47
Griff
“That must have been torture,” Scotty breathes, his brown eyes full of compassion. “Was it like that every time?”
I nod. “Some days, he raged, yelling and thrashing—which wasn’t like him at all. Other days, he just sat by the window, weeping,
doped up on whatever they gave him to keep him quiet. I never knew which was worse. Every time, he’d call my name over and
over—like I was the one part of him that hadn’t disappeared. The only thing he still knew how to hold on to.” I pick up the
photo again and brush my thumb over his face. “But the moment he saw me? Everything changed. I was his calm. And even then,
even broken, he was mine.
“One day as I was leaving, one of the nurses said, ‘If only you could be with him all the time.’”
Scotty nods. “And that’s when you thought of it.”
“Not right away. I mean who in their right mind would fake dementia? But the more I thought about it . . . the less crazy
it seemed. Beau was the one with friends, with community, even though they found it very hard to visit after he deteriorated.
But you have to understand that Beau was my community. The sole person who truly made me feel safe and seen. I’d given up my job, and my relationship with my remaining
family—Lisa—was fractured. This was the only way to be near him. I wasn’t old enough for aged care. I considered faking a
physical disability, but that’d be easier to disprove. And it wouldn’t have got me into Beau’s room. I’m not proud of it,
but feigning Alzheimer’s was my ticket in.”
“But wouldn’t you have to have a scan or something to prove it?”
“No. Surprisingly, people with Alzheimer’s can have normal brain imaging. Only behavioral changes are needed for a diagnosis.
And by then, I knew the disease inside out.”
Scotty eyes the spare bed again. “And then he died. And you got stuck here?”
“Not just stuck. Trapped. If I ever came clean, it wouldn’t just be Lisa I’d be confessing to, it’d be half the country. I
was pretty famous in the cooking world. The diagnosis made the news, as you know.”
Footsteps approach.
I glance at the time. “The carer’s about to come in and put me in my pj’s. Unless you want nightmares of me stark naked, I
suggest you hide. Fast.”
The door swings open just as Scotty dives under the bed with the bottle of whisky.
I switch gears to dementia mode. Second nature now. If the real thing comes, will I even notice?
Navneet steps in, all warmth and efficiency. “Hello, Mr. Barlow! How are we this evening? Ready for bed? Right, then. Oooh,
look! We’ve got your lovely red-and-green pajamas here! Put these on, and you’ll feel like it’s Christmas!”
A stifled laugh rises from below the bed.
Thankfully, Navneet’s too busy unbuttoning my shirt to notice. I wave her off as usual, preferring to do it myself.
“Look at you, Mr. Barlow, you look so terrific in bright colors!”
Yep. Bloody delightful, love.
Another muffled sound from the floor. Hopefully, he’s keeping his eyes shut.
“Now, mister, time for the toilet and to brush those pearly whites!”
Hip-freaking-hooray.
As I stand there, aware of Scotty a meter away—the first proper audience to my performance—the room begins to close in as
I realize just how far I’ve let this go.
I had blinkers on for Beau. Everything I did was to help him. People say love is blind. Maybe mine was. I built my whole life around that single view, and I didn’t see the consequences until I’d already stepped in them.
The deception happened so gradually, with a thin new coat of face paint every day, each layer making me look more like someone
with dementia.
I stare at the mirror. I never noticed how thick the makeup had got. Depression sealed it like lacquer, hardened the lie until
it wasn’t just something I wore, it was something I became. When Beau died, I planned to follow.
But then, by chance, cooking found a way to call me back. The mask opened the door, but the kitchen opened something in me.
In there, I’m not pretending for Beau anymore: I’m pretending for myself. I’m pretending for Rob and Gladys and Scotty. It
dulls the edges of grief. Makes me feel like I’m still useful, something other than a ghost haunting Beau’s empty bed.
And I like it. God help me, I like it. I’m becoming human again, even if just on weekends.
Navneet squeezes toothpaste onto the brush and hands it to me. I flush with shame, like a kid who’s faked being sick only
to realize his mum had to take an important day off work to look after him. I’ve never felt the guilt more cleanly, more sharply,
than in this moment.
When Navneet tells me to spit, it takes everything for me to not vomit instead. Sickened by the man I’ve become, I expel the
minty foam into the sink and watch it swirl down the drain. Part of me wants to go with it. Part of me wants to confess. But
instead, I stay silent and let her witness me taking a piss.
She tucks me in and potters around the room, collecting laundry. The room sinks into silence. My fingers curl into the sheets,
gripping tighter with every breath. In the dark, there’s no hiding from it. I’ve done something truly despicable. I’m taking
the bed of someone who actually needs it. Not that there’s ever a waiting list for this particular circle of hell, but still.
The guilt sits like a fresh stone in my gut. Heavy. Undeniable. And yet, I can’t give it up. Because cooking for the residents is the one scrap of proof I have that I can still do good. That I’m not just taking up space and air.
If I told the truth now . . . I couldn’t bear the fallout. The shame. Not after everything. No restaurant in the country would
have me if this news broke. If I want to be a chef, this is the only way.
I know what my lies have cost. How do I pay that back? Maybe by giving more than I’ve taken. By being the best damn chef any
nursing home has ever seen.
If the boy under my bed doesn’t expose me.