Page 64 of When Lemons Give You Life

38

Griff

Scotty bursts from the pantry like a kid on Christmas morning. “Martin, you’re finally here. Check out these ingredients!” He holds up lychees and a bunch of micro herbs. “I don’t even know what half of these are . . .”

“You’re late, Martin!” Nishan says, arms folded. “We had to do breakfast without you, it’s about to go out now.”

“Sorry, traffic was bad.” Technically true, if you count getting stuck behind two mobility scooters doing five kilometers an hour in the corridor. I glance at the steel trolleys, lifting a lid. Overcooked scrambled eggs. Barely cooked bacon. Soggy white toast. I curse my stupid cat alarm clock, which I slept through after my midnight grocery haul. Too late to fix breakfast, I’ll have to knock lunch and dinner out of the park.

“What in the world is all this extra food?” Nishan asks.

“It’s a new menu today, guys. We’re stepping it up.”

He snorts, arms crossed. “Bet it’s a mistake. No way management sprang for this fancy stuff.”

Scotty picks up the tarragon and breathes in the scent. “This smells amazing!”

Nishan eyes him. “This isn’t a fancy restaurant. The oldies won’t appreciate this.”

I wince; I hate that word. “Let’s give them a chance. Scotty, what do you reckon that would go well with?”

“What are you asking him for?” Nishan huffs.

Scotty reddens. “Yeah, um . . . I don’t know,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Give it a go.”

Nishan exits into the office, shaking his head.

Scotty’s eyes light up, scanning the walk-in fridge like it’s a toy store, stopping at the chicken. He looks at me, uncertain. “Maybe, like, um, a chicken casserole or even a pâté? My nan loved chicken pâté, said it went with everything!”

A cold shudder rises through me, dragging up the memory of that godforsaken dish. I shake it off. “Let’s leave the pâté for now, but a casserole sounds great.”

He smiles enthusiastically.

I head into the office, where Nishan is hunched over the computer. “I don’t know why you’re going to all this fuss, Martin. You don’t understand the battles we face with time and money. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

“But it is broke, Nishan. Have you seen the residents lately?”

“No. My job is to feed them, not visit them.”

I clench my fists. “Come with me. Now.”

He sighs but follows.

“Scotty, you too.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see what’s broken.”

I adjust my face mask as we walk into the main dining room. I’ve never eaten in here, always preferring solitude. Still, I’m careful to position myself behind Scotty, out of sight, though I’m becoming more confident that no one will recognize me without my beanie, slumped posture and lack of words. The mood is like a wake, quiet and heavy. A sea of gray and white heads are bowed over barely touched plates. We stop at the nearest table. Gladys pokes at her eggs. Patricia nibbles a corner of toast. Rob stares straight ahead.

“Ask them what they think,” I whisper to Nishan.

He rolls his eyes but steps forward. “Hello, how’s everyone finding breakfast?”

A cluster of faces looks up. Patricia smiles politely; the rest can’t even manage that. “It’s, um . . .” she starts.