Page 61 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

I’m pacing next to the luggage carousel until my one suitcase eventually turns up. Zara meets me at Arrivals, and I silently

take one of the two Costa cups she’s holding.

‘Okay. You’re too quiet,’ she says as I fling my smaller bag onto my shoulder. I stay quiet until we reach the car park.

‘Where is your method of transport?’ I ask.

‘It’s a car.’

‘ Car would be too great a compliment.’

Her Fiat from about last century has only a left blinker: don’t ask me how she gets out of having it fixed. And of being fined.

As I sit down I’m also reminded that the seat warmer can’t be switched off, a wonderful feature in July. At least if you’re

Sophia.

Sophia.

‘She’s okay, you know. Your mum.’

I feel guilty for having thought of Sophia, Zara having misread the pain on my face. The guilt comes out as anger when I speak.

‘You were meant to keep her safe.’

‘It was an accident. Accidents happen. The only thing that could have prevented it would have been living in a house that doesn’t have stairs. She’s not a child, she’s not frail, she’s not even a danger to herself, really. You smother her.’

‘I watch out for her! What am I supposed to do, let her wander off and just hope she makes it home eventually? I guess I wouldn’t

have to wonder much. She’d just be sitting at that bloody bus stop all day.’

‘She lights up when she’s at Hornton Street, like she’s got this purpose again. She can be unaware and frustrated at home,

struggling to find the right items and words, and then we get on the bus together and her focus shifts. She’s clear and determined

and knows exactly where she needs to be. How could you not support that?’

‘Her doctor told me to keep her away.’

‘Well, her doctor doesn’t know her like you do, like I do.’

Zara flicks the indicator switch with an aggression she usually reserves for half empty ketchup bottles. I can’t help thinking

she imagines flicking my nose.

‘She’s still a human being, a woman. She’s not dead yet, you know,’ she says.

I’m furious now. I know. I bloody know all this as she’s my mum and I’ve been taking care of her for three fucking years whilst Zara has only had a glimpse. I swallow my anger and continue

to listen.

‘It’s real to her. And that means it’s real to me, and it should be to you. That’s why I tell her he may be real. I respect that that’s her reality, you know? Who am I to say my reality is more important than hers? If she wants

to wait for him, then I can let her.’

I feel that familiar defeat, the sense of Fine, you’re right, but I don’t like it .

‘Why? Why wait for this man? It doesn’t make any sense. And don’t say love, please. He never turned up, he left her for all

intents and purposes, and she’s just been pining for decades, unwilling to let go. She just sits and sits at that damn bus

stop.’

‘If you didn’t always know where you were, would you not go to the one place you know means something to you? Where you are yourself? What moment would you go back to if everything was slowly slipping away from you?’

To Sophia. There is no hesitation, no thought process involved. The name is simply there. I want to un-think it, unsend, but it’s been thought. There. If I couldn’t remember how to make tea or where I lived, at least I know I’d never forget the way I felt when I was with

her. And I’d want to be back in a forest clearing in a warm July with her.

‘Even if she’s unwell and even if she’s your mother. And so what if she can’t do what she used to? She can still have purpose

somewhere. Right now, this is her purpose, and if you take it away, then what’s left? What does it matter what it is that

makes us get up and live every single day? As long as something does, we’re good.’

I’ve never really been to hospital before, only for day appointments and a half-day stay for an MRI Mum had to get done when

her memory began fading. I relate to it more as a TV set for medical dramas than an actual place where people are sick and

other people work, and I’m half expecting a hot couple to appear from the on-call room adjusting their scrubs. The nurses

get me some sheets and a pillow for the chair, which apparently turns into something resembling a bed, and I walk to the patient

room.

As I walk back to Mum’s room, I read a sign informing relatives that visiting hours are between two and five and that flowers

aren’t allowed in the general surgery wing. Flowers . I wonder what flower Sophia is now. Something trampled on and left behind and—

No, this is for the best. Things have changed in the past day.

Every hope I had of Mum being safe somewhere and me being able to embark on some sort of life which may include Sophia has dwindled and shrivelled.

It didn’t work for someone like my ex, who already lived in the same city. How could it work with Sophia?

