Lemon

          Call me what you wish—the worst has already occurred. Let it be known that I am here to explain, not proselytise. The news is wrong about me on nearly all accounts.

          Tesla had his pigeons; I had my lemon. Judge me as you please, but I invite you to imagine: your first infatuation (that moment you arrived home and your mother/brother/sister/father saw that dreamlike smile plastered on your face like a neon sign, lurid and lustful and flush all rolled into one as you ran upstairs to your room, burying your face in fresh linen and secrets), the first smouldering glance from across the bar, the late-night spooning (all is right in the world, look! There's proof right here!), and when one liver-spotted hand reaches for another and clutches it as if never to let go; I ask you, have you ever been in love?

          It’s a sacred word; I don’t use it lightly. But imagine all I have described above and roll each emotion into one and that, that, is how I describe my love for my lemon.

          Like all good love stories, the beginning was unexpected. I was five years old and with my mother at the supermarket. I wandered off to the fruit section and inevitably came across the tangerines, clementines, oranges, mandarins, limes, and then the lemons. (Before you proceed, please find a recording of Gymnopédie No. 1 and at the precise moment it begins to play, start the next sentence.) There it was, my lemon. I reached for it and held its dimpled exterior with reverence in both hands. The world stopped. My mother found me, and, in a state of concern, asked me why I wept. It wasn’t a tantrum. I had seen something holy, and it would be mine to adore.

          When we returned home, my mother suggested numerous ways to violate my new love: cheesecake, tart, zest, juice, lemonade, and God forbid, lemon juice mixed with other juices. Horrified, I escaped to my room, shielding it from her executioner’s stare. My parents mistook it for a childish obsession; the lemon would be discarded within a few days. I would become obsessed with a new piece of plastic flashing across the screen to the cacophony of some marketing executive's cerebral swill.

          It never happened. My toys were abandoned. My Lemon was worth more than a Fabergé egg, and neither my mother’s coaxing nor my father’s anger moved me. I made it a house, a shrine, an abode next to mine out of books and doll furniture. We bathed together and I polished it with three-ply tissues. I adored it. At my father’s shame and behest, my mother took me to a counsellor, a psychiatrist, and a priest. They misdiagnosed my love for a child’s affection for an imaginary friend.

          My mother, bless her, followed their advice. My Lemon got a seat at the dinner table and a bedtime story. I would throw a fit if it was removed from my sight. As for my father…

          I know you are waiting with bated breath with regards to my father.

          Proudly logical and not one to be trifled with. For him, my Lemon wasn’t a lifelong romance; it was a sickness. See: Your father, terrifying and colossal, tells you one night that there is something wrong with you. You smell alcohol on his breath before you understand the existence of that vile elixir. You cower. The next day you are studied like an animal by adults in white coats. You shrink into a corner, a shaking lab rat.

          I often say that my relationship with my father died when I flew the nest. The truth is that it died there and then.

          And people have the audacity to call me a monster.

          I experienced the ordinary shame of puberty, but my miraculous Lemon remained the same. Fresh, sunny, a wonderful listener, and safeguarded in youth by a benevolent force greater than I could ever hope to comprehend. As I mourned each sebum-filled pore and pustule, I found comfort in my love. Toughened skin didn't seem ugly when someone else wore it so well.

          I’m ashamed to say that my devil-may-care attitude did not elegantly transpose into adolescence. My definition of shame stemmed not only from my father and the plague on my face, but also from my peers. I witnessed fellow classmates harassed for the most minor infractions, like wearing glasses or tying their school tie too long (short was the trend, a sad flipper dangling from your neck). I learned to leave Lemon at home. Upon confiding in my mother, I was assured that everything would be fine. She would keep a keen eye on Lemon. I saw genuine relief in her eyes, and I was glad I was doing them both a favour. Lemon was better off at home anyway—my backpack was hardly a den of comfort.

          I look back on those naïve days with fondness. It wasn’t until my adulthood came with bills of my own that I began to truly neglect my love. Post-university, work took over (I was eager to please my employer, like every pre-jaded youth), and we rarely spent quality time together, though Lemon never left my mind. With each hour of overtime, I was convinced that I was on an accelerated track to riches and envisioned a better life for us. I saw a quaint house with neat French windows, the kind I could fling open on a hot summer’s day. We would bask in warmth and sunlight and live a fairytale life away from the city.

