Page 71 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

I’m here to meet Eliza again, bringing the power of attorney form that Mum signed, and Mum’s message an hour ago makes little

sense. I know she’s up to something.

You’re meeting someone. Be at the bus stop at three o’clock.

I make my way to the bus stop and sit, watching as people pass by, on their way to work and school and home, I imagine. To

live life.

The knot that’s formed in my stomach keeps growing as the appointed time approaches. Did Mum feel this every time she stood

here? I look down at my shoes, the leaves, the squares of the pavement. Then I look up and see her. Her arms sway, and she

walks fast, too fast. Her eyebrows draw together and then—there it is, the smile. She’s here and she is smiling: that has

to mean something. The town hall is to my left, and the library to my right, and there we are in the middle at the bus stop

which must have seen thousands of meetings just like this one.

I walk towards her, and she nods as if to say Yes, it’s okay , and then I sweep her into my arms.

‘Sophia. You’re here.’

I pull her close to me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble into the top of her head.

‘And I’m sorry for not making it clearer that I was in ,’ she says.

‘Sophia, I should have never left the way I did. I should have talked to you, explained, given you a chance to react and figured

out a way to handle this. Together.’

‘And now? Are you sure that we can figure it out?’ she asks. ‘I can’t cook, I won’t move anywhere because I have my business,

and I still don’t like kissing.’

I laugh.

‘Soph, I’m going to suggest something.’

‘What?’

‘That maybe we give kissing a try.’

I can see her mind spinning.

‘Look, I think that’s what you want too. And it’s just something to try. Soph?’

I trace her jaw and the soft lines of her face with my fingers and feel her lean into my touch.

‘Yes. We should... try.’

‘Sophia, I know you. How your lips twitch and how you need to breathe deep breaths whenever something makes you emotional.

But if I got this wrong and you don’t want to, then that’s okay too.’

‘Okay let’s try. Let’s get it over with,’ she says.

‘Wow, you’re such a romantic.’

‘Sorry. I mean...’

What does she mean?

I take a small step closer. ‘I’ll talk you through it so you know what to expect, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘First, I’m going to brush my lips against yours.’

I let my lips brush against hers, and the widest, sweetest tingle goes down my spine. And she stays, doesn’t move her face

away.

‘What do you think?’ I ask as we pull away from each other.

‘This is what I think, Blade. Mouths contain eighty million bacteria but I guess it’s like with E-numbers or the aspartame

in a Diet Coke. The minute you taste it, you forget it’s bad for you because it tastes so sweet.’

I smile as I pull her into a big hug.

‘That is the most Sophia of all answers.’

A couple of hours later I’m sitting with Mum, Sophia and Zara. There are Hobnobs, Digestives (today’s small choice for Mum)

and teas, and we let her take her time. I asked Mum if she wanted to be the one to open the safe in Sweden, that it could

be arranged with a video call if nothing else, but it’s a firm and very conclusive no.

‘I couldn’t even pick up the call. Let Sophia do it. It was her uncle.’

Sophia will go and collect it as soon as she arrives back in Sweden.

‘Did he ever talk about a lost love? About a girlfriend?’ I ask Sophia now.

‘Not a girlfriend, no. He said I was his one and only love, and that for some of us there are only a few people in this world

who can love us truly.’ She looks at me now. Looks at me and doesn’t look away.

‘That’s the truth,’ Mum adds.

‘He said it was like tending to certain flowers. They won’t grow for anyone. ‘I once tried to control a marigold, a Tagetes , Sophia,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t, and so I had to accept defeat and not try to plant it again.’

‘You’re as stubborn as a marigold, Edith,’ my mum suddenly says, and we all look at her.

‘Miss Marigold. He drew you, Edith. We both did. I have the drawings with me. I’ll talk you through the life he imagined for

our stick family. I know so much about Miss Marigold. Her favourite season was autumn, she loved to dance and meet new people,

and she could make anyone feel like they’d known her for ages.’

We all sit quietly for a while.

‘And why wasn’t he in any pictures? Graduation? The shop website?’

Sophia answers this without hesitation.

‘He hated pictures. Big crowds. Small talk about the weather. Those connections that don’t feel like connections at all. Do

you think you’ll find me in many photos? That’s really not strange. I’d be as surprised to see him in a group photo as I was hearing he’d gone to London

and had a life. All this time I thought he was a loner. And that that was what was in store for me too, if my efforts to change failed. ’

‘I have a feeling you’ll find the odd picture once we pack up the house. But I can’t for my life tell you where I would have

hidden them,’ Mum offers.

