64
Griff
I spot Allison through the window, striding past with her usual businesslike march, a cheap wig covering her scarecrow hairdo.
Instinctively, I tug my beanie lower over my ears and dip my head. I’m still in her bad books after the Haircut Incident—or
at least Martin is. I told her the gum had done too much damage and that technically I hadn’t cut her hair so much as set
it free. My last client was a chicken fillet, after all. She didn’t laugh. I’m shocked she didn’t fire me. Then again, she
probably can’t afford to. She’s started doing tours on weekends so she doesn’t have to order in the special meals, as what’s
being served is genuinely impressive.
As I get up to close the curtain, something sharp jabs into my heel. I bend down to survey the skirting board to find a bent
bobby pin, clinging to a strand of dark hair. Classic Lisa—she trails the things like breadcrumbs. I set it on the table and
notice the empty chair by the door. It’s still angled toward the bed, like she might walk back in any second and launch into
a story about dog dandruff or confess that she’s killed yet another innocent pot plant. I frown as the silence clicks into
focus.
How long has it been since she’s visited? Weeks? A month even? Silence is a sneaky bastard. Once it was my sanctuary, but
now?
I hate that I notice. It’s not like I miss her or anything, and it’s easier for my new gig that she isn’t here.
But I get the niggling feeling that something is up.
The hard thing about faking dementia is I can’t exactly pick up the phone to ask her how she’s going.
Unless, that is, it’s not me calling her . . .
I have always had a great knack for impersonations and voices. My David Attenborough was Beau’s favorite. I used to commentate
while he was folding laundry, “And here we observe the Beau in the midst of an intricate courtship display—folding fitted
sheets. A task few attempt, and fewer still survive unscathed.” He was in fits of laughter a few words in.
I scratch my chin, running through a mental Teledex of people who might ring her to check in. It has to be a man—my falsetto
wouldn’t fool a toddler.
A face appears: her childhood best friend, Tom. He grew up next door, and they were attached at the hip until he moved to
the country. I have no idea when they last spoke, but it’s worth a shot.
I wait until a respectable hour and turn off caller ID.
She answers on the third ring. “Hello, Lisa speaking.”
Something isn’t right; her voice is brittle.
“Hi, Care Bear,” I say, coating Tom’s nickname for her with an extra strong Aussie twang to match his.
“He-Man! I almost didn’t answer, thought it was a telemarketing call.”
“Yeah, calling from a different phone, left mine at work.” I hope she buys it.
“Boy, am I glad to hear your voice! I never called you back, did I? I’m sorry, it’s been far too long.”
“No worries, I’m just glad we can talk now. So how are you, Lis?”
“How long have you got?” She laughs then pauses. “You sound a bit different.”
I fake a cough. “Just getting over tonsilitis,” I say hurriedly.
“You had your tonsils out when you were ten. Remember all the honeycomb ice cream I smuggled into your room?”
“Ha! Yes, I was just testing you! I’ve got a bug. But I’m fine.” My hand tightens around the phone, ready to hang up.
“Oh, I hope it’s not Covid. I had that recently.”
I exhale. Covid could explain a long absence. “Poor thing, how are you now?”
Silence followed by a shaky breath and a muffled sniff. She’s crying. Has the giant man dumped her? An old brotherly reflex
kicks in, protective and surprising. He’s pretty tall, but I think I could take him.
“I’ve got it, Tom,” she says. “I thought I didn’t, but I do.”
“Got what?” My mind races.
“What Mum died of. The kidney disease.”
The oxygen in the room evaporates, my throat closing around her words. She can’t have it. She’s too old. The risk has passed.
“Tom, are you still there?”
“What . . . are you sure?” I splutter.
Another sniff. “Yes, the specialist confirmed it. I’m not well, Tommy.”
My grip tightens around the receiver, slippery with sweat. “How bad is it?”
“Bad. I had an infection. It shot my kidney function. I’m going to have to start dialysis. And I’m going on the transplant
list.”
Transplant! I close my eyes, Mum’s hollow frame rising unbidden in my mind. Please, Griff. Please do this for me.
“What hospital?”
“St. Mary’s. I’m scared, Tom. There’s such a long wait, I’m exactly the same rare type as Mum, and you know how that ended . . .”
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
“How?”
“Griff,” I blurt, without thinking.
“Gosh, I forgot how long it’s been since we spoke. There’s so much to catch up on.” She sighs. “You probably saw it in the
papers—Griff has dementia, like Beau did.”
“Oh, yes, right, I—”
“I don’t have the energy to go into all of it now. The short version is even if he is a match, he can’t donate.”
“You think he wouldn’t want to?”
“I know he wouldn’t.”
The words land like a slap. “What, why?”
“You know what it was like for me growing up. And he never forgave me for Beau, and then there’s the stuff with Mum.”
My chest constricts. For all Lisa knows, I wasn’t a match for Mum and therefore won’t be a match for her.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
“Why?” I can’t hide the urgency in my voice.
“Even if he did want to, he can’t legally consent because he’s been diagnosed with dementia. I spoke through all options with
the transplant coordinator.”
“But he’s listed as an organ donor.”
“Yes, but . . . Wait, how do you know that?”
“You mentioned it once,” I say, too loud.
“It doesn’t help. Being a registered organ donor is only relevant after death.”
“Death?” A chill flushes over me. I glance over at Beau’s urn, The Death Menu flipping through my mind.
