Page 29 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

V ? xj o

Camping is overrated, I’ve decided after the second night. At least the type that involves a two-person tent and a man of

six-one height. Perhaps my codriver has an altogether different experience in her glamping quarter. New bed linen, oat milk

and what I’m guessing is silk pyjamas. I unzip my way out of the cocoon and find that it’s a sunny and still day. The light

is on in the van so she’ll be up. Don’t want to disturb her. But also need coffee. A lot.

I knock once and the door opens a smudge as if she’s checking I’m not a wild bear.

‘Just me. Who needs coffee.’

‘Two minutes.’

Four minutes later I’m allowed in. Everything is neat, and Sophia’s dressed in a long cotton maxi dress with a simple cardigan

on top.

‘Are you ready for today?’ I ask, attempting to make small talk, something she seems reluctant to engage in generally. She

shared that the local newspaper is coming to take pictures of the market in full swing and her floral arrangements will feature.

‘Impossible. You can only be ready for something if you know exactly what will happen and when. Days don’t work like that. They’re unpredictable.’

I think of my own day. Very similar to yesterday, just a different archive in a different location. Obviously we camp where

Sophia has to be, which is never the same town that I need to visit, but I am able to make it work with a few hours’ driving

each day. No luck yesterday and I doubt I’ll have any today. In the back of my mind, the idea that Sophia’s uncle could be

Mum’s Sven lingers, but she’s sure he never went to London. So I’m on to Sven number three.

Twenty minutes later, with my coffee next to me in an at-home mug, I drop Sophia off at the main square and head on my way.

Long after she’s hopped out of the passenger seat, I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo drifting up from the back of

the cabin.

As predicted, the time in the archives was fruitless. A man with a knitted jumper and thin-framed glasses hovered next to

me for nearly an hour before I finally gave in and let him help me. After another hour he offered me a coffee, and after the

third he brought out the biscuits. But after the fourth hour we had to conclude that we wouldn’t find anything, and I left

to get back in time to collect Sophia. I don’t understand: my mum says Sven went to university in V?xjo , but looking through

the town’s records there is no sign of him. I know some people stay under the radar, graduate and get on with it. They manage

to go without making any marks as they progress. I looked at the university graduation photos: nothing. Mum was sure that’s

where he went to study social sciences. I have now exhausted Sven’s university town, and I’m running out of ideas. The man

promised to email me should he think of anything, but how often do we get those emails, really?

I have a quick lunch back in Eksj o and call Mum as I eat.

‘How is it going?’ Mum asks with her usual blend of hopeful scepticism.

‘Getting there,’ I say.

‘Getting where?’ she asks.

‘You’re not meant to ask that.’

‘Well, I did. Watch me stir up the English language conventions.’ Her camera is off view and I see the green wallpaper. I

clench my teeth.

‘I went to an archive, following up a lead I got from one of your letters. Checking Sven’s graduation history. Whatever there

was of it. I still have a list of three Svens to contact, though. Plus the owner of the floral shop.’

‘I found some more letters here. Zara and I have been on quite the search mission since you left. I can have Zara send them

over to you.’ She’s clear today. The way the words string together in the right order and she can find each one of them easily.

They are words I have heard her use all my life and not new, foreign-sounding ones like chaise longue or Darjeeling which make her sound slightly off. I decide to try and find clarity in something that’s been bothering me.

‘Mum, there are no records of him. If you gave me the right details, that is. Birth year, home town and university. Is there

anything else? Did you meet him through work?’

Mum has had many jobs. Hotel housekeeping, dinner lady and personal assistant.

‘Not all details are important, Blade,’ she tells me.

But she doesn’t confirm that this one, of how they met, isn’t.

‘How did it go?’ I ask Sophia when she opens the door and jumps in.

‘Surprisingly well. The airborne humidity is perfect and unless the temperature rises overnight I won’t have to switch out any of the arrangements. I didn’t have to be in any of the photos which was a relief. I hate photos.’

Sophia sits quietly the whole drive back and I don’t want to disturb her. She is tapping away at her phone in the passenger

seat next to me. Her knees are pulled up against her body, and her feet are rested against the dash. She looks cosy. I guess

with her long legs sitting up straight in a seat won’t work. She only breaks the silence when I make an abrupt break to allow

the car in front of me to parallel park. The red Volvo inches backwards until it halts then abruptly drives back onto the

road.

‘Wow. Commitment issues,’ Sophia remarks.

‘Sorry?’

‘That Volvo. The way they first wanted the space, but when everything around them aligned—car behind stopping—they still gave

up after one try. I bet they’ll do the same to another parking space on the next road.’

