10
Griff
Lisa returns to my room flushed and glowing. “I’ve got to go now, Griff, but I almost forgot to give you this.” She rifles
through her bag and pulls out a creased envelope. “It came months ago. Sorry. I found it wedged behind the toaster with a
menu from that vegan Thai place I’ll never go to. Anyway, it’s for you. From a former colleague.”
My spine tightens. I keep my eyes on the window.
She opens it and starts to read before I can wave her off—not that I’m supposed to be waving.
Griff, I hope I haven’t left it too late and that you can still read this. I heard through the grapevine about your diagnosis.
I wanted to reach out and say that, despite everything, you were the best chef I ever worked under. You set a bar no one’s
matched since you left. I still quote you, by the way. Usually when someone’s fucked the sauce.
—Eli
Lisa folds the card and places it on the tray beside me. “That was nice of him. I think he was scared of you, but still.”
I don’t react. Can’t. Won’t. Inside, something twists.
I remember Eli—barely out of culinary school, I once reduced him to tears over a broken hollandaise.
He left Lorraine to pursue a career in pastry.
And now he’s writing like I’m some fallen hero.
Noble. Tragic. Fading. And I let him. I let everyone believe it.
Because the truth would undo everything they still think I was.
Lisa tops up my water and heads for the door. I forfeited many things when I faked having dementia, among them the chance
to say goodbye to anyone. It’s not like I could say, “It was nice knowing you. I’m going to pretend to forget now, bye!” So
when she leaves, I say nothing, staring at the hands of my vintage watch, inherited from Dad, worn as a golden reminder of
every second I had stolen from him.
I catch myself fantasizing about the afterlife again. Not the clouds and harps. If it does exist, I reckon heaven is simply
a life without weight, without “bad.” No selfishness, garlic breath or regret, just whatever’s left of us that hasn’t been
bruised. A place free of pain. I’ve caused and copped more than my fair share of that, some of it still marked on my body.
Like any chef worth his weight, I have loads of cooking scars. The burn scar on both palms from “cocky apprentice” Griff,
who thought he was invincible and, unlike every other human on the planet, didn’t need oven mitts. The tip of my left pinkie
when “Australian natives phase” Griff hastily sliced a finger lime but got more finger than lime. They are all good scars,
though, not like the other one. I rub my hand over the edge of my right forearm, on the last mark my stepfather ever left
on me—the last physical mark, that is. I pull down my sleeve. Better to dream of heaven than relive past hell.
You have to be good to get into heaven. But how high is the bar? Beau would have undoubtedly exceeded any standard, yet it
wouldn’t truly be heaven without your partner beside you. What if your soulmate ticked the boxes for the other, hotter place?
Will Beau be like one of those drop-dead-gorgeous girls who got their less-attractive friend past the bouncer at a nightclub?
Will his beautiful soul get me past the Pearly Gates? I’ll find out soon enough, straight after I’ve given Rob the tart.
I wait until I’ve had lunch—“had” meaning staring at a bowl of tomato soup so watery it could pass as raspberry cordial, then flushing it down the toilet.
Taking off my beanie, I slip on the chef whites I stashed in my cupboard after the kitchen escapade, just to feel important again.
Removing the container from the fridge, I head down the hall, checking the coast is clear of staff.
Silvia teeters past on her walking frame, her eyes teary. “Please, please, sir,” she begs, tugging at my shirt, her Italian
accent filled with urgency. “I need you to drive me home. Via Giovanni Devoti, Roma.”
I take the old woman’s hand. “Rome’s a long trip. How about we start with a cuppa and see how far we get?”
She nods, and I settle her in her armchair with a cup of tea before heading to Rob’s room.
Steiner’s Viola Concerto streams through his ajar door. For a moment, I see Beau playing it the night of his diagnosis despite
the terrible pain he was in.
