Page 59 of When Lemons Give You Life

Another beat.

“Yes, and don’t make eye contact when you delegate. It invites discussion.”

And suddenly, I see it. Not her: me. Crisp, commanding, untouchable. It’s the same voice I used on every apprentice who oversalted a jus. Every junior who paused before plating. The clipped tone. The measured silence. It was all normalized in the cutthroat cooking world. I used to think it meant I was respected. Now I hear it for what it was: fear, dressed up as control.

I wasn’t just guarded. I was vain, too. The image mattered. Being good wasn’t enough, I wanted to look unshakable doing it. Because if I could look polished, people wouldn’t ask what I was hiding. Kitchens were all sweat and swagger. You learned quickly there was no room for vulnerability. So I polished relentlessly, stood straighter, made sure no one could see where the cracks were.

That logic, learned in childhood, never left me. It just put on chef whites.

Allison’s voice snaps me back. “Anyway. Gotta go, see ya next week.” She hangs up but doesn’t move, staring at her dark computer monitor like she’s waiting for it to show her someone else. Someone younger, less hollowed out.

I watch a moment longer as she touches up her makeup. It’s more than usual, but she’s never looked so bare.

I step away quietly, leaving her to her reflection.

Climbing back into my room, I flip open a fresh page in my book and begin designing the menu of my dreams, altered for the clientele. It’s only for the weekends, but maybe it will give them something to live for.

I close my eyes. Dishes from Lorraine bubble to the surface of my mind. Steak tartare, parmesan and herb-crusted salmon, ricotta gnocchi with burnt butter and sage sauce—all solid contenders. I was concerned that faking Alzheimer’s would somehow impact my brain, but the recipes are all there. People can retain musical ability even with dementia; perhaps cooking is my music, and I’ll always remember every note in the wine, every ingredient, every tangy, salty, sweet, umami flavor.

I return to my online grocery shop, ogling at the price. But I don’t care, knowing I’ll soon have a salary just for that. It’s not much, but at least weekends pay time and a half. I select the latest possible delivery slot between nine and ten on Friday night and press order, realizing too late that I forgot the strawberries.

The thought cracks open a memory, just enough to let the grief slip through. It’s the small things like that. The things you think you will be fine without until you miss them. Like his arm around my shoulder. Like a picnic with forgotten fruit.

35

Griff (age 61)

December 2021

The sun is out in full force, baking the grass, turning the river into a strip of blinding light. It’s too hot and bright. I knew it would be, but Beau wanted a picnic, so here we are.

He pulls the MG into the gravel with that perfect parking handbrake flick he’s always done, his curls bouncing in the wind, sunglasses crooked, our weekly Monday drive playlist crackling through the speakers. We’ve taken the long way today, winding through back roads for the hell of it, top down, sun on our faces. He parks at the far end of the clearing, well away from the handful of other cars, as though their mere proximity might dent her feelings.

We climb out, and he runs a palm lovingly over the curve of the bonnet, then lifts the hem of his polo shirt to polish the badge with quiet reverence. “Still the prettiest girl here,” he murmurs to her as he pockets his Pooh Bear keychain.

“Careful,” I grunt, hefting the picnic basket from the boot. “Say that any sweeter, and I’ll start checking if the two of you need a moment alone.”

Beau smirks as he pulls out the rug. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, chef.”

“Neither does being second to a machine.”

He pats the bonnet. “She doesn’t snore.”

“She doesn’t cook, either.”

“Ha!” He spreads out the old blanket beside a tree, then stretches out on top of it, arms folded behind his head, soaking in the warmth. “See? This was a good idea.”

I grunt, reaching into the basket. “We’ll see how good an idea it is when you’re pink as a prawn and whining about it for the next week.”

He cracks one eye open. “You’ll rub aloe on me. Won’t even complain about it.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue as I start unpacking the food—panini, fruit, and of course . . .

“Is that—?”

“Yes, I made the lemon tart.”

His whole face lights up. “You do love me.”