Page 20 of When Lemons Give You Life

Being late was one of the few things that really stressed Beau out. He insisted on being early and was forever rushing us out the door, a habit that drove me mad. We were the first to arrive at parties, making awkward small talk with the host while they finished scooping out dip onto platters. And of course there was the airport. I was happy to arrive the recommended three hours before an international departure. But with him, we had to be there six hours ahead. Overseas flights are long enough without spending half the day sitting on hard plastic chairs, consuming crappy coffee and too many Krispy Kreme doughnuts. In the end, like in life, he was early for death, too.

Fountain pen in hand, I find a sheet of paper and begin to write. Not a suicide note, not really, but a final letter to Beau. The things I never said, the truths I buried too deep. A tear splashes onto the page, blurring the ink, a testament to the battles fought within these four walls.

Folding the pages carefully, I slide them into the hollow of his broken viola, where no one will find them. The wood is cool beneath my fingers, still holding the scent of rosin and time. My thumb finds the fine crack at the back of the neck as I rest it gently on the shelf, sealed and silent.

I grab the bottle of thirty-year-old Glenfiddich single malt whisky from my cupboard. Given its age, we’d thought it fitting to save it for our thirtieth wedding anniversary, but he was gone before we ever made it that far. Along with a few other contraband items, I smuggled it in here under the radar. I ease it from its unusual yet ingenious hiding spot. Not Winnie-the-Pooh this time; he is already stuffed with toilet rolls. This teddy had his “surgery” shortly before I moved in. I did to the bear what I’d done to myself—made it empty on the inside, then filled the gap with booze. Better to have that in you than cottonwool, Humphrey, old mate.

I take out the bottle, and the bear collapses like an ill-timed sponge cake. But something else comes with it: my will and a folded newspaper article. My name stares back at me in bold black type.

Renowned Melbourne Chef Diagnosed with Dementia

I smooth the paper out. The piece goes on about my legacy, the accolades, the quiet retreat from public life.

Griffith Barlow, once the heart of Lorraine, now living with Alzheimer’s.

No mention of the food poisoning in this one. No mention of why I really left.

I trace a thumb over my grainy image. That man was noble. Dignified. Done for, but done well. And that’s the best way to keep it.

I put the article back but place my will in the top drawer, easy to find. Back when I was still lucid, I updated it: no funeral, no fuss. I didn’t want to burden Lisa with any of it.

I put a fistful of round white tablets into my mouth and bring the Scotch to my lips. “See you soon, mate.”

Beau watches me from the wall with that smile. I tell myself it’ll be the last time I see it in this life. The second I close my eyes, I’m right back at the beginning, to the moment it changed everything.

13

Griff (age 41)

August 2001

I stretch my aching fingers, letting the cold air of the walk-in fridge settle over me like a second skin. The stainless-steel freezer door catches my reflection—flushed cheeks, tired eyes, the crisp white of my slightly askew chef’s hat. I pause, straightening it with a flick of my wrist. The jacket sits just right, collar crisp, sleeves clean. Presentation matters on and off the plate.

A bright thrill runs through me. Head chef.

I shouldn’t be surprised I got the job—fresh from Paris, Michelin star under my belt—but part of me still needs my appearance to confirm that I’m someone worthy of the name. It isn’t my restaurant, not yet; there is plenty of time for that. But the title still feels shiny, and despite the long hours weighing on my bones, there’s a lightness in my step. Tonight, though, it’s laced with uncertainty.

Lisa will be here any minute. It must’ve been at least nine months since I saw her last, at an obligatory Christmas get-together after I got back from Paris. There was more silence than turkey. She’d given up asking how I could have left Mum.

Tonight is a retirement dinner for the principal of the local high school where Lisa works as a receptionist. We’re booked solid for weeks, but she’s called in a favor. I’ve said no that many times to her in my life, so I figure I owe her one.

I spot the group through the kitchen door as they arrive. Lisa meets my gaze, and a bittersweet taste fills my mouth. She hasn’t changed a bit, her ebony locks tied in a messy bun, her green eyes so like her father’s. The memories clamp down hard.

As the entrée is being served, a commotion erupts as Jake, one of the fresh-faced waiters, trips and gives the dark-haired gentleman beside Lisa a full-body christening in our most expensive champagne. Jake’s face, redder than our sugo rosso, looks like it might crumple at any second. We’ll probably have to offer desserts on the house.

Lisa’s colleague rises from his chair; the poor kid is about to get blasted. But instead of anger, the man’s expression is filled with compassion. He kneels to help Jake up then uses a serviette to dab the wine—not from his own clothes, but from the waiter’s.

I step into the dining room so I can hear what they’re saying.

“Please don’t worry. You’re doing great! I don’t know how you managed to catch the bottle when you fell. That takes skill! My first job was as a paperboy. On day one I accidentally threw a paper right at a customer’s head!”

A smile creeps onto the boy’s lips. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get another bottle.”

The man nods and heads to the washroom to clean up.

“That’ll be coming out of your paycheck, Jake!” calls Charles, the tight-arsed maître d’.

Jake nods and scurries to the cellar.