I enter without knocking and startle as I spot a short, well-dressed woman in the armchair. I’ve seen her talking to Lisa
in the distance and out in the courtyard with Rob. “Hello!” she says. “I’m Mabel, Rob’s sister.” Her bright smile is in contrast
to his expressionless stare. “Nice to meet you.”
Rob clocks the tart. “Is that what I think it is?!” he shouts, with the enthusiasm of a lotto winner.
I nod.
“Sorry, you look awfully familiar, but I can’t quite place you.” Mabel looks my uniform up and down, then wipes her glasses.
“I’m . . . the new chef,” I say, placing the plate on his untouched brekkie tray.
Mabel frowns. “Oh! Usually the orderlies deliver the food, and it’s never anything this fancy.” She pauses, taking in Rob’s
amazed expression.
I get it: she’s hesitant to let her brother eat food from a rando. God forbid it contains arsenic or, even worse, butter and
flavor.
“They were short-staffed, so they asked me to deliver it as I was coming this way.”
“A new chef, hey! Wow. It looks so good! Rob is actually on a low-sugar diet though, you know.”
I keep a straight face. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her giving him jelly beans, though he’s lost a toe to diabetes.
Rob looks expectantly at his sister. “Mind if I eat it with my hands?”
“Yes, go on then.” She shoots me a sheepish glance.
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Lifting the generous slice to his lips, he sinks his teeth in, crumbs scattering over his
toothpaste-stained shirt. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mum!” he declares, pointing to me with a full mouth.
Mabel glances between Rob and me, her hand pressed to her lips. “He hasn’t spoken about our mother in years.”
“Here, try some, Mum and Mabel.” He breaks what’s remaining of the slice in two and holds them out.
The old woman tilts her head, studying me. “He’s mistaken you for our mother. Sorry. But please do have some!” She gives me
a piece, then hesitantly brings the other to her lips. “No wonder he thinks you’re Mum. This . . .” She stares at the yellow
slice in her hand. “This lemon tart, it’s exactly like she used to make. We always fought over the last slice, didn’t we,
Robbie?”
He watches her. “That’s my sister,” he says, as if recognizing her for the first time. Then he crooks a single arthritic finger,
beckoning me closer.
I lean in.
“She’s a stinker sometimes,” he stage-whispers in my ear, “but I love her to pieces. Don’t tell her that, though—it’s too
soppy.” He winks.
Mabel meets my eyes with a wobbly smile.
A pang of something deep and unspoken settles in my chest. It’s the kind of relationship Lisa and I might have had in another
life.
“She’s the best mum in the whole world, isn’t she, Mabel?” Rob says.
Mabel’s voice cracks. “She sure is, Robbie.” She squeezes his hand, then looks up at me, dabbing at a tear. “I’m sorry, I’m
getting ridiculous. It’s just . . . he’s never talked about Mum since his diagnosis almost five years ago. She died that same
Christmas, and I felt so alone in my grief. I didn’t realize how much I needed this—to be reminded how much he loved her too.”
She swallows hard. “It helps, doesn’t it? To talk about the ones we’ve lost?”
My throat tightens. I hadn’t talked to anyone about Beau.
Or Dad, for that matter. When had I last said my father’s name aloud?
My grief has lived in silence, locked away where no one can touch it.
Mum and Beau told me it wasn’t my fault, and I let them think I believed it.
But at night, when the world went quiet, the truth came swinging, merciless and unrelenting.
Blow after blow, Brent’s words were harder than any punch he could throw.
Mabel lets out a watery laugh. “Look at me. What a goose. I’m sorry, you’re a total stranger, and here I am pouring my heart
out . . .”
A better man might’ve said, No, please go on, or at least offered her a tissue. I just give her a small nod. It’s all I’ve got left. My heart is already lifting its maximum
weight. All this talk of family is bringing up too many images of my own.
I head back and remove the uniform. My room is empty, but I’m never truly alone. My demons are always there, ready to keep
me company.