Dead Lemons

by Finn Bell

Emily looks confused for a moment then replies, “No, I never had a cat, Mr Bell,” she says, looking deflated, then looks up again.

  “Was that all?” she asks, sounding scared.

  “Ah yes, I just assumed, you know, what with the cottage being so remote that maybe she was yours,” I say.

  Emily takes in a shaky breath as she puts her cup down. I hear it tinkle from her trembling hand.

  “I thought you’d met them. God, I’m so sorry. I should never have sold the place. I just couldn’t stay anymore. I know they’re there. I know,” she says, looking over at her family pictures and shaking her head.

  “What do you mean, Mrs Cotter? Emily?” I say, leaning forward and meeting her eyes. But I know who she means already. I don’t want to, but I do.

  “The Zoyls,” she says, looking away at the pictures again. As she says it, my own troubled feelings at the memory of meeting them bubble up again.

  “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t stay. And no one believes me but I know. A mother always knows, Mr Bell,” she says, her tone growing more insistent.

  “They took, took, took,” she says, eyes still roaming the wall. It’s when I follow her gaze that I finally make the connection between what she’s saying and what I’m seeing.

  That’s what’s wrong with all these pictures. Emily Cotter looks like she’s in her 70s or 80s but the pictures of her husband and daughter end a long time ago.

  There’s nothing of her husband beyond about 20 years ago, and the latest one of her daughter looks to be the one my eye fell on originally, no more than 12 or 13 years old. Okay, I think.

  “I’m not crazy, I’m not,” she says, her voice turning to pleading now.

  “Everything is okay, Emily. What do you mean?” I gently repeat.

  “I remember to remember. I remember to remember,” she repeats, as if it’s a mantra, getting louder and louder with every repetition. She starts to rock back and forth in her seat. A beeping sound like a smoke alarm goes off in the corner of the room and shortly afterwards, two nurses rush in through the door.

  I’m firmly ushered out of the room and the door closed quickly behind me.

  “You’re not family, Mr Bell?” a voice says behind me. I turn around to find another nurse with a clipboard behind me.

  “No,” I say. “I bought her old cottage and just wanted to ask her about a cat that showed up.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Bell,” the nurse replies, reading my name from the clipboard. “That was a mistake on our part. Emily Cotter is not a healthy woman, and someone mistakenly assumed you were family and understood her condition.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t discuss that with you. And again, apologies for cutting your visit short, but Emily needs to rest now. If you have questions you can leave them with us, or maybe we can contact her family for you,” she says.

  But right then I can’t really think of anything to ask.

  “Thank you, no. There’s nothing at the moment, and sorry for the trouble. It was just about the cat, really,” I say, and the nurse nods and moves off as someone down the hall calls for her.

  I sit there for a moment more, trying to gather my thoughts, and then roll out towards the door.

  Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I can still hear Emily repeat, “I remember to remember, I remember to remember,” all the way to the car.

  CHAPTER 7

  JANUARY 13, FIVE MONTHS AGO . . .

  It’s 3:00 a.m., as usual.

  The five cats and I are piled by the fire. I took them all to the vet on the weekend. Herding five cats into a box when you’re in a wheelchair is something else. Everyone is now flea-free and in good health. All the kittens have opened their eyes now; it makes them more real somehow.

  The amount of pee and poo all over has also exponentially increased.

  For about a week I had been sleeping well, but not tonight. Bad timing, too, because I’ve got another therapy session and another Murderball game scheduled for tomorrow, and not sleeping always makes me grumpy.

  I’m still looking forward to it though. I’ve been doing my therapy homework, too. Been thinking about being a dead lemon and I’ve been looking in the mirror every day. It’s a strange thing to do for a long time. After about five minutes your mind starts playing tricks on you. It doesn’t just look like your reflection anymore. It starts to look like a stranger. Someone you don’t know at all behind the eyes. Weird. I don’t know what it’s supposed to do for me.

