Page 110 of When Lemons Give You Life

Allison finally speaks again. “Why tell us now?”

“Because he’s gone,” I say softly. “And there’s someone else who needs me. My sister Lisa—she’s in kidney failure and waiting for a transplant. I’m a perfect match, and I have to be declared of sound mind so I can donate.”

Allison rubs her hands over her face, like she’s trying to scrub the past ten minutes off her skin.

They first call for the gerontologist, who’s visibly unnerved when I greet him with a firm handshake and full sentence. I recall the three words, not just from five minutes ago but from over a year ago: “Apple. Pen. Window.” I say the alphabet backward. Tell them who the current prime minister is and precisely what I think of his policies. I draw a clock: all twelve numbers in the right place.

Later comes the psychiatrist, who conducts an evaluation as thoroughly as a customs officer who’s certain I’m carrying cocaine. He prods at every corner of my memory and personality like he’s expecting to find a crack. He doesn’t.

It takes far longer than I’d expected. They can’t let me leave the nursing home until it’s proved I don’t need care, so I stay hidden in my room. But when it’s over, there it is in black and white: no signs of cognitive decline. No dementia. Just a man who pretended to forget, for love. And strangely, the truth, the very thing I spent months hiding from, is liberating.

When I am finally allowed to go, I meet Allison alone in her office. “I should call the police,” she says coolly. “You’ve deceived medical professionals. Staff. Residents. You manipulated the intake process, took a bed you didn’t need—”

“True. But before you involve the authorities, there’s something else you should know. I’m also Martin.”

She frowns. “Who?”

“The weekend chef.” I pull off my beanie, run a hand through my hair and pop on Beau’s reading glasses from my pocket.

Her eyes flicker over my face. Then her jaw drops, fully. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “I knew there was something familiar when I met you . . . How did I not see it?”

“Well, you slap a label like ‘dementia’ on someone, and it’s a pretty surefire way of rendering them invisible. Don’t feel too bad, I’m a good actor who asked for the label, I just never realized it would make me a second-class citizen.”

She brings her hand to her hair, her face scrunching in anger. “You! You gave me this awful haircut on purpose, didn’t you!”

“Well, you did break my partner’s viola, so I’d say we’re even.”

“Hang on . . . you were a fancy chef, weren’t you?” she says, sinking back into her chair.

“Try Michelin star.”

A short, breathy laugh escapes her, half shock, half admiration. “This is most . . . unprecedented.”

“It’s probably not something the accreditation board would love to hear about. They may have questions about why a resident diagnosed with dementia was working under a false name, wielding a knife set.”

Whatever color was in her face vanishes.

“Not bad for ‘one of your poor dementia residents,’ hey?”

“I don’t want a word of that getting out—about you being the chef, I mean, Greg . . . I mean, Griff.”

“You and me both.”

“Scared about your precious reputation, no doubt?”

I shake my head. “I used to think that was everything, but all I care about is my sister now. I want to donate anonymously without subjecting her to more hurt. She should be spared the truth, but I need your cooperation.”

Allison raises her penciled eyebrow. “And what exactly am I supposed to do?”

“I’d like for you to follow the instructions I left months ago.” I retrieve an A4 envelope from Beau’s briefcase and place it on top of the open beauty magazine on her desk. “Inside is the will I wrote before my diagnosis. It states that when I die, the nursing home is to send me straight to the undertaker for cremation—no notifying relatives beforehand, no funeral, no viewing. All legitimate.”

She scoffs incredulously. “You want me to have you cremated?!”

“No, I just want you to say you have. Tell Lisa that I died peacefully in my sleep, and give her Beau’s ashes.” I set his urn on the desk. “When you get word from me, or if Lisa happens to visit—whichever comes first—you give them to her. She’ll believe they hold both of us, as per my will.”

Allison opens the envelope, skims the contents and closes it. Her expression hardens. “You want her to think you’ve died? That’s preposterous!”

“Not after what I’ve put her through. Letting her think I’m gone is the kindest thing I can do.”