Mum is still sleeping. I untwist the IV line coming from her left arm.

‘I’m here,’ Zara says behind me. ‘Do you want me to stay, or shall I see if there’s anything edible in the hospital Costa?’

‘I’m fine,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll wait here until there’s a round, and they can update me.’

‘Should be at five but there are always emergencies, so you never know. I missed the one this morning, but Eliza was here

to get the update.’

‘Eliza?’

‘Edith’s friend. Well, my friend too now, actually. Your mum introduced us. She’s an estate agent on Hornton Street.’

I shrug. A friend? Mum has made friends? There is so much Mum does that I know nothing of, that she is capable of. If only

I’d stopped to see. I pick up a ‘Get Well Soon’ card off the side table. From Pushba, Jake and Ella. We’re making cakes for when you get home, it reads. A child’s drawing shows a stick person looking sad in a hospital bed and in the next image happily eating a brownie.

Underneath it is a ps : I came over last night to borrow some tape. You weren’t there, but Zara gave it to me. It’s for my school project lighthouse.

I’m using two garden pots and paint! Jake.

‘This is also a friend?’

‘Your nextdoor neighbours. They borrow flour and eggs now and again. And, as it turns out, tape.’

A memory of a quiet, friendly family I’ve never stopped to talk to comes to mind.

Zara grabs my arm suddenly.

‘Eliza just texted me. She was packing Edith’s hospital bag, and guess what? She found more letters.’

A healthcare assistant comes in and checks Mum’s vitals. I’m awkward under her gaze and presence, having been absent initially,

my guilt not yet dispelled, but Zara chats on.

‘She’ll be on anticoagulants for some time now. Physio sessions. The good thing is that Edith was so active and fit.’

We have her walks to and from the bus stop to thank for that.

Statistics I read during my trip here wheel through my head as she talks. Life expectancy after a bone break: one-year mortality

rate is 21 per cent. Odds of survival worsen with increasing age, of course, but thankfully women are less vulnerable. And

Zara seems to talk about the future, as if there’s no imminent danger to Mum’s life. The numbers mean at best my mum has only

a one in five risk of dying this year. Numbly I think, Who would I be if I didn’t exist to keep Mum alive ? I don’t want to find out. All the dreams of freedom have gone. Freedom means nothing when you’re alone.

‘How long will she be here?’ I shoot a grateful smile to the girl who’s just finished up and is wheeling the blood pressure

monitor back into place in the far corner of the room before leaving us be.

‘A week?’ Zara answers. ‘At least that’s what they said yesterday.’

I nod.

‘Hey, let me go check Costa. Hospital rooms have the same rules as Christmas Day and road trips—there’s no limit on snacking

and food consumption. Anything goes. I’m not missing the opportunity.’

Mum stirs. I watch her open her eyes. The front of her arms have freckly age spots, and spider veins break the skin on her legs.

I pull the blanket up in case she’s cold.

I’ve seen all these marks before but today they make me sad, seeing them against the backdrop of the crisp hospital linen: she looks older.

‘Hey. I’m back,’ I say when she notices me.

‘Why? I didn’t ask you to come back.’ She is very alert all of a sudden.

‘Mum, you broke your leg. Of course I came back.’

‘From what I remember, you have no medical qualifications, and so your presence in the event of a bone break is wholly unnecessary

and based on sentiment. Sentiment I do not have time for. I’ve been trying to tell you.’

‘Now is not the time, Mum.’

She keeps up appearances, but I can see her face relaxing. She slaps my shoulder gently, as if there’s a speck of dust or

a bee perched on it.

‘I guess it’s not bad that you came. I have some more letters for you. Zara is looking for them. I think they’re important

because I’ve been keeping them safe. Inside books.’

‘I know, she just told me about them. I’ll read them. Try to rest.’

‘I have been resting for too long.’

‘Fine, don’t rest. Maybe try some tap dancing.’

I must say, she drifts off incredibly fast for someone who doesn’t need rest. There’s buzzing from under her pillow, and I

slide my hand in gently, pulling out her phone. For a minute I think of Sophia and guilt washes over me, then I come to my

senses: it’s just a Swedish area code, nothing more. I step away from Mum’s bed and press the green button to accept the call.