Lemons

The sounds from the television reach me in the bathroom; I turned it on to keep Lisa from disturbing me whilst doing the laundry. It always works like a charm - a high-pitched squeal escapes her little body at every suggestion. I don’t think she’s realised I do it more for my own sake than hers yet. Hopefully, she never will. These - among others - are the kinds of things I ponder over when haphazardly shoving soaking wet clothes into the laundry basket: Lisa’s ignorance to my motherly schemes, whether I got the spaghetti sauce out of my work uniform or not, and occasionally, if we should get that dog both Lisa and I have been wanting. I hum as I shuffle into the living room - the clothes pegs joining in with a chorus of domestic melodies from my pockets.

I turn the corner to the room where I left my daughter - propped up against an abundance of pillows - to watch her cartoons. Given her previous enthusiasm, it surprises me to find her no longer watching them. Instead, the TV displays a stern man giving some lecture or other; banners flash over the screen insisting on the importance of his words. All I catch is ‘epidemic’, ‘caution’, and ‘worrisome’. Bending to pick up Lisa’s newly washed sweater, I say: 

‘Should you really be watching scary stuff like that? You’re too old to sleep in my bed if you get spooked.’

‘I wasn’t! He interrupted Peppa!’ she responds, pouting.

With hands still wet from hanging clothes, I grab for the remote. Every channel I flip to shows the same thing: that stern speaker. Something must be wrong with the TV, I conclude. I turn it off to resume the laundry - the task suddenly doubly difficult with Lisa running around and bumping into everything (including me).

With everything finally hung, and Lisa’s energy supply exhausted, we’re resting next to each other on the couch. Slight snores leave her every now and again, filling me with every blissful emotion under the sun. The bright light from my phone hurts my eyes, but I can’t be bothered to turn its intensity down. I’d rather just keep scrolling aimlessly until I find something interesting. Amid the celebrity dating drama and social media fights, I eventually come across a news article entitled:

First Death Recorded in Mysterious New Epidemic

It’s suddenly clear that absolutely nothing was wrong with the television earlier, and that whatever that man was saying was not part of some fictitious script like I’d assumed. It was a real emergency announcement. I press the headline. My eyes scan the bold letters, and I struggle to grasp that it’s real. Three days ago a woman in her twenties, sharing a commune with twelve other people, fell victim to paranoia and delusions despite never having shown any previous signs of mental illness. Shortly after, she began mutilating herself. A housemate told the writer big chunks of skin just came clean off when she scratched herself; it was as if her skin was melting, encouraging her to lose it. She was the ‘first death’ the article had promised. Further down the page, it ensures the reader that the healthy housemates had been sent to live with family and friends to prevent infection. The writer also estimated current cases to be roughly two hundred people, yet confessed to not knowing whether the disease came in the form of a virus, a bacteria, or even a parasite. In the article’s final line it’s revealed that a team of scientists gave it the affectionate nickname of Lemons for ‘reasons unknown’.

There’s probably no need to worry yet. Two hundred isn’t too high a number over three days, is it? Either way, I wash and sanitise my hands regularly, and make sure Lisa does the same. I’m firm with her not to put her fingers in her mouth or nose. We’re good at not getting sick.

Someone is calling me. It’s early; my alarm for work hasn’t even gone off yet.

‘Mum? Why are you calling this early?’ I whisper into the phone.

‘Marie, are you and Lisa okay? I heard what they were saying on the news,’ my mother says in the kindergarten teacher voice which used to annoy me to pieces as a teenager.

‘What? Yeah, we’re okay. Could this not have waited a couple of hours?’

‘Just know that you’re free to stay here if you’d feel safer out in the countryside,’ she continues, still not acknowledging the inconvenient time - making my sleep deprivation riot in the process.

‘Thanks, mum, but I’m really not worried. Besides, my boss thinks I’ve been slacking off lately. She’ll kill me if I disappear now,’ I sigh before hanging up the phone.

My mother’s phone call is playing on loop in my mind the entire morning. Should I be more worried than I am? Would it be best if we went there anyway? Maybe I should drop Lisa off there at the very least. She shouldn’t have to fall ill simply because I’m slower at checking customers’ products out when I’m tired. No, I keep telling myself. We’ll be fine.

We’re good at not getting sick.

We are.

Lisa eats her sandwiches and watches her tablet the entire time I get ready for work. She’s not very fast. Five minutes before we need to leave she has half a sandwich left and is still in her pyjamas. I grab an outfit for her and tell her to finish her breakfast in the car, but she’s not budging.

‘Pumpkin, please. They might not mind too much in first grade, but my boss will be very angry with me, and it’s thanks to her that you get so many dino nuggies,’ I plead, knowing just where to strike to make it count.

