Page 8 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
When I was twenty-one my uncle passed away, and as he must have known, the only thing that got me through it was that he left me the shop. His message to me in the will simply saidTaking over this shop changed my life and kept me going when I thought I couldn’t. I know it can do the same for you.My family tried to sell it, but a clause had been added which prevented its sale for a period of five years. This meant I had five years to make it work and during which no one could take it from me. I now have one year left before I need to pay my three brothers their share of value—or sell.
The day after my university graduation I boarded the train I knew so well and headed south, with an envelope containing keys for the shop and the two-bedroom apartment above it and a suitcase with my belongings. My brothers were all hung-over so they never said goodbye, but my dad drove me to the station, and when I looked out of the window I could see him still standing there at the platform looking at the train leaving. Even though he’d said, ‘The short-stay parking charges a bloody fortune, so we can’t be long, Sophia.’
The relief to get out was immense. I had almost-kissed too many boys in my hometown, and my parents’ house seemed aconstant chaos ground with my three brothers all living within a mile’s distance and dropping in without notice. In my new life no one would question me or my choices.
And I’ve been doing okay in this new life ever since. The shop makes a profit, I no longer have to hide certain parts of myself to please my parents, and I’ve made some friends (well, really just the one, but still). I really am okay. It’s just that I always wanted a little bit more than just okay. Lots of people wish, dream and yearn for okay. Yet I’d like one part of my life to be extraordinary, to stand out. To give me shivers or take my breath away or make joy bubble up in my throat. There isn’t too much joy lately. There is also the dark cloud of the payment to my brothers. One and a half million kroners. That I don’t have. And I’ve not much reason to think that one more year is going to make much of a difference.
I check my phone to see what my family has been up to. Pulling up the group chat, I see that I’ve missed seventy-three new notifications. All those conversations and they haven’t @ me once.
The chat is muted, and I manage to stay under the radar like this. Its name changes on an almost daily basis, and the current one is Mattias Has Worn the Same Socks for 10 Days. There’s an amazing amount of immaturity between my brothers. They even have their own special group chat, a sibling chat, that I’m not in despite very much being a sibling.
When I was younger I thought if only I were a boy too I’d fit in with my family, I’d get along with my brothers better. I tried to play hockey but never made it past the stage of clinging to the railings, legs shaky on the skates. Even when they let me play Lego, my job was to find the right pieces and hand them to them, not actually build. An enabler.
Today’s seventy-three messages seem to focus on when either of my super successful brothers plans to give my parents grandchildren. My mother is obsessed with the four of us procreating, as if their semi-detached four bedroom in Jönköping is a stately home in need of a bloodline to pass it down to—or else, in the absence of a rightful heir, a mob of illegitimate offspring will storm in and turn it into a donkey sanctuary making my mum and dad homeless.
I ran into Niklas’s mum today and he is expecting twins. He was in your year, Mattias!Mum writes.
I am only one year younger than Mattias,I contribute now. My cheeks feel flushed and warm.
You don’t even like children.My mum’s reply comes fast, as if it’s a ready-made template on her phone.
No, I don’t, in fact. But that doesn’t mean I should be excluded from the bring-forth-an-heir harassment. Whycouldn’tI have a child before my brothers? Is it so obvious that I will end up alone?
I’m a bit like an annexe to this family. Not part of the main house, but this bit that sticks out and looks off because you couldn’t get the same colour or the same tiles and the ceiling height is lower. You put all your spare furniture there, the toilet flush lever only works the second time you pull it, and the heating doesn’t quite function the same way because it’s, well,the annexe.
I have my breakfast on the balcony and wear a floral dress which is floaty and makes me feel well-ventilated and free. I love summer clothes. No scratchy wool or fluffy cashmere. Just cotton, dresses and soft, well-washed hoodies when it gets chilly. I have an hour until I open up the shop, so I decide totackle my finances, which is a much less painful task than the family chat. As I pull the most recent spreadsheet up on my screen I sigh. Even I can see that my spreadsheets have become faster to compile. People simply aren’t buying as many flowers as they used to. And the ones who are buying require deliveries far out in the countryside, meaning my petrol spend and time invested (since I’m the only employee, I have to make deliveries while the shop is closed) is too high. I have no expensive habits apart from silk underwear and organic oats, but even with my modest living for one, the business has to make a bigger profit. It needs to make sense. And working around the clock for almost nothing makes no sense to me. Not when I need more than a million by the end of next year to even keep this going.
I go over my options again. Employing someone is out of the question. It’s a small town, and the extra cost won’t do me any favours. Then there’s expansion.To someone like me, that word is scary as it relates to things likeexpanding one’s horizon. If I can’t figure out a way to make having another employee work, I’m not sure expanding is even a viable option.
I have had a few enquiries to do events, decorate corporate conferences and take part in markets but so far have ignored any such requests. The most recent one left me a voicemail five days ago, and I only returned the call because it was an old friend of my uncle’s. The phone call lasted twenty-five minutes of which I spoke for three and a half, which was just enough time to say, ‘No, thank you, I am simply not in a position to take on the project as it stands, but thank you for thinking of me.’ The other twenty-one and a half involved my uncle’s friend explaining that they were in a bit of a pickle and needed someone to decorate the annual markets across seven locations in Småland county. It was a lucrative and utterlyfrightening proposition. Thinking about it, perhaps I should have thought the offer over for more than two seconds.
I text Lina.
Me:I could use some company tonight. Do you wish to be that company?
Lina:I’ll close at 6pm and come over right after.
Blade
London
The next morning I wake up before Mum does. Six thirty, like always. Get myself ready quickly because I don’t know what state she’ll be in today. I imagine one of those rating displays you get at a public service office or train station with four smiley faces that range in colour from red to green. Yesterday I would have pressed the far left one—red like an inferno, mouth turned downward in a clearly identifiable frown. Today I hope for the green one.
It’s a laundry day. I can tell because I’m out of clean sweatpants. I pull open the curtains in the sitting room so I can see the world and it can see me. I look at the people rushing past outside. A little girl drops her hair tie, and the mother attached to her arm only reluctantly stops for it.Rush. All those people wishing to give it all up and have no fucking clue what they wish for. People with reusable cups and briefcases walk past, making me wish I could keep the blinds closed so as not to see what all I’m missing out on, but I remember the advice toDifferentiate between day and night always, to aid your loved one being present and in the moment. The blinds are always open, and whilst my instinct is to duck and hide, Mum likes to wave at neighbours as they walk past.
At the kitchen counter I hesitate. I have photos taped to the cabinet doors so she can know what’s behind them. Whatever we can we have in clear view, so Mum can easily pick it up. Keys, pen, paper and timer.
I prepare her toast and put small pills next to it on the plate, watching them roll around like flipper balls when I balance it with one hand and bring it upstairs. Mum is awake.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Is it not a good one? Or are you saving your words for someone more interesting than me?’ She used to say that to teenage me.Who are you saving your words for?When I’d mutter a short reply to prompts about how my day had been, or where I was headed atthis goddamn hour. For a minute I wonder if she thinks I’m sixteen again and will start rubbing her thumb at a spot of breakfast staining my shirt, then say, ‘Off to college you go, now. Buses and opportunities don’t wait for you.’
‘Not sure if it’s a good one yet, that’s all. But fine. Good morning, Mum.’
People supposedly look the oldest when they wake up. Groggy and lined from creases in the sheets, and eyes with blue bulges underneath them. But Mum looks her youngest, her most peaceful in this moment. All the lines have relaxed overnight, her eyes are alert and glossy as if she’s had a particularly vivid dream.
I place the tray on her lap.
