Page 75 of When Lemons Give You Life

A knock hammers through my skull.

“Quick!” I shout, kicking the bottle under the bed.

Lisa’s voice calls from the hall. “Griff? Sorry, I know it’s after visiting hours, just popping in to drop you some new pants.”

Scotty sculls the remainder of his drink and bolts upright as the door creaks open and Lisa enters.

Before I can say a word, the boy grabs my comb and starts brushing my hair like he’s been doing it for years.

“Sorry, I thought he was alone. Oh hey, Scotty, not in the kitchen today? You working as a carer now too?”

“Uh . . . yes,” he squeaks, his voice higher than usual.

“I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll be giving up the dog walking. You’ve really helped us out. Did the new greyhound give you any trouble the other day?”

“Duke? Nah, all good, he’s a gentle giant,” he mumbles as Lisa steps closer, eyeing his hoodie and jeans.

I swallow hard. How well do Lisa and Scotty know each other?

“So, no uniform today?” she asks.

“Uh, one of the residents threw up on me. This was all I had.”

“Gosh.” She grimaces. “I hope it’s not gastro doing the rounds again.”

“No, it was food poisoning. Don’t worry, though, your brother here didn’t eat the same food.” Scotty sets down the comb and starts helping me with my shoes like he’s on some kind of strange autopilot.

Lisa takes the pants out of the bag and pops them in my dresser. “Food poisoning is the worst, especially in the elderly. Was a shocking case of it at Griff’s restaurant. You might have even seen it in the papers?”

Scotty says nothing.

“An old man died. So sad.” She sighs, shutting the drawer. “What did the resident eat?”

Scotty’s brilliant improv hits a wall. I follow his gaze as his eyes dart around the room, resting on the silvery trail gleaming across the concrete outside the window. “A snail,” he blurts.

“What, like escargot?” Lisa eyes him quizzically. “I knew the weekend menu was expanding, but I didn’t think they’d have the budget for fancy French cuisine.”

“Yes. But, um, ours aren’t . . . the fancy French kind. Not S-cargo.” He glances at me, clearly panicking. “Ours are the cheaper ones, more like . . . T-cargo, or maybe W-cargo.”

I grit my teeth, struggling not to laugh. The poor boy hasn’t quite learned his French delicacies yet.

“Anyway, the resident ate the shell and all, I’m afraid.”

That’s it, I lose it. The laughter tears out of me, disguised poorly as a coughing fit.

“Let me get you some water, Mart—I mean, Mr. Martlow . . . Barlow.”

Lisa tilts her head but lets it go. “I can’t tell you what a joy it’s been seeing the change in meals on weekends. You know Griff here even earned a Michelin star and three hats?” She points to the pictures.

“Oh wow. I didn’t know that.” Scotty’s poker face holds.

“He had his own restaurant, Lorraine. That was our mum’s name. She never lived to see it, though.” Lisa’s posture shifts. She shoots me a look—sharp, fleeting, but there.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Scotty’s moved on to making my bed.

“Anyway, he wouldn’t be able to cook now. Can’t even care for himself.”

Scotty bites his lip, heading to the door. “Well, I’d better get going. Nice to see you again, Lisa.”