Sophia continues. ‘I think Edith brought out his love of people. When she didn’t turn up he went back into isolation. They

both did.’

‘I made the wrong choice. Obviously I could not be trusted to make choices, so I didn’t. I focused on Blade and that was that.

Trying to survive the heartbreak,’ Mum says.

Everyone falls silent.

‘What are you thinking about, Soph?’

‘I’m thinking that if this didn’t happen, we wouldn’t have met. Perhaps I would have been isolated too.’

‘One more question, Mum. Why didn’t you answer the phone?’ I ask, ready to wrap this up and move on.

‘I think it’s simple.’

‘Go on.’

‘I didn’t want anyone telling me what I already knew. That it was too late. And it was all my fault.’

It’s Sophia’s idea. At first, I tell her it’s impossible. Then Mum overhears us and gets involved. Once that happens there’s

no return.

‘I’ve always wanted to move to Sweden. I planned it all those years ago and wouldn’t it be fabulous if it happened?’

‘I’m not sure moving would be wise. It can increase symptoms and speed up onset and progression,’ I argue.

‘There is a time to listen to prognosis and the world of science and then there’s a time to take a leap and listen to your

heart,’ Mum insists. Can’t argue much with that.

Sophia is fully on board. It warms me seeing how she’d rather fight to have my mum move with us than take the easy way out

and leave her in a care home we’d visit once a month. She never suggested that I move to Sweden—she suggested we both do.

‘I’m very sure she’s not a vegetable plant, but even if she is and didn’t like having her roots disturbed, I have experience

with moving even the trickiest plants. Transplantation is never fully impossible under the right conditions,’ she insists.

‘In this particular instance I’d like to argue that my mum is not a flower, nor is she a bulb,’ Blade says, smiling.

‘We will all turn to soil and grass and plants in the end,’ Mum chips in helpfully.

‘I’m never going to win with you two, am I? Ever.’

‘Quite possibly, no,’ Mum says at exactly the same time that Sophia says, ‘No.’

‘Miss Marigold belongs in that shop. Well, at least in the town,’ she adds.

Two very determined women. That’s what I’m up against from now on. And I don’t mind. Not one bit. Of course, Sophia has thoroughly

researched the topic of moving with dementia and provides all the arguments.

‘The small town will be easier for her. I’ve read about people with dementia making the move in the early stages to escape

the sensory load that is the city. The noise, the smells, congested pavements, getting lost when roads and architecture keep

changing. In Svedala, she would have the freedom to still walk out the door alone. Be in nature.’

I give in.

‘So. Sweden it is.’

I just got a whole lot busier. Apply for papers, get Eliza onto fast-tracking the sale of the house, find a decent care home

in Sweden, transfer the pension. But anything should be possible. My mum is finally going to start a new life abroad aged

sixty-five and I’m coming with her.

We are packing. It’s a big task, and we figured it’s better to start right away.

Mum is sat in the armchair and I’m following instructions.

Somehow as she gets more clouded, more tired, her alert days, the days when she is herself, become brighter.

She is efficiently guiding me around the living room’s drawers and shelves.

What used to be a cluttered house, her home for twenty years, will soon be bare and minimalistic with only the large furniture pieces left.

Today Pushba is helping, her youngest child on the floor with wooden spoons and kitchen pots to keep busy.

It’s loud, but Mum likes noise. Apparently a toddler banging on a metallic pot drives away other sensory experiences, such as the smell of rat.

‘We’ll miss you.’

‘I won’t sell to anyone unless they’re the type of person who lends their neighbour a pint of milk,’ Mum says.

I shake my head at her.

‘I can’t believe that for years you wouldn’t move, and now you’ve just agreed to move to Sweden. You were the woman who can’t

be moved.’

‘I was always meant to be there. If I could have been with the man I loved, I would have spent my life there. I was meant

to have my overseas adventure.’

‘Look at this,’ Pushba calls from the other room, where she is helping clear out Mum’s wardrobe. In her hand is a glossy photo

of two people on a park bench, tulips blooming behind them. Mum and Sven. Pushba smiles.

‘I found it at the bottom of the box of winter coats.’