Page 36 of When Lemons Give You Life

The Star meant something, of course, but that was someone else’s kitchen. This one’s mine. Built with my name, my scars, my recipes, in my hometown. I glance out the front window and see Mum’s name glowing in brass letters above the entrance.

Does it make up for what I cost you, Mum?

Matilda, my sous-chef, is at the pass, tall and broad-shouldered, her strawberry blond curls piled neatly under a hairnet. Her faith in me never cracked. Not once. “Here, have some champers!” she says, handing me a glass. “Thank you, chef. My god, you’re a tough boss, but I wouldn’t be here without you!”

I smile and lift my glass half an inch, unable to stifle a yawn after too many nights of broken sleep, my body stuck on high alert while my mind sinks deeper into mourning.

She spins away, topping up someone else’s drink. Everyone’s drunk on success, and tonight I let them be. I take a sip, let the crisp sweetness cut through the noise. The moment hangs golden in the air, weightless. And then the office phone rings.

I step away from the kitchen and pick up the receiver. “This is Griffith Barlow.”

“Mr. Barlow, Barry Kincaid here from the City of Melbourne’s Environmental Health Unit. I’m calling in relation to suspected cases of serious foodborne illness reported by a number of diners at your restaurant earlier this week. We’ll require your temperature logs and supplier records. A site inspection will be scheduled within the next twenty-four hours.”

My chest goes tight. “Right,” I say. “Understood.”

He gives a list of follow-up details, but I’ve stopped hearing him. The phone feels slippery in my grip. I set it down, my hand still on the receiver, hoping it might ring again and tell me it was a mistake. That they got the wrong restaurant. That some other chef’s week went to hell as quickly as it went to heaven, not mine. But I know better.

Through the glass, the kitchen is still roaring with celebration. Someone’s popped another bottle; someone else is yelling about getting matching tattoos. I should be out there, pretending to smile, letting them believe this is the best night of our lives when it might be the worst.

Instead, I lean on the countertop and try to remember exactly when the meat was delivered. What its internal temperature was. Who was on prep that day. What exact dish it could’ve been. My brain’s racing ten steps ahead—into damage control, into every worst-case scenario, into a shame spiral I don’t have time for.

My throat burns. Another mistake.

Three hats. And one phone call that could rip them right off my head.

Three hats. How many would it take to cover my sins?

It’s not enough. Not for what I caused. Not for Dad.

22

Griff

At the mention of her name, I knew I had to have her. Hot, crispy, rubbed with olive oil and salt, cooked on high until she transforms into a glorious goddess. How could I have even contemplated leaving this world without once again tasting the fatty miracle that is crackling? Her evangelistic taste had converted more than one vegetarian in her life with her sultry smell and wicked crunch. Thank god they had pork in the fridge. She is my vice and the reason why, when my addiction to her was at its worst, I could no longer fit into my jeans. I just hope Gladys’s dentures can handle it.

The timer beeps, and I place the suntanned vixen on the countertop, a big drop of fat catapulting off the top onto my chef whites. As much as I want to bite straight into it, I’ve forgotten the applesauce. Not essential, but a personal favorite accompaniment. I make quick work of it, keeping it simple by dicing a few Granny Smiths. I don’t bother to peel them—the skin adds fiber, though what does it matter at this point? Anyone who is faking dementia is already full of shit, what’s a bit more?

I boil the apples with a dash of water and a pinch of sugar and blend with a handheld stick-mixer, bringing a spoon to my tongue. It’s missing my secret ingredient: brandy.

Using the same key as last time, I step into the liquor pantry, scanning the shelves, shaking my head at the rows of cheap box wines that sit side by side, most of which I deem unfit even for cooking. I spy brandy at the top. The moment I reach for it, I realize my mistake as the door clicks shut behind me, the key still in the lock outside. I search for a paperclip or something else I can try to unlock it with. Nada. I try to ram the door open, my shoulder screaming in protest. I’m going to be stuck here all night. But what’s the worst that can happen if I’m found? I guess I’ll just play my dementia card, and they’ll take me back to my room.

The office phone springs to life, making me flinch. After a few rings, a sickly sweet, automated message clicks on. It’s muted by the closed door, but I know it by heart.

“Hello, thank you for calling Sunny Glen Aged Care Facility, where every cloud has a silver lining . . .” My ulcerated stomach has a bigger lining than this hole of a place. “Please note that our office hours are Monday to Friday from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. All calls outside of this will be forwarded to the kitchen . . .” The voice leaves an emergency number, then the answering machine beeps, and a man leaves a muffled message, but I can’t quite decipher the words.

The tacky booze stares at me from the shelf, and I shrug. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I select the closest box simply labeled RED WINE (no distinction of varietals or vintage). Pulling the nozzle from the cardboard, I release the tap straight into my mouth. My tastebuds don’t tolerate it for a second, and I spray it like a burst sprinkler all over my chef whites and apron, my arm knocking a bottle of stout that shatters to the ground in big pieces. I glance down and sigh.

It now appears that I have tried Death Menu item Number 12: “Griff Julienne.”

“At least I know what grape you are,” I mutter to the offending box under my breath. “Shit-raz.” I pause, expecting to hear Beau’s chuckle—he loved word-play jokes. But the laugh track of my life has gone, replaced by silence.

I open the brandy and take a sip. It’s not quite as offensive as the shit-raz, though it still tastes like petrol. I sit on a plastic crate and pick up a shard of brown glass. If only guilt were more like milk, with an expiration date. It keeps us in all kinds of prisons. I take swig after swig until the room turns fuzzy and dark, my nightmares coming back to haunt me.

23

Griff (age 8)

August 1968