Page 54 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
I step out of the camper to call my mum quickly. Carefully thinking over what I want to say, need to ask, without getting anyone’s hopes up.
We’re doing twice daily calls now, on recommendation from the neurologist, to keep me a constant in her life even when I’m not physically there. Consistency will be key in helping her stay in the present, going forward. Especially if—when—she moves into a care facility. I am sitting on one of the two large logs that Sophia has dragged over, and we’re having a gourmet meal of hotdogs with bread and potato salad later. I have the phone held out in front of me as video calls are better for her. Zara holds the phone up for Mum and I see only her chin and nostrils.
‘Would you like water or milk with dinner?’ Sophia asks as she walks past. Mum misses nothing.
‘Was that a female voice?’
‘Yes. I’ve been sharing the ride with a friend, kind of.’
‘Please do tell. I’d very much like to know thekind offriend it is.’
I sigh. I don’t even know what this is myself.
‘How about I write and explain it in a message? We’re about to eat.’
‘But how’s it going, Blade? Have you found him yet? Do you know what happened to Sven?’
I pause, thinking through my choice of words carefully. ‘I don’t know if I’ve found your Sven yet, Mum. I’m working on it still, have at least one more possible option to track down. And then... then I’ll let you know. What I’ve found.’
I can tell she’s frustrated with my progress, or what seems like a lack thereof, but she doesn’t know just how close Imightbe. If Sven number five isn’t our guy, that increases the odds that maybe—just maybe—Sophia’s uncle could be. Sure, it sounds like he only travelled to London, no idea if he ever lived there. For all I know it was a short business trip and he saw little more than the airport. But I’m dangerously close to feeling a sense of hope. That I could actually find Sven, that I could make my mum happy, that she might go willingly to a care home where she’ll be looked after and treated well and I won’t have to spend all of my time worrying, constantly, about what could happen to her. But hope is no guarantee.
When we end the call I ignore Mum’s request for more information, on both my search and the female voice she heard. Sophia interrupts my train of thought.
‘So your mum, you said she goes to this bus stop everyday and just sits?’
‘She’s not exactly just sitting,’ I reply. ‘She’s waiting for someone. Unfortunately it’s someone who will mostly likely never come.’
‘Maybe she’s aPaeonia. They live long lives and resent transplanting so are best left alone,’ Sophia suggests.
‘That sounds about right.’
‘I’d love to have a Paeonia in my life. They’re wonderful flowers.’
‘Are they hard to look after? I keep wishing I’d had a sibling—someone to share it all with.’
‘I hardly ever see mine. And the only thing we share is trauma.’
‘Still. Siblings are the only ones who know your roots, that completely understand where you are coming from. You can’t share the full memory of your childhood with anyone other than a sibling.’
Not having any siblings mean it’s all on you: you end up being solely responsible for a parent’s loneliness or happiness. You’re the difference between their declining or thriving. We all know having a baby means being responsible for a tiny human life, but no one tells us that when the circle repeats itself with an ageing parent we get something much more complex. Instead of a newborn blank page, we have a fully formed human being with an illness, a temper, a history and a lover called Sven.
‘I guess all families are complicated, and we just have to do our best to simplify them,’ Sophia says. She uses a thin stick to push earth and moss around on the ground. I wonder if I’ve ever seen her hands still.
‘But I’d like to think most people at least start a family out of love,’ I say. As someone who has yet to start a family, and who never got to see his mother find that kind of love, this thought is even more calming to me.
‘You’re a romantic, Blade!’ She may be right. I probably am.
I realise then that I’ve placed my hand at the back of Sophia’s log. I’m not touching her, but it’s there, in a protective gesture which I wonder if she notices and can feel. She continues to move the stick along the ground.
‘I think I would like your mum and your life. It sounds quiet, and nice,’ she says.
But she doesn’t know the reality of it. That she would actually fit into it is too good to believe.
‘It’s very different from your posh life,’ I say, removing my arm from behind her back.
‘Posh? In what universe do I have a posh life? Have you even been to Svedala? It’s not exactly the Italian Riviera, and the last time I checked Blom’s Blooms didn’t have a royal seal of approval.’
‘You run your own business. You don’t even look at the prices when you shop, just chuck stuff in the basket. Your parents have a cold press juicer and an Italian coffee machine. You have cashmere throws and wear Prada T-shirts. We come from different backgrounds, that’s all. I’m not judging you.’
