Page 63 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
‘There is no dead rat,’ I say.
‘There’s no dead rat,’ she confirms.
‘It says here that you can put your timer on thirty minutes when you start to smell whatever you’re smelling, go do something else, and if it still smells when you come back it’s real. If not it’s a hallucination.’
When you start to lose your balance and need a cane to help you walk, you feel a little bit unsafe all the time, not massively but a little bit. When another part of you stops being reliable it is hard to keep believing in yourself. I swallow and fold up my reading glasses. I read somewhere that children can’t understand pretend until they’re school age. So even if you tell them there are no ghosts they’ll still be afraid of them. If you are specific and tell them there are no ghosts in their room because you’re there and ghosts really dislike humans with your specific hair colour and blood type, that will work. Perhaps I can tell myself that there is no dead rat because rats detest the sound of Zara’s tapping on the keyboard, and I’ll find some relief.
‘I wish I would hallucinate freshly baked buns or clothes on a washing-line,’ I say. ‘Instead, I get an animal cadaver.’
Thinking again of the photo Blade showed me, I say to her,‘I know Blade’s upset. I know he wanted that to be Sven. But that’s not him. I know it’s not, or at least I think I do. Tell me, do you think I have lost my mind?’
‘No. I think you know the face of someone you love, Edith. No matter how lost you get.’
Blade
Jönköping
It’s not him. I tried to convince myself that Mum was wrong but she won’t be moved. The name change record had come through when I had just left Sophia and the best morning of my life. Goosebumps were replaced with other goose bumps, and I thought that was it. I’d found him.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask Zara an hour later.
‘Positive. There are times she knows exactly what she’s talking about, and this is one of them.’
‘The name change made sense. Everything made sense. He lived in London during the time frame, he was the right age.’
‘So what’s the plan now? I assume you’re not heading home yet?’
‘No,’ I say, part answering the question with Sophia in mind. ‘I... I think I found him. He’s the only option left. I just need to be certain and have enough information for Mum when I break the news to her that he’s passed away.’
‘I’m sorry he’s not alive. But she will be able to handle it. She’s stronger than you think.’
But she wasn’t always strong, was she? When the day was over and she was too tired to cook dinner and would sit in her room crying and everyone left, I was still there, watching her unhappiness envelop her. My life’s mission became keeping Mum happy, being her reason to move forward and choose joy. Zara should know this.
Maybe moving in with Mum was an attempt to keep being her reason? To once more give her enough to keep moving forward? To finally lose the anxiety I’ve carried? If I can make her safe and happy enough, then I’ll have done my job. That was more important than anything else. More important than living. But time is running out for us because I won’t have the luxury of talking things out with her before long. To find answers to all the questions I still have for her.
Except Mum might have given me a chance to do just that. She sent me here, to Sweden.
‘I’m going to talk to Sophia. This is my last hope.’
Sophia
Linköping
I’m happy. Flourishing. I’m moisturised and hydrated and focused. And I haven’t even remembered to take my multi-vit chewies for a week. I’ve had the best week of my adult life.
I’ve started writing emails to my mum. I am yet to receive a reply. The emails make me feel freer, but also like the distance between us is getting bigger with each message sent and each message ignored. I’m turning into someone else and I’m desperately waiting for her to be acknowledged. I do this before going to bed, sending it off into a void, knowing there won’t be a reply until the next morning because Mum goes to bed at a sensible hour. I always feel lighter afterwards, as if whatever I’ve written down isn’t my problem any longer, that I’ve sent it off for good. I scroll through my Sent folder and read what I’ve written.
TO:Mum
SUBJECT:Achievements
Hello Mum,
Vincent has been showing up to look at my work. He was my uncle’s friend, if you remember? Having him there made me think about when anyone showed up for me last. Watched anything I do. I was terrible at school plays, ballet performances and recitals. I remember the first one, I looked for you in the audience and saw you in a red sundress. I remember thinking you were the prettiest mum in the room. Then I went on stage and I messed up. Not tripping on my laces, or forgetting the steps, or singing out of tune. But worse. A Sophia mess-up. You see, the music was too loud and it was so crowded on stage, and I wanted to be off it and in your arms. My hands went over my ears covering them, blocking it all out. Until someone led me away.
We tried again. And again. I tried all those things that we have pictures of that now sit in photo albums and on Facebook, that are emotional milestones for parents. Then I stopped getting parts, and I dropped out of activities. Until there was nothing to show up to and no public accomplishments to watch.
But that doesn’t mean I haven’t done things, that I’m not doing things. Vincent can see it. Maybe one day you can see something good I do too, even if it’s not what you expected from me?
