Griff
Cliff is even better at faking dementia than I am. Sunny Glen is so understaffed, and the ones who are here are stretched
far too thin, likely relieved to see a resident who is happily sleeping and not in need of anything.
The kitchen has become my refuge again, warm, buttery and mine. I step in with a different name yet feel more like myself
there than anywhere else. I’ve cooked more in the past month than I did in the two years before it.
“Hello, Mr. Bartlet . . . oh, I mean Mr. Barlow, is it? Sorry, I don’t usually deliver the meals, but a few regulars are off
sick, so I got called in today.”
I freeze. There’s no need to look up—I know that voice.
I keep my head low, hoping that Scotty can’t see my face. “Thanks, just put it on the table,” I blurt in a panic, realizing
immediately that I should have stayed silent like always.
“It says here you don’t need help feeding, so I’ll leave you to it.”
Scotty places it down and turns to leave, and I exhale slowly. That was close. Too close.
He pauses at a framed photo of Lisa. “Oh! You’re Lisa’s brother! I met her the other day, such a friendly woman.” His eyes narrow. “I could have sworn she said you don’t talk anymore.”
I will him to leave before he sees any other pictures.
He shrugs, takes a couple of steps forward—then does a double take, returning to the photo of me with the Michelin star plaque.
“Oh! How do you know Martin the chef? Wait . . . he has a Michelin star?!” Scotty looks at me, coming closer.
Another couple of steps. His eyes widen, his face frozen in a slack-jawed expression.
Ice floods my veins, fast and sharp. The damage is done. I go to say something, but nothing comes.
“M . . . Martin . . . ?” he stammers.
“I . . . I can explain,” I lie, my cheeks burning.
“You’re . . . you’re a resident?”
“Uh, nooo . . . I’m just . . . visiting someone.” I stand up enthusiastically as if the act will prove it.
His eyes land on the photo taped beside the door—me, not smiling, right under the printed label: Room 19—Resident: Griff Barlow. The jig is up.
“Okay, yes, I’m a resident.” I sit on the bed, woozy from embarrassment.
“But I don’t understand . . . the name on the door is ‘Griff.’”
I extend a shaky hand, which he doesn’t take. “Pleased to meet you.”
Scotty staggers backward. “But Lisa’s brother Griff . . . he has dementia. It says here on the door that you have dementia.”
“I, um . . .”
The boy shakes his head, stepping away.
“Scotty, please. There’s a reason I had to fake it . . .”
The young man grasps the sides of his head. “Fake it? You are faking dementia?”
“I can explain—”
“How—I . . . I’m going to have to re—”
Allison bursts through the door, interrupting him. “What are you still doing here? You don’t get paid to stand around and
chat, you know!”
Scotty opens his mouth again and then closes it and exits without another word.
What was he going to say? “I have to re . . . report you”? “I have to relay this to Lisa”? Sweat beads on my forehead, and
I realize how important this job has become to me.
I finally have a kitchen to lose again.