22
Griff
At the mention of her name, I knew I had to have her. Hot, crispy, rubbed with olive oil and salt, cooked on high until she
transforms into a glorious goddess. How could I have even contemplated leaving this world without once again tasting the fatty
miracle that is crackling? Her evangelistic taste had converted more than one vegetarian in her life with her sultry smell
and wicked crunch. Thank god they had pork in the fridge. She is my vice and the reason why, when my addiction to her was
at its worst, I could no longer fit into my jeans. I just hope Gladys’s dentures can handle it.
The timer beeps, and I place the suntanned vixen on the countertop, a big drop of fat catapulting off the top onto my chef
whites. As much as I want to bite straight into it, I’ve forgotten the applesauce. Not essential, but a personal favorite
accompaniment. I make quick work of it, keeping it simple by dicing a few Granny Smiths. I don’t bother to peel them—the skin
adds fiber, though what does it matter at this point? Anyone who is faking dementia is already full of shit, what’s a bit
more?
I boil the apples with a dash of water and a pinch of sugar and blend with a handheld stick-mixer, bringing a spoon to my
tongue. It’s missing my secret ingredient: brandy.
Using the same key as last time, I step into the liquor pantry, scanning the shelves, shaking my head at the rows of cheap box wines that sit side by side, most of which I deem unfit even for cooking.
I spy brandy at the top. The moment I reach for it, I realize my mistake as the door clicks shut behind me, the key still in the lock outside.
I search for a paperclip or something else I can try to unlock it with.
Nada. I try to ram the door open, my shoulder screaming in protest. I’m going to be stuck here all night.
But what’s the worst that can happen if I’m found?
I guess I’ll just play my dementia card, and they’ll take me back to my room.
The office phone springs to life, making me flinch. After a few rings, a sickly sweet, automated message clicks on. It’s muted
by the closed door, but I know it by heart.
“Hello, thank you for calling Sunny Glen Aged Care Facility, where every cloud has a silver lining . . .” My ulcerated stomach
has a bigger lining than this hole of a place. “Please note that our office hours are Monday to Friday from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.
All calls outside of this will be forwarded to the kitchen . . .” The voice leaves an emergency number, then the answering
machine beeps, and a man leaves a muffled message, but I can’t quite decipher the words.
The tacky booze stares at me from the shelf, and I shrug. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I select the closest box simply
labeled RED WINE (no distinction of varietals or vintage). Pulling the nozzle from the cardboard, I release the tap straight into my mouth.
My tastebuds don’t tolerate it for a second, and I spray it like a burst sprinkler all over my chef whites and apron, my arm
knocking a bottle of stout that shatters to the ground in big pieces. I glance down and sigh.
It now appears that I have tried Death Menu item Number 12: “Griff Julienne.”
“At least I know what grape you are,” I mutter to the offending box under my breath. “Shit-raz.” I pause, expecting to hear
Beau’s chuckle—he loved word-play jokes. But the laugh track of my life has gone, replaced by silence.
I open the brandy and take a sip. It’s not quite as offensive as the shit-raz, though it still tastes like petrol. I sit on
a plastic crate and pick up a shard of brown glass. If only guilt were more like milk, with an expiration date. It keeps us
in all kinds of prisons. I take swig after swig until the room turns fuzzy and dark, my nightmares coming back to haunt me.