34
Griff
I unzip the seam along Pooh Bear’s back and reach in. Once gloriously overstuffed, his secret stash of three-ply is down to
one sad, crumpled roll. Time to restock. I place the order on my phone then pick up The Death Menu, now crossed out and filled with a real menu, a life menu. With food that sustains.
I’ve done alright with limited ingredients thus far, but I’m itching to expand like a master painter who’s only been given
a box of crayons. My eyes return to the screen. Then it hits me—online grocery shopping! Lisa tried to convert me during the
pandemic, but I turned up my nose. As a chef, selecting my own ingredients was nonnegotiable. An online shopper wouldn’t know
a perfectly ripe cantaloupe if it jumped up and bit them on the bum. But now . . .
I download the supermarket app, set up an account using the abandoned house’s address, and within minutes I’m adding everything
to my cart like a kid in an online candy store. Portobello mushrooms. Pancetta. Goat cheese.
Then I look at the cart total. Yikes. And I haven’t even added Wagyu.
I open a new tab and check my secret bank account. It’s taken a hit these past months of trying to fill the boredom with online
shopping. I scowl at the novelty cat clock that lives under my bed, the one I bought off Temu when I was halfway through a
bottle of port.
If I want better ingredients, I need more cash. But I can’t touch my main account, not without raising suspicions from my accountant. Damn dementia. Once it’s official, you can’t access your own money. Can’t make more, either.
Wait a minute. I not only have a job, but I’m damn good at it, so it is fair I receive remuneration, right? Plus, if Martin
is a half-decent bloke and gets paid for a role he isn’t doing, he’ll let on, and I’ll be found out. The employment form has
Martin’s bank details on it, so I have to change those to my own. Not just to be paid for my work, but to stay hidden.
According to Nishan, the only way to update my details is to collect the paperwork from reception during business hours, Monday
to Friday. Days I am not Martin.
It’s a big risk, but on Monday morning I suit up in my best outfit—the one they stuffed me into for Christmas carols—and one
of Beau’s old ties. Off goes the beanie. I shave, slick my hair, and trim the nostrils; I’m going for “dignified staff member”
not “escaped garden gnome.”
Reception is by the front entrance, so I can’t just wander down the hallway like a confused resident looking for the toilet.
If I was a real staff member off-duty, I’d be coming from outside. So, I climb out my window, stroll around the building,
and walk in like I own the place. A face mask and Beau’s old reading glasses add a solid layer of disguise, even if I have
to squint over the top to see. Donning my best poker face, I march toward the desk, trying not to look like my digestive system
has been replaced with a NutriBullet.
The young blond receptionist offers a smile. “Hi, I’m Tiff. How can I help you?”
“Hello, I’m Martin McDonald. Weekend chef. I need to update my bank details, please.”
She pulls a folder from the drawer. “You don’t have to wear a mask in common areas anymore, you know.”
“I know, force of habit. Can’t be too careful.”
She shrugs, then looks at me through narrowed eyes. “Have we met before?”
“Not officially no, but I’ve seen you around.”
She buys it and hands me a form.
“Cheers. I’ll just be a tick.”
I stroll to the visitor’s toilet, lock the door, and whip out my phone, grateful I took a photo of Martin’s paperwork. I fill
in his full name, date of birth and employee number, only substituting my own bank details. The account name won’t match,
but Beau once told me just the numbers matter after I accidentally transferred three thousand dollars to “Paul the Panter”
and had to reassure him Paul was a painter not a stripper. It looks like pay is monthly, so I’ve changed it in time.
I puff out my chest at my reflection in the mirror. Robin Hood for the elderly.
Striding confidently back to the foyer, I recoil as I come face-to-face with Allison, who is reprimanding Tiff. “This is the
third time you’ve forgotten! How many times do I have to say it? When a resident passes away, make sure you ask the family
for twenty dollars to cover the cost of the plastic storage bags we pack their clothes in.”
“But those bags are only five bucks, aren’t they?” Tiff asks, a surprised look on her face.
“Yes, but we are a business here, remember, not a charity!”
“Sorry, seems a bit rough, that’s all,” Tiff mumbles.
“You want rough? Try balancing staff rosters, accreditation documentation and residents’ families all while head office expects
a fifteen percent margin. If this place turns a profit, I get to open two more. If it doesn’t, I’m out of a job. Growth takes
strategy, not sympathy.” She softens a touch, switching gears. “And don’t forget to order the good Italian lunches for the
tour next Thursday.”
Tiff blinks. “For all the residents?”
“No, just the east wing. That’s the only area I’ll be showing.”
I try to hold in a sneeze but fail.
Allison turns and looks me directly in the eyes, her stare paralyzing me.
“This is Martin,” Tiff says. “The new weekend chef.”
Allison squints. “Oh right . . . from New Zealand? I interviewed you on the phone. I’ve been meaning to check in.”
I nod, desperately trying to recall what Martin’s voice sounded like from the voicemail. “Yes, from Auckland, Martin McDonald, Martin Lesley McDonald,” I blurt out in my best Kiwi accent, instantly regretting saying his middle name like I was on some identity verification
call with the bank.
She casts her eyes over my face like she’s reading my palm. “You look very familiar. Where have I seen you before?”
“We must have passed in the hall once or twice,” I murmur. I don’t add, And you’ve seen me stark naked on more than one occasion when you came into my room without knocking. I hold her gaze, my heart roaring in my ears.
