36
Griff
The cold air creeps up the sleeves of my flannel pajamas as I sit on the wooden step of the house next door. Should’ve brought
a robe, something to read and more willpower.
flinch. Headlights sweep across the yard, illuminating the eyes of a previously invisible possum way too close for comfort.
I spring to my feet, pins and needles shooting up my calves.
The stocky driver leaves the engine running as he unloads the paper bags from the boot. He squints at me through the glare
of the high beams, looks me up and down, then beyond me to the shoddy house with its broken roof, half-hung door, and crumbling
veranda. “Er . . . shopping for Griff Barlow?”
“That’s me,” I confirm.
“Where do you want it? I can take it in the . . . house, if you like?” He glances behind me again with a grimace.
I briefly consider asking him to carry it through the fence to my nursing-home room. He’s half my age and probably twice as
strong. But I can’t risk it. “Here’s fine. I’ll take it in.”
“You sure? It’s pretty dark out.”
“Yeah, all good. Just have a blackout. Power should be back on soon.”
He shrugs, finishes unloading the bags and hops back in the car. “Alright, have a good night.”
I wave, expecting him to leave, but he sits there scrolling his phone.
How long is it socially acceptable for me to stand here and wave?
I fear I’ve crossed the line; I’m actually going to have to take the shopping into the house.
Grabbing the two closest bags, I walk to the front door, muttering under my breath.
I glance back; he’s watching me like he’s daring me to go inside.
Is he staying to see if I’m okay or waiting for his next delivery?
As I climb the steps, a rotten board gives way, and I almost fall through, catching my balance just in time. The young man’s
eyes are glued to me, like he’s watching a slow-motion disaster. I slap on the biggest grin I can muster, give a thumbs-up
and enter the pitch-black house. Something scuttles across the floor, and I swallow a yelp.
Setting the bags down, I flick on my phone torch. Mouse shit. Everywhere. Perfect. I snatch the groceries off the floor as
the blessed crunch of tires signals the car pulling away. Thank god. But then, because the universe never misses a punch line,
it starts to rain—slowly at first, then in fast smacking drops, like mock applause for my poor life choices.
I sigh and begin the arduous task of hauling the groceries through the fence and in through the window like a reverse burglar.
They won’t fit in my bar fridge, so I exit the dementia ward and haul them to the walk-in refrigerator. What was I thinking?
I can’t do this every week!
I’m on my third trip to the kitchen when I spy a wheelchair in the storage closet near my room. You little ripper! I load
all the remaining bags onto it, before tossing a sheet from the linen closet on top, in case anyone comes by.
I’m halfway down the long hall when I run into an agency nurse. “Hello! What are you doing out of bed?” she says, checking
an iPad. “I’ll take you back to the dementia ward. What’s that you’ve got there?”
My mind goes blank, perhaps from months of practice. But I can’t let her lift the sheet, so I break my usual silence. “I’m
taking my baby for a walk,” I blurt.
She tilts her head, peering at the suspiciously lumpy bundle. “Oh! What a gorgeous baby you have!” she says in the play-along,
make-believe tone of a Play School presenter commonly heard in this place.
I stretch my lips into what I hope is a smile but suspect is more of a taxidermy grimace.
She reaches for the sheet.
“Don’t touch my baby!”
“Okay, okay. Baby is safe. Why don’t we get you back to bed so you can rest, just like your little one?”
I press my lips together. With A-grade porterhouse in there, this food baby is about as precious as an infant. “I want to
bring him.”
“How about I tuck you in, and I’ll look after him, okay?”
Absolutely not. But if I push too hard, she’ll get suspicious.
I let her guide me back to bed, relieved I hadn’t put Cliff there. The second she’s out of sight, I’m up, punching in the
code to exit the dementia wing again.
She makes a beeline for the shopping then veers to the staff toilet.
I don’t have long. Power walking through the corridor, I duck into the five closest rooms, pressing call bells like a naughty
kid hitting unnecessary buttons in an elevator. Then it’s a mad dash back to my sweet bundle of joy, shoving him down the
hall and out of sight.
Peeking around the corner, I spot the poor nurse dashing from room to room, trying to figure out why half the South Wing is
suddenly in distress. I shove the groceries into the fridge then tear open the goat cheese and pop a tart, creamy piece into
my mouth. It’s divine. The residents have no idea what’s coming.
On my way to my room, I dump the wheelchair back in the closet.
“Oi!” calls the nurse. “How did you get out again, and where’s your baby?”
I glance at the empty hallway. Then at my slippers. “I ate my baby.”
She shrugs. “Well, better you than a dingo, hey?”
I keep a straight face and let her lead me to my room. I get changed, trading my damp pj’s for a dry Scotch, knowing that
in a few hours I’ll be back to cook and feed my baby to everyone.