Page 90 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
Sven did come that afternoon in 1998. He always loved you and never forgot you. He lived a good life. He died in 2016.
Then I add the most important part of it all. What I hope she remembers when old feelings stir and push at her sanity.
Everyone makes wrong choices. Everyone has regrets. You lived a good life too.
Sophia
Svedala
The first customer of the day is looking for a bouquet for her aunt who’s unwell.
‘May I suggest some carnations? They don’t just stand for love, captivation and distinction which one might think but also for medicinal purposes, such as for upset stomach and fever.’
‘How lovely. These are very pretty, aren’t they?’ She looks at the flowers in the buckets I’ve shown her.
‘Any colour preference?’ I ask her. ‘Although I’d stay clear of red. It was US President McKinley’s lucky charm and he always wore one on his lapel.’ The customer looks at me expectantly. I stop for breath and then add, ‘He was, however, assassinated.’
‘Oh. Should we go for a white mix, then?’
‘Wonderful.’ I start to work on them. All my focus spreads through my hands as I cut, bind and make something beautiful.
Sometimes when I go to sleep at night I don’t close my eyes, I keep them open for a while. And I go through all my favourite parts of Blade like a map. When I start to tire, I close my eyes and continue. Here’s why it sends me to sleep so well: it’s endless. I never run out of places and at some point I always drift off with the warm fuzzy feeling inside me I’ve come torecognise as my new normal. When normal is like this, I don’t need extraordinary. Who does?
I meet everyone at the old quarry after work. I’m carrying the biggest bouquet of flowers, and Cornflakes is on a lead next to me, lunging forward when he sees his human daddy. I let go, ignoring training techniques for today, and let him run towards Blade.
‘This is the epic closure every love story should have,’ Lina says.
It was Edith’s idea, and she wouldn’t let it go. ‘The letters will come back and haunt me again,’ she said. The more we thought about it, we could see that she had a point. The new Swedish neurologist agreed there’s something to be said for closure, for the calmness it brings to a brain in uproar. ‘It’s not a bad idea making a ceremony of it. Perhaps even take some pictures,’ she told us.
So here we are. I’m cradling Edith’s and Sven’s letters turned to ashes in my best porcelain vase. The ones they both wrote but never sent—now mixed together.
‘So is this a common Swedish tradition?’ Americano aka Tim asks. We all burst out laughing because, of course, we all probably seem barking mad to an outsider. Spreading letter ashes as if they’re human remains. He should know that by now, seeing how much time we spend together. Even if I’d tried, I couldn’t have pictured a better scenario than the one in which my best friend’s boyfriend becomes my boyfriend’s best friend.
I give Edith a hug and feel my chest expand from the joy of being together, the joy of being slightly unhinged, of there being no secret, of sharing grief with someone who understands.
I have kept one letter, with her permission. The words aren’t for me, but they soothe me still, give me a sense of belonging I never had. I’m not the only one in my family. If I didn’t know before, then the letter proves it.
I have a niece, Edith. She’s not like my nephews. She needs me. I understand a little bit more of what was behind your decision now. What I mean is that I’ll never be happy about your choice, but I understood your decision once Sophia was born. She’s not my child, but she needs me, without me there’d be no one in her world like her. She has my brain, and I need to make sure she grows up knowing people will love her for it, even if it won’t always feel like it.
I hope you moved on. That you have a good life.
Blade shakes the vase, and the fragmented ashes fly out, separating as soon as the wind touches them, flying off in a million directions within seconds, never to be reunited.
I reach for Blade’s hand.
A Retired Storage Facility Manager
A good chanterelle spot
The retired Rent-a-Safe manager and his wife have brought a Thermos flask and sandwiches. It’s chanterelles season and he’s looking forward to an afternoon of telling his wife where to find the best mushrooms and which direction to go.
He’s always liked the forest. England has its Premier League and France has its baguettes, but do they have the fresh pine air and endless space that Sweden does? No, he didn’t think so. He stops abruptly. There’s a bloody racket! Who would bring a bloody racket to the forest when the retired manager knows that silence is what makes mushrooms reveal themselves? Shy things they are.
‘Leave this to me,’ the manager tells his wife, pressing the basket into her arms.
‘Of course.’ The manager’s wife tends to always leave things to him; the bin, paying the bills, figuring out why she’s sleeping in the guest room most nights.
He pushes through the shrubbery toward where the noise is coming from, appearing the other side of the trees covered in pine needles as if he’s attempted to camouflage. He coughs. The air is bloodypolluted. Ashes! In a forest! Whenthe manager is about to collect his chanterelles! He is about to storm up and give the culprits a piece of his mind—there is a lot of it to give, since it’s been resting and dormant since his retirement one month ago—when he stops in his tracks. What a funny-looking group. Not at all a group of teenagers frying sausages over an open fire risking the wildlife the retired manager holds dear. No—there’s an older lady on crutches, surrounded by young people, and then there’s a dog. It’s on its lead, so no opportunity for him to complain there, he notes with disappointment. The ashes have cleared, but perhaps he got a fragment in his left eye because it’s watering. Or perhaps it’s the right one. It might be both eyes, come to think of it. The laughter of the group cuts through the silence, and the retired manager finds himself turning around, his feet sinking into soggy moss.
