68
Griff
I can’t die. Turns out, donating your kidney isn’t as simple as just keeling over with excess chocolate and good intentions.
The organ donation hotline makes it clear: for Lisa to be guaranteed my kidney, it has to be a directed living donation. If I die, it will go to whoever is at the top of the list.
I press my palms against the cool tile of the bathroom sink, forcing myself to breathe through the storm in my chest. Death
is off the menu. The only way to donate to Lisa without her finding out is for it to be anonymous. And that means clearing
myself of a dementia diagnosis and saying goodbye to Martin and life as I know it. I consider escaping through the window,
but it seems easiest to get the gerontologist here to assess me. I would come clean to as few medical staff as possible, have
the surgery and then leave town, head out west, some place where no one knows me or my fancy restaurant. There’s just one
problem: once Lisa recovered, she would visit again, and I would no longer be here. Questions would undoubtedly be asked,
and the lie eventually revealed anyway.
The kindest thing would be for her to believe I simply passed peacefully in my sleep.
I open my bedside table drawer and remove my will. It states that when I die, the nursing home is to send me straight to the
undertaker to be cremated and put in with Beau.
A clatter echoes as a cleaner lugs the vacuum past my door. “Hey, boss, you want me to do the lounge or just leave it?”
“Leave it,” says Allison, following behind. “They’ve had their inspection. No one’s coming through with a clipboard today.”
“Right. By the way, we’re nearly out of detergent.”
“Just use hot water,” Allison says. “Costs less.”
I unlock my phone and scroll through the photos: pages of kitchen records, inspection reports, budgeting and invoices, all
neatly documented. Proof, lined up in pixels. I may have more bargaining chips than I thought, and I’m not afraid to use them,
not when so much is at stake. A plan begins to simmer.
“Taste that and tell me it doesn’t blow the powdered stuff out of the water.” I step back from the stove, the rich scent of
lamb and herbs rising in a cloud of steam. The stock bubbles, glistening and hot. I hand them each a spoon.
Nishan tastes first. “I had my doubts, but I can’t argue with that, mate!”
Scotty beams. “So much flavor from such simple ingredients!”
“Yep. There’s no reason you can’t be making big batches of this and freezing it each week. It’s got lots of health benefits
for the residents too, being bone broth.”
They go about preparing the rest of dinner, a well-oiled machine now. A proper team with the correct goal.
At the end of the shift, I catch Nishan in the car park. “Mate, before you go, there’s something I have to tell you. I’m sorry
to say I’m resigning; got some family health issues I need to focus on.”
His face sinks. “Oh. I’m sad to hear that. You’ll be missed.”
“Thanks, mate. One last thing—would you like to become the full-time weekday chef here?”
He cocks his head to the side. “Yeah, that’s what I applied for originally but just got the weekend.”
“So you’d be free to take on the full-time role?”
“Yes . . . but why are you asking?”
“I have a feeling a spot will open up, that’s all.”
We shake hands, and I turn to walk away.
“Martin?”
“Yeah?”
“You did good. I know I was hesitant at the start, but I see it now.”
“See what?”
“The worth.”
Back in my room, I bring out my notebook and the hit list of fake, chemically enhanced food I’ve been determined to exterminate.
So far, we’ve ticked off instant mash, boosters, dream dessert powders, packet cakes and pasta sauce. I draw a big satisfying
tick next to the stock.
There’s only one fake item left to get out of that kitchen.
Me.