Page 75 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
I’ve never really been to hospital before, only for day appointments and a half-day stay for an MRI Mum had to get done when her memory began fading. I relate to it more as a TV set for medical dramas than an actual place where people are sick and other people work, and I’m half expecting a hot couple to appear from the on-call room adjusting their scrubs. The nurses get me some sheets and a pillow for the chair, which apparently turns into something resembling a bed, and I walk to the patient room.
As I walk back to Mum’s room, I read a sign informing relatives that visiting hours are between two and five and that flowers aren’t allowed in the general surgery wing.Flowers. I wonder what flower Sophia is now. Something trampled on and left behind and—
No, this is for the best. Things have changed in the past day.Every hope I had of Mum being safe somewhere and me being able to embark on some sort of life which may include Sophia has dwindled and shrivelled. It didn’t work for someone like my ex, who already lived in the same city. How could it work with Sophia?
Mum is still sleeping. I untwist the IV line coming from her left arm.
‘I’m here,’ Zara says behind me. ‘Do you want me to stay, or shall I see if there’s anything edible in the hospital Costa?’
‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll wait here until there’s a round, and they can update me.’
‘Should be at five but there are always emergencies, so you never know. I missed the one this morning, but Eliza was here to get the update.’
‘Eliza?’
‘Edith’s friend. Well, my friend too now, actually. Your mum introduced us. She’s an estate agent on Hornton Street.’
I shrug. A friend? Mum has made friends? There is so much Mum does that I know nothing of, that she is capable of. If only I’d stopped to see. I pick up a ‘Get Well Soon’ card off the side table.From Pushba, Jake and Ella. We’re making cakes for when you get home,it reads. A child’s drawing shows a stick person looking sad in a hospital bed and in the next image happily eating a brownie. Underneath it is aps:I came over last night to borrow some tape. You weren’t there, but Zara gave it to me. It’s for my school project lighthouse. I’m using two garden pots and paint! Jake.
‘This is also a friend?’
‘Your nextdoor neighbours. They borrow flour and eggs now and again. And, as it turns out, tape.’
A memory of a quiet, friendly family I’ve never stopped to talk to comes to mind.
Zara grabs my arm suddenly.
‘Eliza just texted me. She was packing Edith’s hospital bag, and guess what? She found more letters.’
A healthcare assistant comes in and checks Mum’s vitals. I’m awkward under her gaze and presence, having been absent initially, my guilt not yet dispelled, but Zara chats on.
‘She’ll be on anticoagulants for some time now. Physio sessions. The good thing is that Edith was so active and fit.’
We have her walks to and from the bus stop to thank for that.
Statistics I read during my trip here wheel through my head as she talks. Life expectancy after a bone break: one-year mortality rate is 21 per cent. Odds of survival worsen with increasing age, of course, but thankfully women are less vulnerable. And Zara seems to talk about the future, as if there’s no imminent danger to Mum’s life. The numbers mean at best my mum has only a one in five risk of dying this year. Numbly I think,Who would I be if I didn’t exist to keep Mum alive? I don’t want to find out. All the dreams of freedom have gone. Freedom means nothing when you’re alone.
‘How long will she be here?’ I shoot a grateful smile to the girl who’s just finished up and is wheeling the blood pressure monitor back into place in the far corner of the room before leaving us be.
‘A week?’ Zara answers. ‘At least that’s what they said yesterday.’
I nod.
‘Hey, let me go check Costa. Hospital rooms have the same rules as Christmas Day and road trips—there’s no limit on snacking and food consumption. Anything goes. I’m not missing the opportunity.’
Mum stirs. I watch her open her eyes. The front of her arms have freckly age spots, and spider veins break the skin on herlegs. I pull the blanket up in case she’s cold. I’ve seen all these marks before but today they make me sad, seeing them against the backdrop of the crisp hospital linen: she looks older.
‘Hey. I’m back,’ I say when she notices me.
‘Why? I didn’t ask you to come back.’ She is very alert all of a sudden.
‘Mum, you broke your leg. Of course I came back.’
‘From what I remember, you have no medical qualifications, and so your presence in the event of a bone break is wholly unnecessary and based on sentiment. Sentiment I do not have time for. I’ve been trying to tell you.’
‘Now is not the time, Mum.’
She keeps up appearances, but I can see her face relaxing. She slaps my shoulder gently, as if there’s a speck of dust or a bee perched on it.