          By this stage, my only visitor was my mother, who came each week with the ulterior motive of persuading me to reconcile with my father. Oh, how she tried.

          Is that enough backstory for you?

          My life began unravelling when my mother and Lemon fell ill. One day, my mother fainted and was hospitalised with a hideous bug. It was on that anxious day that I saw my father for the first time in a decade.

         I was civil. I greeted him, politely asked how he had been and said that I was doing well, as was Lemon. That same withering disdain I hadn’t felt projected onto my being for so long spread across my father’s face. I was a child again, and he ended what could have been a civil conversation with a sigh and seven words.

          “Your bizarre infatuation will always disappoint me.”

          Enraged was not the word. My mother, ever the peacekeeper, demanded from her bed that he apologise at once. I told her I would visit another time. I confided in tears to Lemon when I got home, the only spot of zesty brightness in my grim day.

          Then came disaster.

          A week after my mother’s hospitalisation, Lemon was hurt. As I began my weekly polishing ritual, I saw that Lemon’s skin was drier than usual, and a tiny brown spot had appeared. My miraculous love of over two decades was no longer plump and glowing.

          I tried to convince myself that it was nothing. I was tired, stressed, my house was not well lit, it was a trick of the light!

         Trick indeed.

          My mother’s recovery was slow, and I timed my visits to avoid my father. But as my love’s condition worsened, the façade of joy slipped. My mother, commenting on my greying complexion, was shocked when I broke down in tears one day. I explained between hiccups.

          “What? No, no, no!” she said, aghast. She embraced me, and I was relieved to feel the familiar strength of her grip. She kissed my forehead.

          “Give Lemon a good wash and let it sit on the kitchen windowsill. It’s good for it. Yes?” She smiled, giving my hand an encouraging squeeze.

          That night, caressing Lemon’s aged skin with a towel, I wondered if its magic had run out. My soulmate was withering before my eyes, and I prayed to whatever force had blessed us before to now have pity.

          Whatever it was, it chose my mother first. A few days later, her rosy cheeks returned, and she complained of boredom. After a more cheerful visit I returned home, bracing myself for hell, and found Lemon on the windowsill—fully recovered. It had worked. Ha! I snatched Lemon up from the sill, clutched it to my chest, and hurriedly dialled my mother’s room at the hospital. She was delighted and said she would be discharged soon. We rejoiced—there would be a joint celebration as soon as possible and I would host.

          When I saw my father’s car outside on the appointed day, my stomach dropped. He remained in the car, stony-faced, while I went to greet my mother. Pulling away from our embrace, her nervous pendulum gaze swung between us. I knew before she spoke.

          “Can he?

          It’s been so long since we’ve had a family dinner. And you know, I’m not getting any younger. Or healthier, am I?”

          I crushed the sigh in my throat and grimaced, my face painfully stiff as I forced my expression into a more agreeable design.

          “Let me talk to him?” she pleaded.

          After years of dismissed requests, I weakened, guilty. See: Your mother’s somewhat sunken rosy cheeks, her walk steady but slow. Her illness has affected your bond and her health profoundly, and besides—she saved Lemon. She had faith. Perhaps you could hope too.

          “Alright.”

          She beamed and hurried back to the car, and soon my parents were walking up the stone path arm in arm.

          I had covered the kitchen table in a yellow gingham cloth and laden it with my mother’s favourites, including several bottles of champagne. Lemon sat in a small deckchair, my co-host. My mother cooed, commenting on its adorable proportions. My father, mute, shook his head but sat down.

          As we ate, I made a point to not engage with my father, treating him like the statue he was and determined to not be affected by his cold indifference. He sipped champagne through pursed lips, glaring at me and Lemon. I pushed to ostracise him entirely from the conversation by discussing things he knew nothing of and took no interest in.

          Time ticked on.

          My father continued to pour glass after glass. His sulking reached its zenith as our conversation ballooned in volume and my mother, now tipsy, gently chided him.