“Nope. I know what it is! Has anyone ever told you that you look like Tom Hanks?”
I exhale and nod, recalling the movie fancy-dress party Beau dragged me to at the school. I went as Tom Hanks from Cast Away, and Beau was Wilson the volleyball. If I try hard enough, I can still hear our fits of laughter as I tried to make a red
handprint on his painted-white face. Only the middle finger took.
“I’ve had fewer complaints about the weekend food, so it must be okay,” Allison says, walking away as her office phone rings.
Okay? Try bloody fantastic. Some people will never give a compliment.
My tummy knots as I recall telling four-year-old Lisa that her incredible drawing of me was just “okay” the evening after
Brent had knocked the kindness out of me.
“Um. Yep, good. Anyway, I’d better be off. Here you go.” I hand Tiff the paper, both relieved and incensed that I wasn’t recognised.
Yes, I’ve got a face mask on, and I know as a dementia resident I am invisible. But am I that bloody invisible?
Tiff, I understand—she’s fairly new and hasn’t seen me up close. But Allison has known me a long time, not that she ever bothered
to learn my name. The anger soon shifts into guilt. How many people did I overlook in my day? As a chef? As a brother?
As I head out the front entrance, I pass Allison’s office. The door’s half-open, a video murmuring inside. I venture a look.
She’s slouched at her desk, gum popping between her teeth as she scrolls.
A TikTok voice pipes up, bright and saccharine: “Contouring for over-forties! Lift your cheekbones and take years off your face!” She tilts her head.
Drags two fingers along her cheek, copying the motion of the woman on the screen.
She hits pause, checking her reflection in a small mirror.
“Christ, another bloody wrinkle,” she mutters.
Out comes a jade roller from the drawer. She presses it under each eye as if smoothing herself back to twenty-nine.
Her phone lights up and she answers with a sigh. “Hey, sis.” Her voice is different now, low and worn out. “Yeah, Darren ended
it. Said I’d changed. That I don’t ‘glow’ anymore.” A hollow laugh. “Glow. Like I’m a bloody lava lamp.”
She pauses, kicks off a heel.
“I know. You were right, he won’t date anyone who looks a day over forty. He’s seeing someone else now. Twenty-six. Still
gets ID’d at Dan Murphy’s.”
She stretches back in her chair.
“Nah, he didn’t cheat like Luke. Just wanted something ‘fresh.’ I told him to go to a bloody salad bar.” Her tone hardens.
“Mum warned us, didn’t she? Said once the lines come in, they look right through you.”
Silence.
She picks at her teeth with a long fake nail. “Yeah, well. At least you’re in retail. I’m stuck here, surrounded by sagging
necks. It’s like living in a mirror of what’s coming. Promise me I’ll never end up like them.”
She slides the jade roller back into the drawer.
“So how’s the new assistant working out?” She snorts. “You’re being too nice. Nice doesn’t earn respect. Never underestimate
the power of fear to keep them under your thumb.”
Another beat.
“Yes, and don’t make eye contact when you delegate. It invites discussion.”
And suddenly, I see it. Not her: me. Crisp, commanding, untouchable.
It’s the same voice I used on every apprentice who oversalted a jus.
Every junior who paused before plating. The clipped tone.
The measured silence. It was all normalized in the cutthroat cooking world.
I used to think it meant I was respected.
Now I hear it for what it was: fear, dressed up as control.
I wasn’t just guarded. I was vain, too. The image mattered. Being good wasn’t enough, I wanted to look unshakable doing it.
Because if I could look polished, people wouldn’t ask what I was hiding. Kitchens were all sweat and swagger. You learned
quickly there was no room for vulnerability. So I polished relentlessly, stood straighter, made sure no one could see where
the cracks were.
That logic, learned in childhood, never left me. It just put on chef whites.
Allison’s voice snaps me back. “Anyway. Gotta go, see ya next week.” She hangs up but doesn’t move, staring at her dark computer
monitor like she’s waiting for it to show her someone else. Someone younger, less hollowed out.
I watch a moment longer as she touches up her makeup. It’s more than usual, but she’s never looked so bare.
I step away quietly, leaving her to her reflection.
Climbing back into my room, I flip open a fresh page in my book and begin designing the menu of my dreams, altered for the
clientele. It’s only for the weekends, but maybe it will give them something to live for.
I close my eyes. Dishes from Lorraine bubble to the surface of my mind. Steak tartare, parmesan and herb-crusted salmon, ricotta
gnocchi with burnt butter and sage sauce—all solid contenders. I was concerned that faking Alzheimer’s would somehow impact
my brain, but the recipes are all there. People can retain musical ability even with dementia; perhaps cooking is my music,
and I’ll always remember every note in the wine, every ingredient, every tangy, salty, sweet, umami flavor.
I return to my online grocery shop, ogling at the price.
But I don’t care, knowing I’ll soon have a salary just for that.
It’s not much, but at least weekends pay time and a half.
I select the latest possible delivery slot between nine and ten on Friday night and press order, realizing too late that I forgot the strawberries.
The thought cracks open a memory, just enough to let the grief slip through. It’s the small things like that. The things you
think you will be fine without until you miss them. Like his arm around my shoulder. Like a picnic with forgotten fruit.