  It’s not the usual list of things running through my brain tonight, either. I keep thinking of meeting Emily Cotter. I try to picture her living here with her husband and daughter. I think you can still see the signs. My bedroom is probably the one Emily had, and her daughter’s would be the one across the hall. Those notches in the kitchen door frame must be where they marked how much she’d gotten taller each birthday. I try to picture them as a happy family here in the cottage.

  But the picture is spoiled when I think of the Zoyl brothers. I’m probably just an ex-drunk, cripple with too much time on his hands, but I want to know what happened here. I realise I have already convinced myself that something did happen. It must have. Must have because of the Zoyls. It is like meeting them makes something of them stay with you, follow you home. Clinging to you with an unpleasant, uninvited familiarity.

  I think of maybe trying to see Emily Cotter again but I don’t know. Maybe I’ll see if Patricia or Tai knows anything. Drop it into the conversation over coffee. Yeah. Hi, Pat, how are things? Oh, and did the Zoyl brothers kill Emily Cotter’s husband and kid? Please pass the sugar.

  No point to it all, really. And I’ve got real problems to be dealing with.

  I doze off again and wake up cold and stiff, getting used to the routine now.

  There is, again, no hot water.

  I ring up Tui first thing at eight and he bears my complaints with admirable good cheer. He promises to be out my way in under an hour. He’s true to his word, as half an hour later he rings back to let me know that it’s all up again. He laughingly informs me that, “Hot water should be a part of your life again in about an hour, bro. Have some breakfast. Go for a walk or a roll or something. You got to make the best of things, bro,” he says as the call clicks off. He said that last time too, trying to cheer me up. But no one can be good in my eyes until I’ve had a warm shower. I’m that petty.

  I head into town early for my counselling session with Betty. It’s a nice day so I decide to stop by the wharf first. Look at the boats coming in and out. Riverton is, as the name suggests, a town built around the sea mouth of the Jacobs River with a big, calm, saltwater estuary. Even to my blunted senses there are lots of pretty things—birds and fish and plants and so on.

  I roll out onto the wharf and see that things are fairly quiet. Most of the crayfish boats are already out and there’s only a few people about.

  It is picture-pretty and when the fresh smell of sea salt on the breeze hits me, it lifts the last of my residual no hot water grump.

  Even dead lemons can feel the sunshine, I think.

  “Over the hill man!” I hear someone say loudly. It seems quite close but I can’t locate the speaker here on the elevated wharf with boats moving around all sides in the breeze. There’s something familiar about the voice though.

  “Coming now,” the voice says again. Only this time I spot a head rising up the side of the wharf just to my left. I immediately roll backwards and face him.

  It’s Darrell Zoyl.

  He points at me and walks closer, then says again, “Over the hill man.” I want to back away further, just roll off and leave, but there’s a rope lying across the wharf blocking my wheels. Only way to leave is forward, straight by Darrell.

  I know it’s probably rude of me.

  Anyone can tell that Darrell’s not entirely right in the head, maybe even retarded or something, but I don’t care. I just know I don’t want to be close to him. So I look him in the ey
e, try to smile, and say loudly, “Good day, Darrell!” as I make to roll past him.

  But when I am just past he grabs the handle of my wheelchair with one hand and puts the other on the back of my neck.

  I can feel the sweat on his palm as he begins to gently massage.

  “You have to look down,” he says, leaning in close. I can feel him pushing my head downward. Out of instinct I resist, but he just pushes harder and I’m left staring at the wharf between my feet.

  “You have to look down. Sean said so,” he says. There’s something hungry in his voice again.

  “Please let go, Darrell,” I say. “Right now, please,” I continue, trying to keep my voice even as I reach back to put my hand on his wrist. As I do so I use my other hand to turn the wheelchair and manage to free myself and face him again.

  “You have to look down,” he repeats.

  “You shouldn’t touch people if they don’t want you to, Darrell!” I say to him, some of my frustration coming into my voice.