          “Cheer up, darling! Isn’t this a special occasion? The whole family’s here, all four of us!”

          I said nothing, smirking at my father until he slammed his glass down, face red.

          “Four of us?” he snapped. “You know what? I’ll leave you two to it.” He rose to leave.

          “Come on, this celebration is about us. Don’t ruin it, please.”

          “I’ve done everything I can to not ruin it,” he spat, pulling away. “As long as everything’s rosy on the surface it’s fine, isn’t it? You’re just as deluded as this crackpot!” He pointed an accusing finger at me.

          “Don’t talk to her like that,” I said quietly, rising to my feet.

          “No, no, both of you, enough! We’ve all had enough champagne; this celebration is about me!” my mother wailed.

          “And Lemon,” I added, incensing my father.

          “Yes, and Lemon!” she said shrilly. My father downed the remains of his glass and snorted.

          “That thing?” He leaned forward; voice slurred. “How’s Lemon been lately, eh? Any bruises?”

          “Stop it, stop it!”

          “Don’t make fun of me. Not in my house.”

          “I don’t need to,” my father sneered.

          “Enough!” my mother cried.

          “You’ve made my life a misery since I was a child.”

          “And your mother spoiled you from birth!” he bellowed. “I’m tired of indulging in your delusions!” My mother began to weep and tugged fruitlessly at his sleeve. He pulled away and flung an accusing finger at her face.

          “She’s no saint. She’s happy to lie to you until the day she dies!”

          “Please don’t…” My mother’s face paled.

          “What are you talking about?” I snarled.

          “She replaces them, you idiot! She buys the same overpriced imported fruit and replaces it every week. And you’re stupid enough to believe it, you fool.”

          “That’s…not true.” My mouth went dry. I looked at my mother, who was shaking. “Is it?”

          “Really?” he continued. “What magical reality are you living in? Tell me, why was your precious friend so poorly this month? Eh? Who wasn’t able to visit for four weeks? And who do you think was tasked with continuing this moronic song and dance, hmm?” He tapped his temple. “Want proof?”

          He strode over to the kitchen waste bin and emptied it onto the table. My mother gasped, coughing at the stench as he dug through the foul mass. He pulled out something shrivelled and brown, then slammed it down with a squelch.

          A lemon.

          I never cook with lemon.

          I turned to my mother. She covered her face with her hands.

          “See?” he laughed, a maniacal glint in his eye. “I never wanted to resent you, but God am I tired of humouring you both. ‘One day we’ll explain!’” he sneered, mimicking my mother’s voice. “Well, when is it, eh?” He put a slimy hand on her shoulder and shook it, as if she’d missed her cue to laugh.

          “You monster!” She pushed him away.

          “Look at our child’s face! Look what happens when we’re not around, hm? What’s this fool to do?”

          I slammed my hands onto the table, my voice ice.

          “Fuck you!”

          The room fell silent. With a quiet chuckle, my father reached for a champagne bottle, dragged it across the table, and finished it with a large gulp.

          “You’ll thank me for this,” he burped. “You both will.”

          In one swift motion, he smashed the bottle like he was christening a ship and drove the emerald shards into Lemon, the deckchair snapping under the force of his mania.

          Up down up down up down up down.

          My mind recoiled from my body. Blinding whiteness flooded my skull. I lunged.

          We wrestled across the table, two stupid animals baring fangs, knocking plates, smashing glasses, his ruddy face shouting as I gritted my teeth. He was strong for his age, but I was younger, sober, furious—and I wrenched the bottle from his grasp. Lemon’s pulp clung to the shards. The deckchair was in splinters. I sobbed, shaking, then—

          I remember him holding up his hands as I raised the bottle.

          Up down up down up down up down.

          The last thing I saw was Lemon’s remains in its deckchair. Yellow. Red. A watercolour bloody orange. I staggered back and sank down. The bottle rolled away from my sticky grasp. The world went dark to the tune of my mother’s cries as she called the police.

          Like I said. The news is wrong about me on nearly all accounts—bar one.

          I am perfectly lucid.