Page 14 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

Svedala

My uncle’s friend sounded relieved when I called him a week ago to say that, yes, I’d take the job. Relief is not what I get

from my family when I tell them I may need a place to stay for a couple of nights. Like a tedious task that has to be done,

they start to divide me up, splitting the burden. Although they like me, they pass me off to the next person like an unwanted gift you don’t have any use for. Part of me wishes I didn’t have

to tell them at all. But if I don’t ask and they find out I booked a hotel... No one wants me, but if I choose to stay

somewhere else they get offended.

You can do two nights at mine, Pontus writes. Pontus is at home a lot and currently has a friend staying with him after a bad break-up. There are football nights and takeaway

pizzas and other friends dropping by at all hours, it sounds like. I feel a knot in my stomach. Then Mum writes and it grows

bigger, pushing so hard I can swear I look physically bloated. It’s only my mum, I tell the lump. Who is scared of their own mum?

Can’t wait, darling! It’s just that Anita and Ralph are coming to stay on that Friday.

We booked an opera in Link o ping. If you could get your things packed up by 10am so the cleaner can change the linen before they arrive?

Oh, and bring something nice as we have dinner guests on some of the nights you’re staying. Love, Mum.

I shudder. Dinner guests and a check-out time from my own family home. This means I need to increase the nights spent at my

brothers’. Mattias is the best option, and the only reason he hasn’t replied yet is that he works nights at the veterinary

practice. His house is shared with two pugs and a girlfriend who drinks green tea and does yoga in a corner of the living

room and hugs me when I bring her flowers. When the message finally arrives a few hours later, my shoulders relax a little,

and I feel like hugging someone. Maybe a tree.

No probs. Let me know when you arrive and I’ll leave the key under the doormat if I’m out. M

I start to pack because I will be working today and have set a target departure time of seven tomorrow morning. The evening

will be spent squeezing everything I need into my small car. I still can’t believe I agreed to this, but then, agreeing to

bigger contracts appears to be my only chance of raising the money I need in order to keep calling this my home. I’ve made

sure the cupboards are stocked with my favourite cereals, and then I leave a note next to the front door for myself saying

‘Welcome back, Sophia.’ Because it’s important to appreciate your roommates and co-workers.

Unpopular opinion: I prefer funerals over weddings.

Less drunk uncles, less single-shaming and less expensive.

From a florist’s point of view, it’s also more interesting to cater and pinpoint flowers that reflect the tune and soundtrack to a whole human life, rather than finding something pretty that simply makes a bride’s eyes stand out and matches her dress.

I walk into the church hall to help move the flowers outside onto the grave, and the blend of voices flood at me like a light

being suddenly switched on in a dark room. It takes me a second to adjust, then I hear them all. The three types of funeral

guests. The ones that are there for the deceased, the ones that are there for others and the ones that are there for themselves.

‘Hey there!’ An older man in an ill-fitting grey suit pushes his elbow into my side narrowly missing my ribs. ‘Have you tried

the pie? Bloody delicious, that is.’

I conclude that this man is here for himself. For the ambience, the chat and, apparently, for the pie. Growing older must

be lonely, and if the only party of some sort you’re invited to is a wake, then make the most of it, I suppose. I mean, there

will come a day for all of us when birthday, wedding and christening invitations will be replaced by funeral announcements.

‘I will get to it once I finish working,’ I say. Truth is I can’t stand quiches. Pies. Whatever you call them. They seem to

go hand in hand with mourning, a practical dish that can be handed over lukewarm and eaten cold.

I make my way to the coffin as discreetly a I can. The crowd of mourners have now gone to the tables with their first serving,

the older man included.

I have just finished moving everything that needs moving when I see a man I didn’t notice in the church earlier enter the

room then hover in the corner next to the door. He’s about my own age. He has a yellow beanie perched on the top of his head,

aging him down immensely.

He holds a white rose (boring choice, supermarket plastic wrap, could go on), and I can’t help but look at him.

I blink twice to see if I’m doing one of my zooming-out episodes where my gaze fixates out of my control, but nope.

Apparently I am in control of my eyesight and where I’m looking.

Which is still at this man. A man who seemingly arrived late and has a flower that needs to get to the coffin before it’s buried. Which

means this man, or rather his flower, is my responsibility.

There is only one way to deal with this. I start to walk towards him.