Page 90 of When Lemons Give You Life

Mabel smiles. “And how are you, dear?”

I consider telling her about the diagnosis and the pink wee, but I’m not sure our friendship has quite reached the “let me tell you about the color of my bodily fluids” level. “I’m fine, thanks, how are you?”

“Can’t complain,” the older woman replies, though her tearstained, exhausted face says she has every right to. “I’m missing Rob a lot today. He’s here but not here, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I say, glancing at my snoring brother.

She pulls a tissue from her bag. “It’s just that his cat Cottonmouth passed away yesterday. I adopted her when he moved here.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Mabel wipes away a tear. “The poor thing was only six. Before Rob’s license was taken, he hit her with his car. The vet operated, but she was never the same, probably why she died young. It’s the kind of thing I would’ve usually shared with Rob, but it would just be cruel to tell him now. Even on the off chance he understands momentarily, why put him through the pain and guilt? It would be for my sake rather than his. And anyway, now he has that beautiful toy you bought him, he’ll have Cottonmouth forever, won’t he? I can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself; you are so thoughtful, darling.” She sighs. “Anyway, better keep moving before I start blubbering again. Take care, dear.”

“Thanks, Mabel. You too.”

The old woman leaves, her words lingering in the air.

Part of me wants Griff to feel the fear, even if just for a second, that I have Mum’s kidney disease after all, to remind him of how he left her, left me. But Mabel is right: I’d be doing it for my own sake. My words would scatter aimlessly, never landing, never giving me the closure I was seeking. It would be as pointless as asking someone with no access to pen and paper to handwrite an apology letter.

As I watch him sleeping, lost in his world of fading memories, I wonder if my illness will be the reason I finally stop visiting. Griff will never find out. It’s not like he could do anything about it anyway.

57

Griff

“Can you teach me how to make choux pastry, Griff?” Scotty lies on his stomach, kicking absently in the air as he flips through my old cookbook, his face lit up like he’s reading a thriller instead of a list of French desserts. His landscaping work has slowed, and he visits most weekdays for secret cooking theory tuition, filling what would otherwise be a torturous Monday-to-Friday stretch of wall-staring, midday television, creamed corn, and being congratulated for using a spoon.

“Ooh! And do you reckon we could make chicken pâté now? I’ve always wanted to try!” he adds enthusiastically.

My body goes cold. “No,” I say too loudly.

Scotty’s face sinks.

“But the pastry? Definitely. We could even make some éclairs for afternoon tea this weekend. The residents would love it.”

He grins and bookmarks the page, like I used to.

We finish planning the weekend menu, and I’m impressed by his suggestions. I jump onto the supermarket app and organize the delivery—now straight to his house at a reasonable hour, saving me the hassle of midnight capers.

That night we sit on the couch and fire up the telly. I haven’t watched anything with someone else since Beau. Back then, we’d stay up past midnight, giggling at some comedy, the jokes carrying over into the next day with just a glance. Later, when he got sick, I’d turn to share a chuckle and find him staring blankly at the screen, or asleep. Laughter isn’t the same when you’re laughing alone.

Scotty grabs the remote, scrolling the streaming services. To my horror, he hasn’t seen either of the Avatar movies. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to handle them again. But I can’t let this travesty slide.

As the music starts, my grief takes hold. But when I look over and see Scotty’s youthful, animated face, the sadness begins to dissipate, and I can actually enjoy the movies.

For a second, I see Beau sitting with us, not staring vacantly or sleeping but mesmerized like he used to be.

It’s one in the morning when the credits roll.

“You know you don’t have to sit around with an old codger on a Thursday night. I’m sure you have much better things to do with your mates,” I say.

Scotty packs up his bag and slides open the window—a convenient exit when he doesn’t want to risk being caught after visiting hours. “Nah, I just have one mate.”

“Oh yeah, what’s he like?”

Scotty scratches his chin. “Hmmm. I’d say he’s a bit of a pineapple.”

“A pineapple?”