  “Don’t tell him what to do,” says a voice up above me. I look up and see that it’s Sean Zoyl, sitting astride the radio mast on top of a crayfish boat cabin. He still has that empty smile I remember from last time we met.

  I wonder how long he’s been watching us. Watching us and not saying anything.

  “Time to leave now, Darrell,” Sean says, without looking away from me.

  Darrell abruptly turns away without any further acknowledgement of me.

  “Is this your boat?” I ask. Not because I’m interested, more for something to say. My encounter with Darrell still has my blood pumping.

  “Family boat,” he replies.

  “Going out?” I ask.

  Sean looks away out to sea then responds, “Maybe now, maybe later.” Then faces me again and just stares at me.

  When the silence begins to stretch out I decide to take my leave.

  “Well, you have a good one,” I say as I turn and start rolling back to my car. Sean doesn’t respond.

  As I turn to get into my car, I’m sure I’ll see him up there still watching me but I’m wrong. He’s gone, and it’s the same perfect postcard view of pretty things it was before.

  Nothing’s wrong in Riverton.

  As I head over to Betty’s house, I’m still a little freaked out, but again find that there’s no real reason. Nothing to explain to people, to convey why I respond to them the way I do.

  Sometimes people just rub you the wrong way, I think, and then that thought makes me remember Darrell’s sweaty hand kneading my neck. Screw logic, I think.

  * * *

  This time Betty is ready and waiting behind her desk.

  “You’re late, Finn,” she says as I come in.

  “Sorry, Betty, lost track of time I guess,” I respond.

  “Have you done the homework?” she asks.

  “Yeah, but I w—” I say.

  “Don’t tell me about it,” she interrupts me. “Keep doing it. I’ll tell you when we talk about it. You haven’t done nearly enough to not know nothing yet.”

  “Okay, so what are we going to talk about?” I say.

  “Today we’re going to talk about boredom and curiosity. I want you to tell me what they are, Finn,” she replies.

  “What do you mean? Boredom is boredom. It’s when things are not interesting or fun. And curiosity is when you want to know things,” I say, not really seeing what this has to do with my situation or with therapy.

  Betty makes an impatient “Tsk” sound through her teeth and then says, “A slow one, eh?” She shakes her head.

  “This is therapy, Finn. You’ve got to use your brain,” she continues.

  My mind is blank, though, and I return her challenge with a shrug.

  “What do boredom and curiosity have in common?” she prompts.

  Boredom and curiosity . . . okay, think, Finn, think.

  “I dunno,” I say.

  “Fine, I’ll help. They are both things you feel, right? You feel bored or you feel curious, yes?” she says. I realise, now that she says it, that it’s true.

  “And we call things we feel . . .” Betty says, leaving me to complete the sentence.

  “Feelings?” I answer uncertainly.

  The way she explains it makes sense but it just doesn’t sound right.

  “Correct. Boredom and curiosity are feelings. And there are only two kinds of feelings . . .” she says expectantly and nods at me again. This is starting to feel like a math class flashback where everyone knows you’re the dumb kid.

  Two kinds of feelings, I think. My mind is racing, and then in a flash of brilliance reaches up to the level of the plainly obvious.

  “Good feelings and bad feelings,” I say.

  “That’s right. There are only two kinds of feelings we can feel, good feelings and bad feelings. Boredom and curiosity are both feelings, so which is which?” she asks.

  “Boredom is a bad feeling and curiosity is a good feeling,” I say.

  “Right again, Finn. Now here’s your homework. I want you to do two things. Number one, notice how often you feel bored and how often you feel curious every day for the next week. Number two, take your calendar or diary or phone and at the end of each day, write down which you felt more that day. Boredom or curiosity, every day. Got it?” she asks.

  “Think so,” I reply.

  “Say it all back to me then,” she prompts.

  “Boredom and curiosity are feelings. Boredom feels bad. Curiosity feels good. Write down which one I feel the most each day. Got it,” I say, nodding.

