Page 7 of When Lemons Give You Life

I’ve been second-guessing my decision to practice ukulele at the nursing home, but my experience this morning has given me a spark of confidence. Someone once said I’ve got the voice of a songbird. Technically, the word they used was “crow,” but that’s a songbird, right? I’ve been making progress in my online lessons, and I recently learned “You Are My Sunshine.” Not well, but practice makes perfect.

I pull my ukulele from my oversized tote. As I start to play, Griff lets out a long mournful groan. He’s trying to sing along! His eyes mist over. Clearly, he’s moved. Just like with Frank’s music.

I push through to the final line, holding the last note for maximum emotional impact. “Please don’t take my sunshine awaaaaaaay!”

4

Griff

Please. Please take my sunshine away. I’m begging you. Take it far away and bury it in a hole so deep that not even God himself could reach it. Put the sunshine where the sun don’t shine. It’s moments like these that are hardest to fake. If good music revives the soul, can bad music kill you? Should I add “Death by abhorrent ukulele playing” to the menu? Each note grates on my nerves, another drop in the bucket of reasons I tell myself I resent her. I know that putting her through this charade is utterly despicable. But I had no other choice, not if I wanted to hold on to what really mattered. I’m wearing in the guilt now, like a pair of once-tight jeans that no longer dig into my waist the way they used to.

I’d thought pretending not to recognize her would be the final straw and offer her an excuse to stop visiting. But she comes back anyway—loyal, stubborn, maddening. I tell myself it’s pitiful, that I don’t care. But I feel the lie catch in my throat every damn time.

She tucks a strand of messy dark hair behind her ear, unaware of how beautiful she is, like a wild version of Liv Tyler—if Liv Tyler had survived a tsunami and had thirty-three tabs open in her brain all at once.

For the millionth time, I picture coming clean: that I’ve been faking dementia for the past year, and why. Piece of cake, right? Piece of rancid meat, more like. My mind flashes with a news headline:

Ten customers hospitalized and one man dead in lethal food poisoning at three hatted restaurant. Head chef to face investigation.

The thought leaves me cold. Telling Lisa the truth would mean coming clean to the public too, handing the world a reason to judge me all over again.

Lisa’s fingers fumble, failing to find the right fret. She sticks out her tongue in concentration, like she did when she was little, determined to color inside the lines, a skill she never mastered on paper or in life.

What would be the point of telling her now? It would only cause more hurt and confusion. Staying quiet is easier than asking for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve.

Her voice cracks as she starts a second verse of the godawful song. I pretend to go to sleep, the fastest way to get her to leave. If I can manage to pass wind, even better. Finally, the music stops, and she heads out.

Allison’s voice floats through the half-open door, as sharp as vinegar. “That concludes our tour,” she says to the prospective resident’s son. “Now, are you interested in purchasing activities?”

The man’s voice is uncertain. “I thought activities were included—”

“They are,” Allison cuts in. “Standard ones. Group puzzles . . . Scrabble. If you’d like her to access the premium programs, like special outings or art therapy, it’s an extra fee—entirely optional, of course. We’ve got one spot left on the river cruise next week. Lovely views, always books out early.”

I scoff, mumbling under my breath. The “cruise” is someone’s home movie of their trip to the Murray River: brown water, gum trees, and a shaky camera, played on loop in the lounge while someone hands out stale crackers.

Allison steps closer, catching sight of me. I see calculation flicker across her face; she smooths it away, giving me a sickly-sweet smile as the man waves hello. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice when she speaks again, nodding in my direction. “Don’t mind him. He’s just one of our poor dementia residents.”

I drop my shocked face and blink slowly for effect.

She turns back to her victim, businesslike. “So what would you like to do?”

The man hesitates then reaches for his wallet.

She ushers him down the hall. “Let’s pop back to the office. We can sort the payment there.”

Sometimes, even when you’re pretending not to see, you see everything anyway.

I pull out my smartphone from the bedside drawer. The staff assume it’s not connected; one of the perks of faking dementia is that no one expects you to know how to use a device let alone pay a Telstra bill online. There are all kinds of things that keep people alive: medication, ventilators, hope. For me, it’s online shopping and streaming services. I attribute my survival over the past nine months largely to my subscriptions, which allow me to binge-watch Suits and order just about anything I want. I just have to be clever about it.

My accountant, as my enduring power of attorney, has access to my main bank account, so spending from there would give the game away. While I was still deemed competent, I ensured my place here was paid for privately and in full, and the only thing that comes out now is the weekly fee—I wasn’t about to make the government pay for my lie. But before the charade began, I prepared for unknown scenarios and opened another account in secret, making small deposits over the four months leading up to my diagnosis. Enough to last me, not enough to raise questions about where my savings were going.

Deliveries to the home itself are out of the question. Nothing says “cognitively sound” like a man who orders French cooking magazines, crossword books and bespoke whisky. My answer sits next door to the nursing home, on the other side of the fence: an old abandoned house. My room has a sliding window that’s been screwed shut for safety, no match for the contraband Phillips head screwdriver I snuck in my trousers the day I moved in. I am just sixty-four, after all, and though I have not partaken in the balloon tennis the physical therapist harps on about, I’m not helpless yet.

Whenever I fancy something, I ship it there and collect it after dark, climbing onto my ottoman, out the window, and through the loose fence planks to retrieve my parcel, always closing the curtains behind me. Sometimes I sit on the porch for a bit, listening to the crickets. Pretending, for a second, that I have a normal life.

I order all kinds of things. My favorite dark Belgian chocolate (my main source of sustenance here). Even three-ply toilet paper, which I have to hide after every use lest the staff find this forbidden luxury. I conceal it in the ample belly of a de-stuffed Pooh Bear that Beau bought at Disneyland. Seems only fitting, and he can hold five rolls comfortably.

It all sounds ridiculous, and it is. Staying alive when you’re living undercover takes effort. You find strange ways to keep going. You build little rituals. But some days the performance wears thin. The chocolate runs out. The grog makes you sad instead of sleepy. The TV isn’t numbing enough. And you start googling things you probably shouldn’t.