Page 50 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘Every single Christmas, Sophia would ask if Santa was coming. Not because she wanted presents but so she could hide well ahead of time!’
I think Blade can see the agony on my face, and I imagine he must be wondering how this photo has made it onto the mantelpiece in this home where there ought to be moments of joy instead. He clears his throat.
‘My mum used to tell me not to worry, that he was a human just like her. Mum used to say it unsettled her at first, how I was scared of something other children loved, wondering if I’d be brave enough for the world. But then she figured all I needed was to find out the truth and I’d be okay.’
Two sets of eyes stare at him, not sure how to respond.
‘So what do youdo, Blade?’ Dad says.
‘I’m a full-time carer. To my mum.’ I wish he would have said journalist. Now there’ll be questions at best and harassment at worst.
‘I read about the carers’ strike here in Sweden. Paid less than cleaners, aren’t they, carers?’
‘It doesn’t make you rich, no. Carers could do with more support.’ Blade doesn’t seem to mind the questions. He has that deep confidence that lets all comments bounce off.
‘We all have a choice, don’t we? I didn’t receive any help,left with no grades and yet within ten years I’d made my first million. Hard work and determination is all it takes.’ My mum nods and smiles, but I can’t help to think that its half-hearted, lacking the usual flair and flavour. Quite like a basil leaf that’s slightly dark and wilted and less fragrant. The ones you need to put in some cold water to refresh.
‘That’s great to hear.’ I thank Blade in my mind for not adding what I know he thinks:Not everyone has those opportunities. Not everyone has the ability, and not everyone has that privilege.He lets it slide. Mainly because his eyes are fixed on a family picture. One of the few we have with my uncle. It was taken on Midsummer. I’m wearing a crown ofAlchimella, Nigella, evening primroses and spray roses.If you add roses to your crown, you’ll find love,my uncle said. Blade moves closer and studies our faces. Closely.
‘That’s my uncle,’ I say. ‘And those are my brothers. Hampus, Pontus and Mattias.’
We’re alone in the formal reception room, my parents having retreated to the kitchen, waiting for my mum to serve us coffee and place a box of chocolates on the table so that she can remark when I take three instead of just one.I guess you do have a few odd years until your thirties when your metabolism slows down and sugar becomes your greatest enemy! Ha!
I turn to Blade and say quietly,
‘I wish you would have met all my brothers. They’re loud and ruthless but can also be wonderful. Especially Mattias. When I feel down he sends me pictures of animals he’s met at the clinic.’ My brothers’ presence has a way of taking the focus off me, which is welcome in some situations where I prefer to remain small.
‘If you need to... well... just take hold of my hand, you can squeeze it.’
I should point out that his hand is not an instant-releaseanti-anxiety medication but when my Mum comes round the corner saying in a high-pitched voice, ‘Who would like a chocolate?’ I think that the hand may well do the trick, so I simply nod at him.
And when we leave, after he’s asked me if I’m ready to go, and all I’ve managed in reply is a silent nod, and the door closes behind us, and I hear Mum and Dad’s voices immediately starting to discuss us, I do reach out in the dark and find the hand.
Later that night Blade opens a beer and hands it to me.
‘How did you know I needed that?’ I ask.
‘There are some things a glass of milk just can’t take the edge off.’
I reach for it. He adds, ‘It’s alcohol-free.’
‘Thanks. Actually I’m starving. Do you still have that snack bag?’ I didn’t eat much. It’s hard to eat when I need to balance a napkin on my lap.
Blade comes back with goodies and I immediately begin stuffing my face with salty crisps. I think how easy it is for me to eat in front of Blade.
‘You’re different, around your parents,’ he says. ‘You stop all the little things that you normally do. Like twirling your hair or rubbing your index finger over your thumb nail. You even have a different posture, like, like—’
‘Like an Arabian horse.’
‘Not what I was looking for but, yes, maybe. They’re elegant right?’
‘I always felt like a strongly built pony.’
He laughs.
‘I can see that it’s complicated,’ he says, and I shift on my log, finding a better position.
‘It’s very simple, actually. They just want me to act normal, when I clearly can’t. There. Simple issue. With no solution.’
