Page 44 of When Lemons Give You Life

It almost gets a smile. I wait for more—a comment, a crumb of approval—but he’s already turned away.

Beau busies himself in the cupboards, pulling out plates, and serviettes. He narrates as he moves—little observations, small jokes. Filling the air the way he always does. Not for attention. For everyone else’s comfort.

“Crisis tea and post-trivia debrief. Griff’s even made biscuits.”

“I didn’t say you could have them!” Griff calls.

“He’s letting us have the good ones because you’re here,” Beau stage-whispers. “He never shares the Anzacs.” Beau rolls his eyes as he slides a neat stack of Griff’s notebooks aside and places the plate of biscuits on the coffee table. “One day, my love,” he calls to Griff, “you’re going to let me throw out at least one of these. If I find another shopping list from the nineties, I’m staging an intervention!”

Griff grunts in reply as Beau flops onto the couch, gesturing for me to join him. I take an Anzac and settle beside him, surprised at how normal it all feels.

My brother stands at the edge of the kitchen, arms folded, watching Beau like he’s everything. When Beau passes him a biscuit, Griff doesn’t say thank you. He simply nods—but it lands like a thank-you anyway. Beau touches his shoulder in response. A brief pat. Automatic. Familiar.

I watch all this and, for a second, I see it: the rhythm they’ve built between them. The unspoken fluency. The private, lived-in language of people who know how to read each other without punctuation.

And still, I don’t get it.

Beau is light. A boy who glows, who hums when he stirs tea. Griff is . . . shadows. Not in a good mysterious way, just closed off. Difficult. He walks through the world like everyone’s about to take something from him. Beau walks like he’s trying to give everything away.

Maybe he pities Griff; maybe he’s trying to fix him. Whatever it is, it’s something more patient, generous and forgiving than I’ll ever be.

My gaze turns to Beau, and a familiar ache settles beneath my ribs as I watch the ease with which he moves through this place—the way he fits here so seamlessly, fits with Griff, in a way I never have.

27

Griff

The kitchen is finally still again, apart from the thrum of the commercial dishwasher. Scotty, fortified by the crackling, has gone to join Nishan on his break. One of the residents went to hospital this morning, so their breakfast was returned, and I don’t let it go to waste.

I consider going back to my room. Surely someone has noticed my absence? Then again, this place is so short-staffed, and it is the weekend. We mostly have agency fill-ins who barely glance at me, rotating like specials on a chalkboard. It’s quite possible no one has been to my room.

As I check the clock on the office table, a red light blinks at me from the answering machine: the recorded message I heard when I was locked in the grog cabinet. My curious finger presses play.

“Hello, Martin McDonald here.” His thick Kiwi accent is muffled by background noise. “Look, I’m sorry this is very late notice, as I’m meant to be starting today, but I’m in a bit of a pickle. In my phone interview I said I’d be moving to Melbourne last week, but we’ve had a family emergency, and I’m going to have to stay here in Auckland to look after my mum and won’t be able to take on the weekend chef role.” A siren roars behind him. “I apologize for leaving a message—I’m still at the hospital, and it’s all a bit hectic here. Can you please call me back so I know you’ve got this? I can also put it in writing if you need. Sorry again for leaving you in the lurch; I hope you find someone else quickly. Okay, bye-bye now.”

I plonk my forehead down on the desk, the thrill of heading a kitchen still tingling through my veins. Shame I’m going to die soon. Unless . . . nah, who am I kidding? They’d surely notice my empty room and come looking for me. I wonder how long his shifts are, anyway?

Curiosity gets the better of me again, and I rummage through the pile of paperwork beside the printer, flicking past maintenance logs and food charts, until a manila file catches my eye. “Martin McDonald—Part-time Chef” is printed in bold type across the top. I open it to see a color-coded schedule. Sure enough, Martin is only rostered on Saturdays and Sundays, with decent breaks between each meal.

Paperclipped to the schedule is Martin’s CV. There’s no photo. He’s a fair bit younger than me, according to his date of birth, but I’ve always thought I look good for my age. The next page, marked “Confidential,” is his employment form, with bank details, super, and next of kin.

I flip through his résumé. Seems like he had a bit of a late career change; twenty years as a hairdresser, then off to Commercial Cookery at community college, before working for two years as head chef at Elanora Gardens retirement home in Auckland. Bet he never earned a bloody Michelin star.

Scotty appears in the doorway. “Chef would usually go on his break now.”

“Thanks.” I hurriedly close the file. “What time am I needed back?”

“Lunch prep is at ten forty-five.”

He exits, and I whip my phone out of my pocket and snap photos of all the paperwork so I can finish reading it later. I head down the corridor, tugging at the sleeves of my chef whites.

A visiting doctor, coming the other way, catches my eye and smiles. “Hi, how are you?” she says as she passes. Two visitors follow, walking by with a nod. At the end of the hall, a woman in scrubs waves like we’re old friends.

I keep walking, too stunned to answer any of them. Incredible how people treat you differently if they think you are useful. The uniform counteracts the invisibility cloak of age and dementia, making me seen and heard for the first time in months.

I sneak into my room, stuff the uniform and face mask in the back of my cupboard and put on my robe.

As I sit down, there’s a knock at the door. “Hi there, Griff, got your brekkie!” says Tessa, lifting the lid. “You’ll never guess what it is!”