Page 17 of When Lemons Give You Life

“I see. I used to have a nickname for my brother too, but I can’t share it aloud—not here at work anyway! Residents don’t appreciate a musician with a spicy tongue.” His eyes twinkle, and my heart flutters.

“Well, now you have to tell me!” I say.

He looks at his Rockports and then at me as a carer takes Griff back to his room. “I don’t suppose you’d . . . um . . . like to get a drink sometime, Lisa? So that I can tell you, that is,” he adds quickly, before clearing his throat. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Sorry. It’s okay if you think I’m too tall or something . . .”

I stare up at him. Was he really asking me out? Chaotic, parasite-shirt-wearing me? “I—uh, yes. That would be fine.” Fine. I’d used the word twice.

But he doesn’t seem fazed. “How would tomorrow night be?”

Don’t say “fine.” Don’t say “fine.”

“Fine. I mean, divine—that would be divine!” I bite my tongue.

“Really? Wow. I mean that’s fabulous. I hear the Italian restaurant down the road is amazing . . . if you don’t mind getting dinner too? Sorry, I only said drinks before, didn’t I? I mean, do you eat?” He slaps his hand to his forehead. “Of course you eat. I—”

“I’d love to. How’s six?” I ask, ignoring the urge to suggest my usual dinnertime of four forty-five.

He beams. “That’d be fine,” he says, with a wink so earnest it nearly knocks the air out of me.

And for the first time in ages, I feel the tiniest glimmer of hope that things could be more than just fine.

10

Griff

Lisa returns to my room flushed and glowing. “I’ve got to go now, Griff, but I almost forgot to give you this.” She rifles through her bag and pulls out a creased envelope. “It came months ago. Sorry. I found it wedged behind the toaster with a menu from that vegan Thai place I’ll never go to. Anyway, it’s for you. From a former colleague.”

My spine tightens. I keep my eyes on the window.

She opens it and starts to read before I can wave her off—not that I’m supposed to be waving.

Griff, I hope I haven’t left it too late and that you can still read this. I heard through the grapevine about your diagnosis. I wanted to reach out and say that, despite everything, you were the best chef I ever worked under. You set a bar no one’s matched since you left. I still quote you, by the way. Usually when someone’s fucked the sauce.

—Eli

Lisa folds the card and places it on the tray beside me. “That was nice of him. I think he was scared of you, but still.”

I don’t react. Can’t. Won’t. Inside, something twists. I remember Eli—barely out of culinary school, I once reduced him to tears over a broken hollandaise. He left Lorraine to pursue a career in pastry. And now he’s writing like I’m some fallen hero. Noble. Tragic. Fading. And I let him. I let everyone believe it. Because the truth would undo everything they still think I was.

Lisa tops up my water and heads for the door. I forfeited many things when I faked having dementia, among them the chance to say goodbye to anyone. It’s not like I could say, “It was nice knowing you. I’m going to pretend to forget now, bye!” So when she leaves, I say nothing, staring at the hands of my vintage watch, inherited from Dad, worn as a golden reminder of every second I had stolen from him.

I catch myself fantasizing about the afterlife again. Not the clouds and harps. If it does exist, I reckon heaven is simply a life without weight, without “bad.” No selfishness, garlic breath or regret, just whatever’s left of us that hasn’t been bruised. A place free of pain. I’ve caused and copped more than my fair share of that, some of it still marked on my body.

Like any chef worth his weight, I have loads of cooking scars. The burn scar on both palms from “cocky apprentice” Griff, who thought he was invincible and, unlike every other human on the planet, didn’t need oven mitts. The tip of my left pinkie when “Australian natives phase” Griff hastily sliced a finger lime but got more finger than lime. They are all good scars, though, not like the other one. I rub my hand over the edge of my right forearm, on the last mark my stepfather ever left on me—the last physical mark, that is. I pull down my sleeve. Better to dream of heaven than relive past hell.

You have to be good to get into heaven. But how high is the bar? Beau would have undoubtedly exceeded any standard, yet it wouldn’t truly be heaven without your partner beside you. What if your soulmate ticked the boxes for the other, hotter place? Will Beau be like one of those drop-dead-gorgeous girls who got their less-attractive friend past the bouncer at a nightclub? Will his beautiful soul get me past the Pearly Gates? I’ll find out soon enough, straight after I’ve given Rob the tart.

I wait until I’ve had lunch—“had” meaning staring at a bowl of tomato soup so watery it could pass as raspberry cordial, then flushing it down the toilet. Taking off my beanie, I slip on the chef whites I stashed in my cupboard after the kitchen escapade, just to feel important again. Removing the container from the fridge, I head down the hall, checking the coast is clear of staff.

Silvia teeters past on her walking frame, her eyes teary. “Please, please, sir,” she begs, tugging at my shirt, her Italian accent filled with urgency. “I need you to drive me home. Via Giovanni Devoti, Roma.”

I take the old woman’s hand. “Rome’s a long trip. How about we start with a cuppa and see how far we get?”

She nods, and I settle her in her armchair with a cup of tea before heading to Rob’s room.

Steiner’s Viola Concerto streams through his ajar door. For a moment, I see Beau playing it the night of his diagnosis despite the terrible pain he was in.

I enter without knocking and startle as I spot a short, well-dressed woman in the armchair. I’ve seen her talking to Lisa in the distance and out in the courtyard with Rob. “Hello!” she says. “I’m Mabel, Rob’s sister.” Her bright smile is in contrast to his expressionless stare. “Nice to meet you.”