She crams the entire rest of her food into her mouth in one big bite and practically flies into her clean clothes. She’s in the car with her backpack resting in her lap before I even get my shoes on.

The cashier machine beeps as I slide the items over the scanner; a stressed dad is rummaging through his wallet as his son tries to pull him out of the store. He keeps insisting on how they’ll leave soon - he just has to pay first. Knowing the pain of attempting to control young children in stores myself, I offer him a sympathetic smile before declaring the total cost of his groceries. After paying, the dad gets dragged away by his impatient son, and a teenage girl takes their place. Behind her, I spot a man scratching his arms frantically. This summer’s mosquitoes are no joke. I tear my eyes off of him to assist the girl by the register with her items: cat food, tampons, and a tub of ice cream.

It’s the same as every work day - boring, repetitive, tiring. But it needs to be done. Thanks to its monotony, however, a smile is always guaranteed to adorn my lips when I see Lisa rush out of school - waving the day’s project in her hands, just waiting to show me it - and cram herself into my old Honda Civic. Today, she gleefully demonstrates the macaroni man she and her best friend glued together during art class. As always, I tell her they’ve both done a great job before breaching the topics of dinner and homework. At those, she - as always - sighs and loses interest in the conversation, instead pinning her attention on her macaroni man. The roads are crowded tonight, especially the ones leading out of town, and our drive home takes nearly twice as long as it normally does; a fact not aided by Lisa’s insistent moans of ‘tummy rumbles’.

Once home, I go to prepare dinner. Lisa requested macaroni and cheese in the car (‘to make Macaroni Man feel welcome’) and I can’t complain in the slightest. It’s fast and easy, and I know she’ll finish her plate for once. I turn on the television to accompany me in my cooking - music makes me feel even more alone than silence, so I opt for podcasts or TV shows instead. Some kind of crime show is playing at first, but as I’m still grating the cheese, it stops abruptly. Now, the same man from yesterday is speaking. I turn up the volume, hoping it won’t disturb Lisa’s studying enough for her to confront me and notice him again; I don’t exactly know how good the average six-year-old’s critical thinking skills are, but I’d rather not take any chances. The man on the television announces that the number of known cases has increased to seven hundred overnight and encourages everyone to take the utmost caution. Nothing new has been discovered about Lemons

Maybe it’s time to worry now.

It is time to worry now.

‘When’s the food done?’ Lisa interrupts me in my thoughts.

I have no idea how long she’s been here for so I scramble for the remote to turn off the volume whilst mumbling, 'soon'. She studies me for a moment - am I being suspicious? Can she tell I’m hiding something? Oh, God, what if she can?

It’s late. I can’t sleep. I’ve been watching the minutes tick by on my alarm clock for the past three hours. No matter what I do, my mind returns to Lemons. It really would be better for us both to leave before either of us gets sick. But what if it’s already too late? Maybe the only reason I’m being this worried is because I’m already sick. Is this paranoia?

No, it can’t be.

Paranoia has to revolve around irrational fears, doesn’t it? Otherwise it wouldn’t be paranoia; just survival instinct. Right? And assuming it is just survival instinct, how do I pull off leaving in the middle of the night without letting the truth slip to Lisa? She shouldn’t have to worry; she’s a child.

But what if I am sick? Then I might’ve infected her already - it won’t matter if we go to the countryside. I’ll kill my daughter! She’s going to die because of me. No, I should just leave. If I’m no longer around, I won’t get her sick. Except, that won’t work either; she can’t fend for herself. She’ll surely die then. Maybe she still has a chance if we stay at my mother’s house.

Maybe we both have a chance.

I’m stumbling around the house in fuzzy slippers (which I only own because of their ability to silence footsteps), forcing essentials into bags. My gym bag is stuffed to the brim with clothes for us both; Lisa’s school backpack has her tablet, my wallet, toiletries, and medicine in it. In the hand I’m not loading bags with, I’m holding my phone, praying for my mother to pick up. Multiple beeps sound in my ear, and I feel my heart rate skyrocket with each and every one. Pick up. Please. Now. I unplug a couple of chargers from their outlets and force them into Lisa’s bag, which is nearing its bursting point.

My mother’s voice sounds on the other end of the line.

Tears of relief brim my eyes. Then, just as I’m about to start speaking, I realise it’s her voicemail. It would be an understatement to say that the tears that start to fall are far from the relieved ones I’d anticipated seconds before. I fall onto the floor with my back against the kitchen counter - still clutching the chargers. Tears stream soundlessly for a good five minutes in which I can’t do anything else.

