Page 17 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
On my way out I see a stack of small rectangular cards printed with a tiny white flower on each on the table next to the guestbook and find my hand reaching for one. Only later when I’m outside and feel sure that she’s walked around the corner do I read the card, and something strange, which should go against the law of physics, happens: My heart sinks and does a twirl all at once. Because the name on the card is one I recognise. Blom.
I rush back to the car park, my computer and the letters and begin to dig. When I finally find what I’m looking for, all I can think is that I get to see her again. Because see her I must: I have some questions about her relatives.
The address half-visible on the card sent by Mum in 1997 is the address of her florist shop.
Zara
London
Zara had highly underestimated the task of caring for a woman with dementia. She likes to consider herself a reliable person, a caring soul. She has never had trouble keeping house plants alive for starters, something she understands is quite the achievement amongst young people.
But this is challenging, there’s no point denying it. There’s the fact that Edith never seems to stop talking—asking questions, sharing anecdotes, pondering out loud. Often delivered as she walks behind Zara, or sits right next to her. Looking over her shoulder as she types. It is like having a work trainee that you invite into every area of your life. Or perhaps like being in a reality tv series, and Edith is the camera operator hovering, watching her every move.
Then there is thenottalking. When Zara tries to get answers such as ‘Are you hungry?’ or ‘Did you wash your hands?’ she feels like her own mother asking her what she had for lunch at school to which she’d, of course answer, ‘I can’t remember.’ So who is she to judge, really?
But, already she and Edith are settling into a rhythm, just as Zara knew they would. If nothing else, she wants Blade to see it can be done: He can let go, other people can help, Edith willbe all right. While she understands his concern, she doesn’t want to watch him continue to recede, further and further into the house, into his role of caretaker. She wants him to live life.
Much like she herself wants to live life. However hard she’s been finding it lately. She has work, sure, and friends, clearly. But she’s been trying and trying to figure out what else she wants, what else there is, and has been... coming up short. How is she supposed to know? How is anyone at this age! Maybe something for her to do, or at least to spend more time thinking about, once Blade is home. They can each start pressing onward together. Then she’ll have someone invested in the effort right alongside her.
Zara looks to Edith then, who’s been quiet for a while now, and thinks she may venture a question.
‘Edith, I was wondering something.’
Edith turns to look at her.
‘We all wonder a great many things. What makes this one special?’
Zara can’t help but smile at the honesty and sheer brazen quality of the response. Zara closes her laptop and gets to her feet, walking up to Edith who’s been standing by the window as if she’s watching the world go by, despite the fact the curtain is drawn.
‘I went up to your room to find your list of medications and had a scroll through the coffee table bookBritain’s Parks and Gardensand found a letter. Blade said you two had been going through your old correspondence with Sven, trying to piece together where Blade might look for him.’
‘Yes, he needed a road map for Sweden. Didn’t want him getting lost.’
Right, well, I was wondering, then, why didn’t you give him all the letters?’
Edith appeared to be thinking hard, she paused for a long moment before delivering her answer.
‘Because sometimes people aren’t ready to see the whole picture. So you give them half.’
Zara stares at her. She’s definitely got a point, she thinks.
‘There may well be more in the house. Even photos. I’ve become just like my grandmother who would stuff cash under matrasses and books. Hidevaluables,’ she admits. ‘I couldn’t tell you where all I’ve put things.’
Zara nods, thinking that she’ll have to look, see if she can find anything to help Blade on his journey—anything to help Edith. Maybe she’ll be able to help piece the whole picture together, even if she still can’t see it.
Blade
Skurup
I’m unsure where to go, there are no campsites open around here and I need to be back in this village—that has a gift shop and a pizzeria, which I tried for dinner, and its main attraction, a flower shop with a very mesmerising florist—in the morning. I pull up Google Maps and look at my surroundings. Woodland, some acres of wet marsh land and what I suspect is an old quarry. Another Google search tells me the quarry is now filled with freshwater and the locals’ chosen summer spot for swimming. I decide that will do as my home for the night.
I find it after a quick drive and park as close to the old quarry turned lake as possible. As I start to make the bed and prepare the cabin for my first night in Sweden I feel homesick, like a little boy. I long for familiar sounds. Mum’s shuffling on the floor in ten-year-old stolen hotel slippers. The fridge’s low humming. Mum’s soft snores that I can just about hear through the crack I leave in my doorway.
Zara reports that all is well and under control. She has sent me a selfie of them watchingMagpie Murders.
Zara:Mum convinced Netflix is broken because there is no more House of Cards. Told her she watched it all and got her onto a new show.
Me:Did you put an Instagram filter on my 64-year-old mum?
