Page 12 of The Second Chance Bus Stop
London
means throwing things at random into a small hard suitcase then sitting on it whilst zipping it closed, sweat appearing on
her forehead.
She still has a spare key for the house, hers since she was a teenager. It was so much closer to school than her own house
and she felt more comfortable there. There were no questions about homework or what had happened to her uniform or anything
that her mum and dad routinely asked about. To this day she takes out her piercings before she goes to see them to avoid a
debate, hating herself and her weak spirit for it.
She’s happy to stay with Edith. It’s really not a favour. Sure, she’s had to cancel a date tonight, but to be fair she would
have cancelled it anyway. Zara likes giving people a chance, and so she finds herself swiping for pretty much everyone. She
doesn’t want them to end up with no match: life is hard enough without being the last one to be picked. So she swipes and
swipes like some relentless serial dater and then has to come up with excuses to never meet up or move the conversation to
WhatsApp.
She just hopes they’ll all hang in there.
Edith’s house is the type of home that doesn’t change. The key lock is the same, the sofa has gained a throw in a mocha shade to hide old stains but is still standing, and the kettle takes about ten minutes to boil water because, well, it’s ancient.
‘He cleans too much,’ Zara tells the walls after letting herself in.
‘What did you say?’ How he can hear her through two walls is a mystery.
‘I said a clean house is a sign of time wrongly spent.’
He pulls her into a hug. Uneven, anxious, too hard, then too loose. It goes on for too long.
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Blade, you’ve given up a lot. And I get it, your mum is a great mum, she’s special. I’ll be the first to say it. But not
everyone would do what you did. Give up work and a life? You’ve always been too involved. This is the last thing you should do, and I’m happy to help you, but then there has to be balance.’
She’s not here so he can find Sven, not really. She’s here so that he can get some distance, realise what he’s missing out
on. That he’s not the only source of happiness for his mum, that he never was, nor could he be. He won’t find Sven—how could
he? But he might find his way again. At least that’s what Zara hopes. If one can even find one’s way in only three weeks.
‘Will you keep looking for pictures or letters? She could have hidden them,’ Blade asks her.
The house is neat but filled with thirty years’ worth of things. It will be hard to find anything, but Zara doesn’t say so.
‘Sure.’
Zara walks into the kitchen and runs her hand, her fingers full of gold rings, over the spotless counter.
‘I think you might have OCD.’
‘I have not.’
Zara nods her chin in the direction of the counter, filled with orange-coloured plastic bottles.
‘You know, I’m capable of reading.’ In addition to the prescription labels themselves, Blade has carefully mapped out sticky notes repeating the instructions and uses of each medication.
The bottles and pills are laid out in a colour scheme resembling a rainbow. Blade is behind her.
‘Stop acting like a parent dropping off a toddler at nursery. Stop hovering. A quick goodbye and off you go. We’ll be fine.’
She says this with actual confidence because, whether Blade knows it or not, she and Edith will be fine.
Zara hopes he will be too.