Lisa
Thank god Frank didn’t ask to come in. We couldn’t have even made it past the hall table without him discovering who I truly
am.
I press my hand to my sternum, heart still racing. His cologne lingers, earthy, warm and oddly steadying. Am I relieved or
disappointed that he didn’t go in for the kiss? Maybe it’s too far for him to bend down. This is clearly not going to be an
ergonomic relationship. Even in my favorite cream heels, I’d probably need a step stool to snog him.
How would sex even work? I don’t think we could kiss and, well . . . have other things line up at the same time.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, you goose, Ursula tells my blushing reflection in the hall mirror.
I drag my feet to the washing machine and open the door, a thick, dank smell filling the air. I’ve forgotten to hang it out
again, but I’m too tired now. My back is beginning to ache; it’s been a while since I’ve worn stilettos.
A moment later I’m standing in the kitchen with a blister pack of ibuprofen, a glass of water and zero memory of whether I’ve
taken them or was just about to take them. Grabbing my phone, I google what happens if you take a double dose: stomach pain . . .
bleeding. I’ll just have to suck it up.
I get ready for bed and slip under the cool sheets, popping on my earphones like the ones I’d bought for Mabel.
I’m so glad she liked them—best online impulse buy ever!
And there have been many, especially during the pandemic.
To be honest, most days I didn’t know what was coming, and if I’d opened a box and it was an inflatable flamingo costume, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.
“Connected,” the bluetooth lady announces as I flip through Netflix on my phone, though I really should take my own advice
and listen to a mindfulness track.
Ten episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine later, I minimize the screen to check the time: 3 a.m. Nooo! Morning Lisa, who had to wake up at seven, won’t be happy with
Night Lisa. Selfish woman. I set my alarm, put on a white-noise track, and begin the long and torturous process of trying
to get my aerobic brain to calm down and go to sleep.
Ursula is loud tonight. At first, she examines Frank and analyzes every detail of the date, listing all the reasons why he
will never call again, how I was misreading the signs. This is new material, as it’s been a couple of years since I’ve had
interest of the romantic kind.
After about an hour of this, my brain turns to its recent nightly program: Why Didn’t My Brother Love Me Growing Up? What Was Wrong with Me? It has many, many episodes and an open-ended season finale called “How Could I Have Been so Stupid?” It’s like the writer
and the lead actor of the show have died, so there is no one I can ask for answers. Even the supporting cast is gone.
Now I need the toilet. I force myself out of bed.
I don’t normally look at my wee. Well, I haven’t for over a decade anyway. I’m not a weirdo or anything. But the flush button
isn’t working, and when I try it the second time, I’m sure I see a hint of pink where there should be yellow. My breath catches
in my chest.
I inhale slowly, chanting the words of Dr. Penn like a mantra in my head. If I had it, it would show up before I was forty. If I had it, it would show up before I was forty.
It’s probably just a UTI, I tell my brain. But my heart doesn’t listen. The image of Mum’s pink wee and the beep of her dialysis
machine turn my legs to jelly. Her constant nausea. The bone-deep fatigue and puffy, swollen ankles. The breathlessness that
made even a few steps a struggle.
I lean against the sink. We watched her endure dialysis, kidney failure and, eventually, death.
She had a rare kidney type and never found a donor before complications set in.
Griff, nearly forty and free of cysts, was cleared to be tested but wasn’t a match.
I was too young, still at risk of inheriting the disease myself.
We had a fifty-fifty chance that it would be passed down. Being significantly older, he’s been in the clear for ages. It was
only about ten years ago that I finally believed I didn’t inherit it. The specialist said the signs usually appear in your
thirties, and all my ultrasounds had been fine.
My life revolved around those scans, my mind darting to worst-case scenarios. It wasn’t logical, but in the days leading up
to each checkup, I’d be racked with anxiety to the point of not being able to get out of bed, so worried about dying that
I had forgotten how to live. After the last one, Beau and Helen threw me a celebration. I was too ashamed to tell them I’d
forgotten to set my alarm and missed the appointment. I meant to rebook, but days slipped into weeks, and suddenly it just
never happened. Still, I felt better than I had in years and assumed the risk was over.
My hands shake as I twist the tap, holding my wrists under the cold stream. I hoped stopping the scans and fretting over my
health would give me space to find a man. It didn’t. I dated a few guys over the years, but I’ve never been able to fully
invest. These were men who were looking to settle down and have kids. The thought of being a mum petrifies me. I don’t know
what terrifies me more: the idea of being responsible for another human being when I could barely look after myself, or the
fact that I could be a carrier and pass down this disease. In every relationship, I wore a mask—often several. I had more
disguises than a Comic-Con lineup. I hid my fear of getting sick, said nothing about the ADHD I didn’t yet have a name for,
and slipped into the role of the other Lisa—the one who passes for normal.
I sit on the edge of the cool bath, burying my head in my hands. What does it matter now anyway? Forget about Frank. No one
will want to take this on.
Unless . . . could it be the red smoothies?
Asparagus could make your wee smell bad, could beetroot color it?
I quickly google and an article appears.
Sure enough, beetroot can turn your wee pink!
That’s got to be it, right? I scroll further.
UTIs, cancer and kidney disease could be it too.
The article turns blurry as an uneasy feeling settles in my chest. I have to be sensible.
My hands tremble as I type in the GP’s website and make an appointment.
I can’t get in until next week. But that’s more than fine with me. Maybe my wee will turn yellow again, and I can cancel it.
“If I had it, it would show up before I was forty . . .” But no matter how many times I say that to myself, I don’t believe
it.
I stand, open the lid, and try the half-flush button. It miraculously works. Out of sight out of mind? Not for me. Sleep will
be im-possible now.
Jumping into bed, I scroll Insta on my phone. My oldest friend Tom said he doesn’t believe that our phones are listening to
us, but if the first three items in my feed aren’t proof, I don’t know what is: an ad for a step stool, a recipe for beetroot
cake, and an article on the national shortage of kidney donors.