Page 111 of When Lemons Give You Life

Allison says nothing, but the silence feels less defiant now.

“I’m not asking you to forge any documents. She’s not my power of attorney; there’s no reason for her to ask for a death certificate, and she hates paperwork.”

“Why should I help you? You going to blackmail me?”

I pause. “No. And it’s because we’re more alike than you think. Or we were, once.”

Her shoulders lift slightly, drawn tight beneath her blouse.

“We may have had different goals, but I used to be like you. Cold. Efficient. Sharp edges. I ran kitchens like battlefields and told myself the fear I inspired was respect. I even cared about how I looked once too.”

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair.

“Do you want to know what I’ve learned, Allison?” I say, motioning to the anti-aging ad in her magazine. “It’s all rubbish. Aging is a privilege, one that’s not afforded to everyone.” I rest my hand on Beau’s urn. “In the end, none of it matters, not the wrinkles, the money or the professional accolades. What matters—what lasts—is how you love people. How you treat them when no one’s watching. That’s the only legacy worth leaving. I led award-winning kitchens, but I also broke people, and I broke myself, too. You can’t feed humans fear or indifference and expect them to thrive. Whether it’s profits or excellence, if it comes at the cost of empathy, leaves you hollow in the end. Take it from a man who has messed things up so badly that he needs to stage his own cremation.”

She doesn’t look at me, but she’s listening now. I can feel it.

“I’m not here to shame you. I know this system wears you down and makes you callous, teaches you to stop seeing the residents as human—because it’s easier to sleep at night. I did the same with people I thought were below me. But you could do this one thing right. Not for me. For her. For Beau. For yourself. It’s not too late to do something good.” I meet her gaze as she crosses her arms tighter. “I know kitchens, Allison. I know what bubbles under the surface and when something’s about to boil over. You ever wondered why your staff turnover is so high? Why you are the only home around with no waiting lists? I have records of everything, proof that your food invoices don’t match what’s plated, the cons, the schemes you have going. I could sink this place, but I’d rather see it thrive.”

“Thrive?”

“Yes. As you know, my place here was paid for privately with my own money. I know when a resident departs, the bond is returned.”

“I suppose you want your money back.”

“No, I want to donate my bond, the entire five hundred thousand, to the home, to ensure better quality food, conditions and activities.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” she splutters, her eyes narrowing. “Won’t your sister be expecting to get that money if you’ve ‘died’?”

“Yes, but don’t worry about that. My home was sold when I moved in, and I did extremely well for myself as a chef. I’m speaking to my accountant this afternoon in confidence so I can regain control of my finances. After the surgery, I’ll be transferring funds to Lisa—enough for her to believe it’s the bond plus whatever was left in my account.”

“And you are really donating five hundred thousand to this dump?”

“That’s how you can really impress the board, how you can attract new residents without the bait and switch. But it comes with conditions.”

“This oughta be rich.”

“I want you to promote Nishan to head weekday chef. Full-time, starting asap, and he is to train a new weekend cook. Let him continue the menu and philosophy I’ve started and teach it to others.”

“That’s doable.”

“Secondly, the doctors that assessed me are bound by patient-doctor confidentiality. But I need you to let me go quietly. Tell the staff I’ve passed away, too. Not a word to anyone, especially the press.”

She glares at me. Then glances at the urn and nods—one sharp, shallow dip of the head. “Fine.”

I stand and zip my jacket. “Thank you.” Turning to leave, I glance over my shoulder to see her closing the magazine.

I walk out of the nursing-home doors. Not as Martin the chef. Not as Griff the resident or Mr. Barlow the patient. Just as a brother, a ratbag. Disappearing, so Lisa can live.

71

Griff

Scotty keeps me updated on Lisa, and I pray to a god I don’t believe in that I’m not too late. That she won’t have complications like Mum. I move out of the nursing home and into a small Airbnb unit near the hospital where Lisa gets dialysis. It’s nothing fancy—scuffed floorboards, mismatched cutlery, leaky shower—but after months in a place where even the air felt institutional, it’s practically a five-star resort.

I call the hospital’s transplant team, and the process begins. Not instantly like I’d hoped. First comes pre-donation evaluation counseling. Given my questionable behavior over the past year, it’s far more intense than I could have imagined.

Then there are the tests. Blood work, tissue typing, crossmatching. It all has to be done again.