Page 3 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

I get the call when I’m racking up the weights. Two dudes are watching me to see that I really have wiped them down. But then,

I could just be imagining it. Always feel watched even if I’m not, but try to remind myself that sometimes it really is all

in my head. Actually, usually it’s all in my head. I focus on the feeling of all my muscles being tense, worked to the limit,

so that my brain can’t even utter any of its normal anxious shit, but that bubble is burst as soon as I put the dumbbells

back on the rack. My mind goes back to reality. To bills, to work, to mum. Mum. There’s a missed call from an unknown number on my phone. I turn the device sideways so my finger can touch the uncracked

area of the screen and call back.

‘Hello?’

‘Is this Edith’s next of kin?’

‘Yes,’ I admit reluctantly, as if confessing a crime. Or rather, waiting to hear what crime she has committed. Shouldn’t it

be the other way? I’m twenty-nine, and she’s sixty-four. Surely I should be the troublemaker?

‘That would be me.’

‘I am a social worker in Kensington and Chelsea borough. I am here with your mother. I was called in to assist an hour ago. We have tried to get her home, as it appears she’s in fact not homeless but gave us an address in Streatham.

Is that correct? She seems to have a bus card and enough cash for a taxi but is insisting on staying put.

She isn’t in pain or injured. Just very stubborn. ’

All my muscles suddenly ache, but I know I can’t blame the weights.

‘Right. I’ll be there in—where did you say you were?’

‘The town hall. Between the town hall and the library. Just off Kensington High Street. The street is called Hornton Street.’

My legs wobble, and again, it’s not from a strenuous leg day. She’s back there. We’ve had months with no incidents, months

when she’s agreed to stay home except for special occasions, but here we are. Fuck , here we are again.

‘Can you make your way here quickly, please? I’ve tried to reason with her, but she keeps saying she will stay here until

the 16.14 bus and be back in time for dinner.’

‘Forty-five minutes,’ I tell her. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, gaze longingly at the showers as I rush past them and

take a deep inhale when the cool summer air surrounds me. The realisation that I have one more problem in my life now hits

hard. Can’t help feeling that this is a turning point.

Care home , my brain tells me as I run down the road.

Two words that could solve this, change our lives forever.

Safety, comfort and pudding every day! I can’t do this any longer.

It was meant to be a solution, me spending time with my mother and supporting her after her diagnosis.

I didn’t take the decision lightly. It was a long, guilt-infused process, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy.

But this constant, relentless fear was never part of the plan.

Even as her full-time carer, keeping her safe is becoming more difficult each day.

I hop on the bus because I have no time to make it back to the house first, plus there is no damn parking where she is (I mean, come on, Mum, if you’re impersonating a homeless person, why do it in Kensington of all places?

At least if you chose Romford I could find street parking that wasn’t ten quid an hour).

My phone battery is low, so I spend the time it takes the bus to get there caught up in my thoughts, annoyed thoughts, thoughts that push at the chest angrily.

I get off and let the frustration out by running the rest of the way.

I run past shops and coffee places. Everyone is so well-dressed they scare me.

The social worker—I’ve forgotten her name already—is still there when I arrive. In a big cardigan with a tote bag hanging

off her shoulder and shoes that look like she treasures them and takes them to be restored rather than buy new ones. She stands

a few metres from Mum, hovering like a bodyguard, attempting to see but not be seen.

‘Mum,’ I say, nodding a silent thank you to the lady, hoping this is it, that she’ll leave us and there’ll be no reports,

home visits or follow-ups.

‘There was really no need for you to come here.’ Mum’s cheeks are rosy, and she looks as if I’ve just turned up to her primary

school playground to embarrass her. She looks around to see if there’s anyone watching. But who apart from the social worker

would watch us? An older lady and her young adult son. I notice that Mum hasn’t changed out of her home clothes. The soft

brown velvet pants I bought her and which she initially resisted and dismissed as inappropriate attire are now apparently

appropriate for outings to the city centre.

‘Let’s go, Mum. We’ll talk later.’ I usher her away, happy that she is okay, but also far too aware of what this means.

She’s back at the bus stop.