  “Good. Now come out back with me and help me with the bees,” she says as she stands up.

  “Help you with the bees?” I repeat.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay,” she says, and walks out ahead of me. I notice that she’s in socks again. I think maybe Betty’s one of those older people who practically lives outside.

  In her kitchen she starts suiting up in bulky beekeeper gear; big white hat with plastic mesh all around and thick plastic gloves that go up to her upper arms. She puts a heap of white plastic next to me and I also start suiting up. Betty kneels down and tucks my pant legs into my socks. Business-like, doesn’t ask, just handles me in that way that only old ladies can be forgiven for.

  When we’re both suited up to her satisfaction she turns to me and says, “Bees are amazing creatures, Finn. Did you know they can sense fear in people? Not smell it, that’s just dumb, but sense it. They can sense where your head is at, and fear makes them angry to no end. Usually I can go out to the hive without any protective gear; that’s if I’m in the right frame of mind. But if I’m in a mood or something is bothering me a lot, I can’t even get close before they start swarming,” she says.

  “Now we’re going to go pull out some honey trays and we’re going to do a little experiment for your benefit at the same time. I’ll tell you when I want you to think of something bad that’s happened to you, something that’s going to make you feel sad, and you’re to keep thinking of it till I tell you to stop. I’ll do the same. Then, when I tell you, we’re going to think of something that makes us happy, again till I tell you to stop. Then we switch to sad thoughts again. You watch what happens,” she says. I nod and think to myself. Don’t try this at home kids.

  We head out beyond her massive vegetable garden at the back of her house, through some bushes, to a patch of bare land leading up to the hill. Just before we reach the hives she announces, “Sad thoughts.”

  This at least is a task I am well-suited for. I have created several options in my life to choose from. So I think of Anna. It’s a bit hard not to get distracted but I try to keep thinking about her, about us, as best I can. The bees are going nuts. The swarming and buzzing becomes an almost continuous vibration in the air. There’s so many of them on the mesh in front of my face that I only have a few gaps left to see through. I see that Betty looks similarly covered as she slowly pulls out a honey tray.

  After a few minutes, Betty leans
in close and actually has to yell over the buzzing, “Happy thoughts!”

  This for me is a bit harder. I know I’m supposed to have them, but I find it harder than thinking of sad things. Finally I settle on my first Murderball game. While I keep this up I sense no change around me. I’m still covered in bees everywhere. But after a few minutes, through the gaps in my still bee-covered vision, I notice something odd. Betty is virtually bee-free. There are a few still on her, but nothing like the masses of before. Then she leans in again and says, “Sad thoughts.”

  Again nothing changes for me that I can notice. I’m still a mountain of buzzing on wheels, but I know where to look now. Sure enough, I see that Betty is covered in bees again just like she was before. Strange.

  As we head back, the swarm follows us up to the bushes at the back of the vegetable garden where Betty uses a smoker to drive them off us and the honey trays, then we head back into the house where she uses a big, loose brush to remove the last few straggler bees at the back door.

  Inside, once we’re out of the suits again, Betty turns to me and says, “So we thought of sad things then happy things and then sad things again, yes?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “What did you see?” she asks.

  “When we thought of sad things they swarmed us, but when we thought of happy things they stopped swarming you, but they just kept on swarming me. Why is that?” I say.

  “That’s your question to go figure out for next time, Finn. Now off with you,” she says.

  As I head back into town, I wonder about what Betty’s up to with me.

  Dead lemons and looking in mirrors and boredom and curiosity and now this bee thing. Is this what therapy is supposed to be like?

  Still, I think, I wanted something different from my life before and this is definitely that.

  I’ve still got time before I need to head out to Murderball so I decide to go to the library, get some books about raising cats maybe. On the way I pass Patricia, who gives me a friendly wave, which I return. That’s me, just another happy local, I think. When I’m there, rolling between the quiet bookshelves, I don’t really know where to start but don’t want to ask for any help, either.