Page 45 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
We’ll see,I respond.
When I make it downstairs I have those flitting thoughts travelling through me, the ones I don’t dwell on because I know instinctively that they’ll confuse me and require too much energy to figure out what they mean. Zara is in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in her hand.
‘How do I look?’ Zara is wearing all black.
‘I only see your head. It’s like it’s floating around freely.’ It’s the truth. Some days, people are reduced to floating busts and today is like that. The brain is so complex I don’t even try to understand the science of it. Blade’s Google search says it’s normal and so I accept it. Zara laughs.
‘That sounds quite liberating, existing only as a head. As long as my face looks all right?’ She’s beautiful, of course; all young people are they just don’t realise it.I look fat, I hate myhair colour, my lips are too thin, they say. Then they age, look back at the photos and see how stunning they were when it’s too late to enjoy it.
‘Your face looks lovely,’ I offer quickly but sincerely. ‘Now, today is my birthday and I’d very much like to go out if you need to do some work?’
‘I know—happy birthday! I can absolutely do some work. At least in the library I don’t need to buy a beverage every hour to justify my space there. Much better for my finances. Let’s go.’
On the bus, on the way to the library, I’m trying to think. About who I am, now that I’m sixty-five. We define ourselves by the things we like when we’re younger mostly.Oh, I love dancing.Then when we get older we define ourselves by the things we don’t like.I can’t stand reality TV.Then there’s me who exists in some in-between land. Perhaps this definition of me will be different altogether?
At midday we arrive at the town hall, and I find myself a seat at the bus stop, for once knowing that Sven won’t come around the corner.
Nothing special ever happens on a birthday.
At the end of the afternoon Eliza meets me at the corner of Campden Hill Road with a small paper box.
‘For you,’ she says.
Inside is a small cupcake with white icing, high and pointy like a pale Christmas tree.
‘I got one for me as well,’ she says and sits down next to me. I nod gratefully, not having to explain that I’m unsure where to start. I imitate Eliza as she gently lets thumb and index finger dive into the box and whisk the cake up without touchingthe icing. I resist the urge to lick the white cream and instead bite into it from one side. The sugary taste is intense and overpowering.
‘Hey there.’ Zara turns the corner and spots us.
‘Zara, meet my friend Eliza.’ I’m proud to manage the name without a cup.
The girls look at each other, their eyes diverting a little bit too soon.Oh!I know that look. It’s the look of someone who’d very much like to keep looking but doesn’t want to make a fool of herself.
‘Nice to finally meet you. I’d have gotten you a cupcake if I’d known you were coming. Edith says you are always very busy.’
‘Well, yes. Busy saving the world of flat-pack-buying consumers from assembly-related mental illness and nervous breakdowns. That’s me.’
Eliza laughs. ‘I’m busy saving millionaires from having to squeeze the nursery into the walk-in closet because there’s no second bedroom.’
They both smile. I think how if Eliza came up tonight on the phone Zara and I keep browsing perhaps she’d say, ‘What do you think, Edith?’ and I’d take a close look and say, ‘Yes, do you know what? She looks quite all right.’ And perhaps Zara would have swiped, and they’d have matched.
‘Right, have to get back to it, then,’ Eliza says, her cupcake half-eaten in the box. Perhaps Zara’s pink hair is too distracting for her.
‘I’ll come collect Edith earlier tomorrow as well. To go to the bus,’ Zara says. ‘I’m sure the flat-pack consumers would understand it if I were to sit down for twenty minutes to have a cupcake.’
Eliza laughs again. ‘The millionaires of Kensington wouldnot understand if I sat down twenty minutes with a cupcake but I’ll bloody well do it anyway.’
Eliza trots off, not looking over her shoulder, not once. I pat Zara on the shoulder.
‘Look what you can find while waiting for the bus.’
Blade
Lidhult
Yesterday I finished another fruitless meeting at a care home in Mjölby. This Sven—number four—had never been to London but told me all about his time in East Germany as an oboe player following the fall of the Wall. I left with the link to his self-published memoir, which had it had some better publicity would have saved me this visit. Five days left and all I have is question marks and one remaining Sven to track down. I asked Sophia again whether her uncle could have maybe done some—any—travelling, and she, again, said no. Mum still hasn’t found a photo, but then, what would I do with it if I had it? Put it on Facebook with an appeal for help? I don’t want to disappoint her, to see what disappointment does to a fragile brain, but it’s starting to look inevitable.
I have found a café with enough space inside so no one should mind if I sit there for half a day. I try the oddest-looking Swedish cake I can find: a green marzipan-covered log with dark chocolate dipped ends called a hoover. I spent the morning catching up on everything back home. Bills and a phone consultation with Mum’s neurologist. The doctor told me again to make a list of options in the event her decline startsto speed up, so that I have it on hand as a safety net, a coping strategy for us, even if we are a long way away from needing it. Can’t help thinking he’s doing the tea/coffee choice thing I do with Mum. Attempting to give me a sense of control where there isn’t any.
