Page 82 of When Lemons Give You Life

Griff

I wake to sunlight pouring in, sharp and unforgiving. My head throbs like it’s been in a bar fight I don’t remember. For a split second, I see the shape on the spare bed and my heart jumps—Beau!

But it’s not. Of course it’s not. It’s Scotty, snoring like a freight train, one arm flung off the side like he’s been dropped there from a great height.

I groan, shifting my weight. The whisky bottle on the ground catches the light, empty and accusatory. We polished off the lot after Navneet left; that much, at least, I remember.

“Knock-knock! Breakfast time!”

Scotty dives under the bed just as Tessa and Dayna enter with breakfast and my pills.

As soon as they’ve left, the boy crawls out, burying his face in his hands. “Oh god. How much did we drink last night?”

“Enough.” I hand him two slices of burnt white toast and a rubbery fried egg that looks like it came from a novelty store.

He grimaces but devours the food anyway. “Gosh. I can’t believe we haven’t been tasting it ourselves. I think my eight-year-old cousin could make this better. If only you could teach the weekday staff too.”

“Wait until dinner. It gets worse. But at least it’s not snails.” I smirk.

Scotty’s smile soon fades. “Were there consequences for the food poisoning at Lorraine?”

I nod. “A full investigation. A hefty fine. The news hit the reputation harder than the bank balance, but business eventually picked back up.” I fiddle with the button on my sleeve.

“It was an awful time. I still blame myself. We’d only just been awarded the Three Hats. Beau couldn’t even attend the celebration as he was so agitated in the evenings by then—sundowning syndrome they call it. I felt so bloody alone in all of it. His body was there—but it wasn’t him, not really. The way I knew him, the way I leaned on him, that was already slipping away.”

Scotty’s voice is soft. “Gosh, that must’ve been awful. Having no one to go through it with you.”

I almost nod. Almost agree.

But then it comes back. The smell of bleach. The snap of gloves. The silence of the kitchen brought to its knees. And the realization that I wasn’t completely alone.

49

Lisa (age 49)

November 2022

Lorraine sits hushed behind fogged-up glass; chairs stacked, no music, no movement. Like someone hit pause and walked away.

I knock once. Then again.

Griff appears, holding a clipboard and a tub marked Beef, the supplier’s label circled in red marker. He doesn’t say anything as he unlocks the door and turns back toward the kitchen.

Inside, everything smells like bleach and lemons. Beau sits blank-faced beside some food-grade sanitizer stacked by the pass. Fresh gloves litter every counter, and someone’s propped open the back door to let out the fumes. The place isn’t just closed: it’s been gutted. Beau is silent, hands clasped, watching Griff move like he’s trying to scrub shame from every surface.

I walk over and hug Beau. He folds me into his arms without hesitation—warm, solid, achingly familiar. And the fear that’s clung to me every time I’ve visited them in the past few months loosens its hold, just for a breath. One day, he won’t know me or reach for me at all.

“Can I help?” he asks. “I could . . . hold something? Or stand somewhere useful?” The words are a little off, but the feeling behind them isn’t; he just wants to ease the burden, even if he doesn’t know how.

“You already are,” I say.

“Good,” he says then turns to Griff. “Griffy? Want me to dry?”

Griff’s hands freeze on the sponge. His jaw tightens. “No,” he says, too sharply. Then catches himself and softens. “No, mate. It’s fine, thanks. I’ve got it.”

Beau doesn’t seem to notice the stumble. He glances at his wrist, lips moving silently as he reads the day and time off the large dementia-friendly watch I gave him a few weeks ago.

Griff follows my gaze and speaks without turning. “That thing . . . he likes it. Checks it a hundred times a day. It helps him, I think.” He rinses a sponge. “So yeah. Thanks for that.”