“Why did this have to happen? Why now, Tommy? You know I’m finally coming to peace with the real Lisa . . . ? I’m even beginning
to like her. And I met a guy! His name is Frank, he plays guitar at the nursing home. He sees me. I don’t have to pretend
with him. We’re in love, Tom, I want to spend my life with him. But I want a proper life, not one tied to a dialysis machine.”
My gut aches. I knew she was dating Frank, but I didn’t know it was serious. Why couldn’t she tell me this stuff instead of
playing that damn ukulele? Oh god. Is that why she was asking about the size seventeen shoes? Now I can’t unsee it!
Her voice lifts into a giggle. “He’s so kind, like Beau.”
Her laugh feels like oxygen after I’ve been holding my breath for too long. “That’s . . . that’s wonderful,” I say. And it
is. It really is.
“You know what’s ironic, Tommy? I found out that Griff actually—”
The door creaks open. “Phone’s about to die,” I blurt, hitting the mute button. Dayna pokes her head in with a student nurse.
Our mum used to say if you forget the lyrics in choir, just mouth the words “rhubarb and custard.” Supposedly, it covers a
multitude of sins. But mouthing’s not for emergencies.
“Rhubarb and custard, rhubarb and custard!” I sing in my drunkest voice, rocking back and forth.
Dayna grins. “Hello, Griff!”
I hang up. Bugger. If Lisa rings the real Tom now, I’m screwed. She’s never been great at calling people back though, and hopefully he’s off
mustering cattle or whatever country people do.
“His phone isn’t connected, but he likes to pretend to make calls every now and then—no harm in it. Doesn’t usually talk much
these days anyway,” Dayna explains to the student nurse as she straps the blood pressure cuff on. “Pressure’s a bit high today,
mister,” she says as they leave. “I’m going to keep an eye on that.”
My head drops into my hands, too heavy to hold up. Lisa needs me. A part of me, at least. And I’ve locked myself into a lie
so tight I can barely exhale without bursting the seams.
I need to find out more.
“Okay, so I just talked to Lisa,” Scotty says. “Pretended I was calling about more dog-walking work. She mentioned she’s taking
leave from the salon to focus on her health. So I asked a bit more. Thought she might get suspicious with all my questions,
but she just seemed . . . relieved. Like she needed someone to talk to. We ended up speaking for almost an hour.”
I nod; Lisa is one of those people who it’s impossible to end a conversation with, and she’s always been an oversharer, especially
when it comes to medical matters.
“So how is she?” I brace for impact.
“She’s not good. Starting dialysis in a week at St. Mary’s. She’s a rare type, definitely the same as your mum. I even offered
to get tested. She was hesitant at first but sent me a photo of her results. I already know I’m the wrong blood type, otherwise
I would’ve been happy to.”
A lump forms in my throat. “That’s . . . incredibly generous, mate. I don’t know what to say.”
He smiles and shows me the photo.
“She said they’ve been told people can live for years on dialysis.”
I lower my head between my knees. “They can, but it’s no picnic, especially for someone with so much left to give, who may
have just found the love of her life.”
Scotty sits on the edge of the bed. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. If she finds out I’ve been lying all this time, it’ll break her. I already walked out on her once.” I pause,
staring at my hands, veined and knotted. A chef’s hands. A coward’s hands. “It’ll destroy me too. Everything I’ve built. My
entire legacy. The restaurant, the staff, they all know about my diagnosis. The whole cooking world does.”
The food-poisoning incident had been unfortunate, but things had settled and I still went down as one of the greats. People
continue to rave about my recipes online. My dementia diagnosis probably even earned sympathy. A soft, dignified exit.
What if I just stay the course? Keep my story intact, keep a job I’ve grown to love, this strange little life I’ve built from
scraps. I’d never have to confess to the world that I faked dementia. Once the press gets wind of that, there’s not a restaurant
in the country that would have me on. Who would want to eat the food of a fraud? If I want to work in a kitchen, Sunny Glen
is my only option. No one has discovered me here yet; I could potentially go on for months, even years. Perhaps Lisa will
get lucky, and they’ll find an alternative donor. But if they don’t, if she dies . . . I would have to live with that. Knowing
I could’ve stepped in. That I had the power to save her and didn’t. They say there is time, but what if she has sudden complications
like Mum?
I pull out the Polaroid. The child I read Mum’s Anzac recipe to. The girl who was oblivious to how her father treated me.
The woman who fell in love with my husband.
And there it is—the jagged thing I pretend I’ve sanded down. The kiss, the public humiliation, wasn’t just betrayal, it was
confirmation. Proof that the punishment hadn’t ended.
Brent told me Dad’s death was my fault and that Lisa and he were the dark-haired, green-eyed price.
Constant reminders of everything I broke.
I believed I deserved everything he brought into our home.
Yet she never saw it. Never understood the words he spat at me, the names that hit harder than his fists.
Sometimes I burn with fury at her blindness—how could she not know?
But then I remember: I was the one who hid it.
I shut doors, raised my voice, blocked her path so she’d never hear the worst of it.
I wanted her to be spared, and now I can’t stand that she was.
I told myself I resented Lisa, convinced myself I needed to erase her, to shrink her down to a version I could tolerate. But
the truth is, I didn’t hate her, not really. If I couldn’t see her, I didn’t have to see myself. The parts of me I detested;
the ones I held responsible. I’ve spent months being invisible—ignored, dismissed, spoken over like I’m not there, like I
have no abilities. It makes me doubt I was ever real.
I did that to her. I let her believe she was the problem. Let her carry the blame, because it was easier than carrying my
own. And still, she showed up, even when I didn’t.