She peeks out of the window, following the car with her eyes hoping to prove her thesis. A content laugh when she does.

‘See.’ She nods at the red car which is now again holding up traffic to wedge its way in between two parked vehicles. ‘ Obvious commitment issues.’

‘I can cook something,’ I offer when we are back home twenty minutes later. Home , it’s a clearing in the forest that I share with a stranger but I don’t know what else I’d call it.

‘Sure. Stress level is at a modest 1 so I can handle a nutritious cooked meal.’

The kitchen is so small I have to crouch down and look behind me each time before I move to ensure I’m not bumping into her.

She finds the table and two chairs that come with the mobile home and sets them up outside. When I appear with two plates

of pasta she looks so genuinely pleased something tugs at my chest.

‘So did you find the man you’re looking for today?’ she asks.

‘Unfortunately not.’

I’m not quite ready to ask more about her uncle. Based on what little Sophia said about him, it’s essentially impossible that

it’s him. But still, I’d like to prolong the moment I find out this has all been completely useless. That my mum mistakenly

sent letters to his shop, that he is not, in fact, the Sven I’m looking for. To find out that I’m that much closer to failure.

‘Where is your mum now that you’re away?’ she asks me.

‘A friend is staying with her. She’s amazing.’

‘I have one friend, but she’s a three in one really. Life coach, best friend and sister.’

‘Sounds like you don’t need anything else. My best friend can be highly critical and too invested, but she always pulls through

when you need her. She’s the one staying at my house now. With my mum.’

‘Do you miss your mum? I find I don’t miss people. I can ache and hurt and but when people talk about wanting to hug their

mum, I don’t feel it like that.’

‘I’m not used to talking about this. About Mum. Us.’

‘Why?’

It’s hard to explain. The mix of pain and guilt and fed-upness that always washes over me when I talk about my mother.

These feelings have robbed me of the ability to speak about her, to be proud of her and what we’ve had all these years.

Her illness has robbed me of even cherishing the memories. Oh don’t go and fucking cry, Blade.

‘You can talk about it. I don’t always know the right thing to say, but I know how to listen.’

She means it. Somehow I trust her more than someone who’s known me half my life. I’m not sure I’m ready for it, though. I

shrug. But her eyes are open wide and never leave my face. Maybe just the short version, then.

‘Do you know anything about dementia? It’s a disease, there’s no cure for it. It changes the brain, the memory and the personality.

Mum has it, and well, I’ve been her carer for the past three years.’

What I leave out is that it’s been three years of no breaks, no travelling, no peace of mind. There has been joy, and love

of course, but lately all these other feelings are starting to eat away at it. Please don’t let me lose sight of the joy... I think maybe that’s what I’m really looking for, by coming here for her, some way to preserve the joy.

I tell Sophia a little of the brightly coloured plates and how some days I’m only a floating head to my mum, due to changes

in the brain and in how things look, feel and sound to her.

‘I feel a little like that around my family. Like I’m a floating body part almost, not a proper person like the others,’ she

says. I smile, my anxiety lowered, then start to stack our plates.

‘It’s raining.’ I’m stating the obvious. It’s been raining for a while already. Soft drops fall on us and the table, but I’ve

finished talking anyway, and she doesn’t seem to mind.

‘I love rain.’

‘More than sunshine?’

‘Oh yes. I don’t like sunshine. It gives me a headache. It’s too bright, too loud. Can you hear brightness? I swear I can.’

‘So what’s your preferred weather forecast?’ I ask.

‘Overcast, sixteen degrees,’ she replies in a heartbeat.

‘Here, take my sweater.’ I offer her my black hoodie and she pulls it down over her head so only her mouth, nose and blue eyes are visible. She takes it off again as quickly as she put it on.

‘Sorry, I can feel the tag. I don’t do well with scratchy things.’

‘Here, give me.’ I take it from her. With my teeth I rip the tag off and hand it back to her.

‘That may well be the most thoughtful thing someone has done for me in a long time.’

Only when it starts pouring more heavily do we grab the tableware and fold up the chairs, running towards the van cabin to

store them away.

‘Thank you for dinner,’ she says as I grab a towel from the cupboard and prepare to make a run for the tent.

‘Goodnight,’ I say. Then, desperate to talk more, if only just for another minute, I add, ‘Would you like a gum?’ I stretch

the pack out towards her.

‘No, thanks. I don’t like mi—’ She smiles. ‘Oh. These aren’t mint. You bought new ones.’ She takes two, weighing them in the

middle of her palm.

‘No, they’re strawberry.’