2
Lisa
“Hey, Siri!” I yell for the umpteenth time, sprinting through the house, hoping the woman inside my phone will make up for
my total lack of short-term memory and tell me where she is. Yes, I could use Find My Phone on my iPad—if I knew where my iPad was.
warms my face. Or perhaps it’s perimenopause? Why do they call it perimenopause? Maybe because it’s spicy like the Portuguese chicken. That would explain the hot flushes. I’d rather a refreshing
lemon-and-herb menopause, thank you very much.
Would Mum have left me her house if she’d known how messy I’d let it become? Probably. She always said my heart was in the
right place, even if nothing else was.
I wrestle my jeans over my bloated belly—surely another lovely hormonal perk?
The empty packet of salted caramel Tim Tams judges me from the countertop.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter to them, sculling my beetroot smoothie like it might erase the evidence. TikTok says
it’s an antioxidant miracle that prevents kidney disease, so I’ve begun pinning all my hopes on its earthy sludge.
I trip over a shoe, sloshing red liquid onto an open Cosmopolitan magazine. The headline screams up at me: “10 Signs You’ve Finally Got Your Life Together.” I break into a chuckle. At least my sense of humor is intact.
At the ripe old age of fifty-one, I now have a label for my brain. Yes, folks, Lisa’s chaotic life is brought to you by ADHD.
Turns out it’s not just for hyperactive boys who can’t sit still in class: it also applies to impulsive, emotionally dysregulated
women like me who feel excessive amounts of guilt and are locked in a perpetual game of hide-and-seek with their thoughts,
time and possessions. Still, I like to think I keep track of what matters. I can tell when someone needs a hug or a pick-me-up
doughnut. Passwords vanish. Shoes disappear. But people? They stick.
I give up on my phone and head to the kitchen to reheat my forgotten coffee, to find there’s already a cup in the microwave.
Tossing it, I pop the new one in for a thirty-second zap, as a vibrating noise emanates from the cutlery drawer. My phone,
screen cracked, leaps on top of the forks like a kid on a sugar high.
It’s the nursing home asking about contributing to their fundraiser.
“Okay, I’m visiting him this morning,” I tell them. “I’ll pop into the office. Also, would the residents like some new craft
supplies? I noticed you were running low, and I’d love to make up a box for them. Yes? Okay, great.”
I hang up, my thoughts drifting. Should I have cared for my half-brother here instead? No. Forget tripping hazards, he’d drown
in mismatched socks and parcels. So, I live alone. No husband, no kids, no boyfriend. Just me and a drawer full of
spare greeting cards, bought in case someone needs cheering up.
Where would love even fit? Certainly not in my overflowing cupboards, or my volcanic laundry hamper with its constant eruption
of dirty clothes. Not at my desk, crowded with five half-full water glasses, or in my garden shed, stacked with dried paint
tins and homemade presents for friends that usually stall somewhere between idea and execution.
I head to the bathroom for a layer of makeup—armor for the day ahead.
In the mirror, the polished version of me stares back.
The one I hide behind. The one without ADHD.
The one without the relentless inner critic I’ve named Ursula, after the tentacled sea witch from The Little Mermaid who gave me nightmares as a child and an unnatural fear of calamari.
I glance at the clock. Time to go if I want a decent visit to the home before work. I can’t be late—my first client is Harriet
the bitch, who has the nerve to pass wind in front of me with no remorse. I’ll still offer her the nice biscuits, though.
“HEY, SIRI!”
“Uh-huh?” she answers from the top of the microwave.
My coffee is still in there. Lukewarm again.
Grabbing the phone, I notice a missed call from Tom. Must’ve been at least a year since we last spoke. He’s my oldest friend,
but the calls have been less frequent ever since he so rudely ignored my pleas to stay and moved six hours away to Echuca.
I make a mental note to call him tonight.
Starting the ignition of my Jeep, I crank up Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” and sing along at the top of my voice, throwing in some
tragic shoulder moves for good measure. A fitting soundtrack to my life.
As I back out of the driveway, something shatters, brown liquid dribbling down the windscreen. Not the first time I’ve put
my coffee on the roof of the car. I flick on the wipers, smearing my mistake across the glass, and drive into my blurry, loveless,
slightly ridiculous future to visit Griff—a man who no longer remembers who I am, but who still matters to me more than I
like to admit.