Anything except…

What if I could dig the Lemons out myself? I put my fingernails to my skin, just lightly, on my ankle. I inhale gravely - the first sound I’ve made since the beginning of my breakdown - and push them into my flesh. Never before in my life have I injured myself voluntarily, so I don’t exactly know how it's supposed to feel, but I doubt it should be this easy. My fingers intrude upon the flesh effortlessly enough for me to forget it’s my flesh; it’s far more reminiscent of kneading a dough than anything. I can feel the Lemons scratching just beneath the surface, dying to be set free. But just then, my phone rings. I snap back into reality, note the finger-shaped bruises all around my ankle, whisper a curse word, and answer the phone.

‘Marie? I just noticed you called. Is everything okay? It’s the middle of the night.’

‘About the offer you made yesterday,’ I begin in a whisper, my tone unfittingly formal. ‘Does it still stand?’

‘I mean, yes, of course. But I thought you couldn’t leave work,’ my mother replies, bewilderment seeping out of her voice as she raises fully valid concerns.

‘Screw that stupid job, screw my boss, screw this shithole city. All I want right now is to get away from those damn Lemons!’ I cry out, all whisper and formality gone.

I hear Lisa move in her room - I’ve woken her. Shit. She can’t see me like this. I press my mother for an answer, thank her, and hang up quickly. Then, remembering how I’d been crying just minutes ago, I open the camera app to ensure there are no obvious signs left behind. Some mascara I’d forgotten to remove is smudged around my eyes, but the room is hopefully dark enough to hide it; other than that - nothing. My daughter waddles into the kitchen on bare feet - sleep still in her eyes - and asks about the noise. I offer a pleading apology with open arms, prepared for a hug. She falls into me, making words of reassurance gush from my mouth. Words I don’t believe in the slightest. All that matters is that she does. Along with the reassurance, I inform her that we must leave. Now. Not the why, just the what.

Some of the lights at the rest stop are flickering. It’s very dark, and the only identifiable sound is the engine I refuse to turn off. Lisa jolted awake from her nap needing to pee, so I’m waiting for her in the car. I know a good mother would probably accompany her young daughter into the gas station bathroom in the middle of the night, but I’m petrified. Every muscle - every atomic fibre of my being - has remained frozen since she left for the toilets. Alongside that, the nagging in my brain has returned. It’s too late. We’re both going to die. The Lemons are inside of me.

The Lemons are inside of me.

With new fervour, I roll up my sleeves and dig my nails into both arms. My flesh is even softer than before; I barely have time to apply the slightest bit of pressure before the viscous crimson starts pouring. Whether I’m imagining it or not, I can’t say. Before my eyes, the skin appears to shred itself to leathery strips, draping themselves over my bones and muscles. It doesn’t hurt. No, not physically. Not even mentally. What I’m doing is good, so long as I persist, the Lemons will get out, and then we’ll both be safe. I just need to get the Lemons out.

A shriek. I tear my eyes away from the self mutilation to locate the source of the sound. Lisa is standing stock-still halfway between the car and the toilets. A man and a woman are blocking her path - any further actions are impossible to dissect from this angle. Panic rises in my chest. Now a good mother would definitely do something. I have to do something. I pull down my sleeves again, immediately soaking them in blood and feeling the fleshy strips swing independently against the cotton. A shiver runs through my body; I nearly gag. A sigh of resolve gets breathed as I force open the car door. Hurried steps on unsteady legs take me to the scene. Tears are streaming from my daughter’s eyes and she wails excruciatingly as she sees me. I now meet the man’s eyes. The woman has no eyes to meet. Her face is so molten one can barely make out the shape of her cranium; all the hair has fallen off, revealing brand new patches of skin to shed. She screams as she tears at herself - the Lemons have to get out, no matter the cost. My daughter needs to be protected, no matter the cost.

I move in front of Lisa, who grabs my hand in fear. It’s covered in blood - she doesn’t seem to notice. Her tiny fingers tremble around mine. I’d hug her, but I’m worried the disease is too advanced for me to do so without falling apart at the seams. I use her grip on my hand to motion us both backwards. She takes a few paces before I feel her hand slip out of mine. A glance behind me reveals that she’s stumbled to the gravel, a fresh scrape on her knee. The distance between ourselves and the dying couple no longer being nauseatingly small, I kneel to bring her to her feet. She, instead, crawls onto my shoulder. Satisfied with this alternative, I move slowly towards my Honda. I ensure she never has to face the melting woman or her slightly more solid companion.

That is, until I turn to open the car door. For a mere second, Lisa faces them both, and her grasp around my shoulders - and neck - instantaneously tightens. She’s holding on to my collar. I can feel the pressure tighten around my neck. In her restrictive hold, I struggle for the handle. Every passing second pushes the collar tighter against my throat and I plead for her to let go in gurgles. She doesn’t. I keep fumbling – her grip continuously growing tighter. Tighter until I’m no longer able to plead nor fumble anymore. The Lemons allow her to wrap tightly enough to draw blood. Tightly enough to open deep, pulsating wounds.

Tightly enough to decapitate.