Page 36 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘Surprisingly well. The airborne humidity is perfect and unless the temperature rises overnight I won’t have to switch out any of the arrangements. I didn’t have to be in any of the photos which was a relief. I hate photos.’
Sophia sits quietly the whole drive back and I don’t want to disturb her. She is tapping away at her phone in the passenger seat next to me. Her knees are pulled up against her body, and her feet are rested against the dash. She looks cosy. I guess with her long legs sitting up straight in a seat won’t work. She only breaks the silence when I make an abrupt break to allow the car in front of me to parallel park. The red Volvo inches backwards until it halts then abruptly drives back onto the road.
‘Wow. Commitment issues,’ Sophia remarks.
‘Sorry?’
‘That Volvo. The way they first wanted the space, but when everything around them aligned—car behind stopping—they still gave up after one try. I bet they’ll do the same to another parking space on the next road.’
She peeks out of the window, following the car with her eyes hoping to prove her thesis. A content laugh when she does.
‘See.’ She nods at the red car which is now again holding up traffic to wedge its way in between two parked vehicles. ‘Obviouscommitment issues.’
‘I can cook something,’ I offer when we are back home twenty minutes later.Home, it’s a clearing in the forest that I share with a stranger but I don’t know what else I’d call it.
‘Sure. Stress level is at amodest 1so I can handle a nutritious cooked meal.’
The kitchen is so small I have to crouch down and lookbehind me each time before I move to ensure I’m not bumping into her.
She finds the table and two chairs that come with the mobile home and sets them up outside. When I appear with two plates of pasta she looks so genuinely pleased something tugs at my chest.
‘So did you find the man you’re looking for today?’ she asks.
‘Unfortunately not.’
I’m not quite ready to ask more about her uncle. Based on what little Sophia said about him, it’s essentially impossible that it’s him. But still, I’d like to prolong the moment I find out this has all been completely useless. That my mum mistakenly sent letters to his shop, that he is not, in fact, the Sven I’m looking for. To find out that I’m that much closer to failure.
‘Where is your mum now that you’re away?’ she asks me.
‘A friend is staying with her. She’s amazing.’
‘I have one friend, but she’s a three in one really. Life coach, best friend and sister.’
‘Sounds like you don’t need anything else. My best friend can be highly critical and too invested, but she always pulls through when you need her. She’s the one staying at my house now. With my mum.’
‘Do you miss your mum? I find I don’t miss people. I can ache and hurt and but when people talk about wanting to hug their mum, I don’t feel it like that.’
‘I’m not used to talking about this. About Mum. Us.’
‘Why?’
It’s hard to explain. The mix of pain and guilt and fed-upness that always washes over me when I talk about my mother. These feelings have robbed me of the ability to speak about her, to be proud of her and what we’ve had allthese years. Her illness has robbed me of even cherishing the memories.Oh don’t go and fucking cry, Blade.
‘You can talk about it. I don’t always know the right thing to say, but I know how to listen.’
She means it. Somehow I trust her more than someone who’s known me half my life. I’m not sure I’m ready for it, though. I shrug. But her eyes are open wide and never leave my face.Maybe just the short version, then.
‘Do you know anything about dementia? It’s a disease, there’s no cure for it. It changes the brain, the memory and the personality. Mum has it, and well, I’ve been her carer for the past three years.’
What I leave out is that it’s been three years of no breaks, no travelling, no peace of mind. There has been joy, and love of course, but lately all these other feelings are starting to eat away at it.Please don’t let me lose sight of the joy...I think maybe that’s what I’m really looking for, by coming here for her, some way to preserve the joy.
I tell Sophia a little of the brightly coloured plates and how some days I’m only a floating head to my mum, due to changes in the brain and in how things look, feel and sound to her.
‘I feel a little like that around my family. Like I’m a floating body part almost, not a proper person like the others,’ she says. I smile, my anxiety lowered, then start to stack our plates.
‘It’s raining.’ I’m stating the obvious. It’s been raining for a while already. Soft drops fall on us and the table, but I’ve finished talking anyway, and she doesn’t seem to mind.
‘I love rain.’
