Page 91 of When Lemons Give You Life

“Yeah, spiky on the outside but sweet in the middle.” He jumps nimbly over the windowsill onto the grass. “Griff?”

“Yeah, mate?”

“It’s you. You’re the pineapple.”

58

Lisa

I open my eyes, surrounded by drool and David Schwimmer’s voice.

For a split second, I think my dream’s come true. My man has finally arrived—and not just any man, a celebrity, albeit one who makes neurosis look like an Olympic sport. Then, in a delicious rush, I remember: I’m with Frank. Wonderful, non-neurotic Frank.

I try to sit up, but something cold and sticky tugs at my cheek. Ice cream. Right—my grand evening of zoning out on the couch, face-deep in Friends and Ben & Jerry’s, pretending my kidneys aren’t quietly planning a mutiny.

The living room is warm with late morning sun, the TV still muttering reruns in the background. I head to the kitchen and make an extra-strong coffee, my brain buzzing with dread. The nephrologist said, “Progression varies,” which is another way of saying, Brace yourself for anything. I’m not good at that.

My gaze rests on a photo of Mum on the fridge, tired but smiling, her brown hair escaping its bun, cheeks creased with lines that tell of both laughter and long days. She had the same disease. The same failing parts. Maybe if I understood better what happened to her—how fast it moved, when it tipped, what the complications were—I could prepare myself too. Or bargain with it.

Griff probably had more of Mum’s medical documents than I did; he always kept everything. Coffee in hand, I head to the garage, where I dumped three boxes after clearing out his house before it was sold. I lift down the one marked Paperwork in bold letters. The masking tape peels away reluctantly. Inside sit several folders lined up with military precision, every label underlined.

Legal

Warranties

Certificates

Mum

I slide the last one free. It’s thick, overstuffed: receipts, scans, a fading pathology request. I flip through slowly, skimming dates, looking for something useful. Near the back, folded in thirds and wedged between a blood-test printout and a health insurance form, something catches my eye: a letterhead, “Mercy East Hospital.” I ease it out.

July 1998

Dear Mr. Barlow,

Following your recent tissue-typing, we can confirm that you are a viable living kidney donor match for Lorraine Barlow . . .

A buzzing fills my ears. For a second I genuinely wonder if I’ve misread it—if it’s a clerical error or a different Lorraine. But the date of birth and name are right. When Dad left, Mum changed our surnames back to Barlow, said it would be simpler for us all to be the same.

I read out loud this time, my voice barely a whisper. “Viable living kidney donor match.”

Cold sweat breaks out along my neck.

I read on. Strong compatibility . . . low risk of rejection . . .

I cover my eyes, like that might rewrite the paper in front of me. I’m not standing anymore. I don’t remember sitting, but I’m on the floor, the folder limp in my lap. I shuffle the pages with trembling fingers. Beneath the letter is a chart: two columns of tissue markers. His. Mum’s. Clean, efficient rows. Checkmarks where there should be crosses. A match that should’ve meant something, that could have changed everything.

I turn to another document behind it with the same letterhead.

As per your call on 3 August, we have withdrawn you from the donor pathway.

That’s it. Hidden. Folded away. Jammed in a file where he thought no one would find it. No note or justification. Just proof.

Griff was a match for Mum. He could have saved her. And he didn’t. And I’ll never know why.

I want to yell, demand answers—but there’s no one to shout at. Only this awful, rising heat in my chest and a truth I never asked for.

And then, as it hits, a chill runs down my spine. If he was a match for her, he’s a match for me.