front of me, the thought of actually confirming it makes my stomach twist. One phone call could set the whole thing in motion—and then what?

The form slides into my existing pile of unfinished business: the old bank account I was supposed to close, the dentist bill I meant to claim, the E-toll tag transfer papers still waiting for a signature. Most people have a to-do pile; I have a will-never-do pile—things that aren’t urgent until they’re too late, so my brain shoves them into the shadows.

I curl up on the couch, pull the fleecy rug over my head and bury myself in denial. Ignorance is bliss, they say. So why does bliss feel so bloody awful?

40

Griff

Cliff is even better at faking dementia than I am. Sunny Glen is so understaffed, and the ones who are here are stretched far too thin, likely relieved to see a resident who is happily sleeping and not in need of anything.

The kitchen has become my refuge again, warm, buttery and mine. I step in with a different name yet feel more like myself there than anywhere else. I’ve cooked more in the past month than I did in the two years before it.

“Hello, Mr. Bartlet . . . oh, I mean Mr. Barlow, is it? Sorry, I don’t usually deliver the meals, but a few regulars are off sick, so I got called in today.”

I freeze. There’s no need to look up—I know that voice.

I keep my head low, hoping that Scotty can’t see my face. “Thanks, just put it on the table,” I blurt in a panic, realizing immediately that I should have stayed silent like always.

“It says here you don’t need help feeding, so I’ll leave you to it.”

Scotty places it down and turns to leave, and I exhale slowly. That was close. Too close.

He pauses at a framed photo of Lisa. “Oh! You’re Lisa’s brother! I met her the other day, such a friendly woman.” His eyes narrow. “I could have sworn she said you don’t talk anymore.”

I will him to leave before he sees any other pictures.

He shrugs, takes a couple of steps forward—then does a double take, returning to the photo of me with the Michelin star plaque. “Oh! How do you know Martin the chef? Wait . . . he has a Michelin star?!” Scotty looks at me, coming closer. Another couple of steps. His eyes widen, his face frozen in a slack-jawed expression.

Ice floods my veins, fast and sharp. The damage is done. I go to say something, but nothing comes.

“M . . . Martin . . . ?” he stammers.

“I . . . I can explain,” I lie, my cheeks burning.

“You’re . . . you’re a resident?”

“Uh, nooo . . . I’m just . . . visiting someone.” I stand up enthusiastically as if the act will prove it.

His eyes land on the photo taped beside the door—me, not smiling, right under the printed label: Room 19—Resident: Griff Barlow. The jig is up.

“Okay, yes, I’m a resident.” I sit on the bed, woozy from embarrassment.

“But I don’t understand . . . the name on the door is ‘Griff.’”