Page 68 of When Lemons Give You Life

I nod and head back to the office, a flicker of something warm resting in my chest. Perhaps I just did something that matters.

The rest of the day is a blur of savory scones with rosemary, beef bourguignon pies, and chocolate soufflés. It’s getting harder to fake the dementia now I’m finally being myself in the kitchen. I almost have a lucid conversation with one of the carers over lunch, but they don’t seem to notice. I suppose once you are labeled senile, it becomes the sole thing people see, no matter who you really are.

Before dinner, I teach Scotty how to make ricotta from scratch using only milk and vinegar. It blows his mind. We don’t have a cheesecloth, but Gladys was kind enough to give me one of her thin muslin scarves in exchange for some good chocolate and a case of VB—the woman knows how to barter.

When dinner goes out, I strip off the uniform and glasses, but instead of heading back to my room to be served mine, I put on my beanie and take a seat in the dining room at the back table.

“Oh, hello, Griff!” says Tessa. “We don’t usually see you out here. Did a carer bring you out? Want to eat with everyone tonight?”

I nod.

Soon we are served the beef bourguignon pies, an old favorite. I look around at what is normally a gloomy sight. But tonight, it’s different. The residents sit straighter. Patricia lets out a soft, surprised laugh. Rob gives his plate a cheeky lick until every bit of sauce is gone. For so long, they’ve been served food that mirrored how the world saw them: bland and stagnant. But tonight, I’ve given them something that mirrors who they are inside: complex, surprising, evolving.

The chocolate soufflés evoke an even bigger reaction. I hear two women reminisce about their favorite recipes for pavlovas and Christmas puddings. There is laughter and life. One of the staff even turns on some music.

Tessa takes my plate, the residents’ joy reflected on her face too. “That was really something, wasn’t it?”

I return to my room, catching myself in the mirror—shoulders squared, eyes level. I don’t look away. It’s the first time in months I haven’t flinched. My reflection shows an older, sadder man, but not a completely broken one, and definitely not one likely to order from The Death Menu anytime soon. A bloke whose life is being stuck back together with lemon curd and butter.

Flexing my wrists, I succumb to the couch, absolutely knackered. The midnight cooks with Gladys on weekdays over the past fortnight are probably a bit crazy, but I couldn’t say no, they are fast becoming the highlight of my otherwise boring week. I’m hoping she’ll help me add Serbian food to the menu.

“Your dinner is here, Griff,” says another orderly, placing a meal on the tray.

The travesty of being nonverbal is I can’t very well tell them I’ve already had dinner, so I loosen my belt, crack my knuckles and take one for the team.

39

Lisa

I place the small, clear container on my doctor’s desk. It could easily be mistaken for a glass of rosé if it wasn’t in a urine collection jar.

“Thanks, Lisa.” The new GP has kind eyes like Mum’s.

“It’s probably beetroot, right?” I ask hopefully.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve been having red smoothies for weeks. That could cause it, the pink wee . . . ?” Rather than avoid them to see if they’re the cause, like a normal person would, I’ve doubled down and begun having them at lunch too.

She nods. “It’s possible, but let’s take one step at a time. I can see you’re nervous, Lisa. How about we start at the beginning. Your mother had polycystic kidney disease—PKD?”

“Yes. She died when she was fifty-nine. My older half-brother and I had clear ultrasounds throughout so thought neither of us had inherited it. The specialist said it comes on by forty . . . I did miss my final scan at thirty-nine, but—” My words are stuck.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother. And you’ve had no symptoms until this point?”

“Well, some vague things here and there over the past few years. I really thought it was perimenopause. You know, all the usual suspects: tiredness, back pain, bloating. I’ve also been eating a lot of crap though . . .” My eyes fix on the urine container. Ursula floats inside it, telling me it’s what I deserve.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The GP takes the sample to the sink in the far corner, produces a dipstick and dunks it.

Please let it be beetroot.

“I’m afraid you do have blood in your urine, Lisa, and protein, but let’s not jump the gun. There are other things that can cause this.”

The floor drops from under me. This can’t be happening.

“Does it hurt to pass urine? Have you had any increased sexual activity recently?”

I wish. I shake my head.