Page 77 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

Six Months Later

Svedala

It’s Tuesday, which means Yoga. Fabulous. Much more so than yesterday’s class which was conversational Arabic. The yoga instructor is getting married, and we are all

excited to hear her gossip in between poses and deep breathing. Sophia dropped off a pair of shiny purple pants because my

new friend Ruth keeps turning up in a leopard set, and I can’t be seen as less, can I? Not in my first month. Oh, and someone

died yesterday. Always sad. My other new friend Ruth and I were having a tea in my room and alas the nuisance and voices and

general mayhem started. We took turns to peek out from the door and kind of stroll halfway down the corridor as if we’d forgotten

something. Oh, my scarf , she mumbled. My book! I exclaimed. It was Ralph, as it turned out. At dinner we spoke about our memories of him (mine: he never returned the Jane

Austen I borrowed from him for the Ladies’ Book Circle. Ladies’ Book Circle as in we read ladies’ work, not that we’re all

ladies. I hope I get it back but can’t be rude and ask).

The following day the chat starts again, because someone new will move in soon.

This is the thing here. Things always happen, move forward.

I am no longer in a rut between my house and Hornton Street, I am somewhere where things happen and where we can look out the window and see a removal van arriving with who may or may not be our new best friend.

I said this last bit to Ruth, to keep her on her toes.

Good to know that there are options. I quite enjoy being the youngest in the building too.

Sophia resembles Sven and sometimes when I look at her I forget that she is my daughter-in-law and think she is part of me.

We did it, I think, as if Sven could hear me. You said you’d take care of me, but I didn’t let you because I thought I knew how to do life without you. Now I will take

care of your niece as best I can.

My Swedish is coming along nicely. I have learnt three swear words that I use when the Netflix won’t work. I have a visit

from a companion three days a week, and today we’ve come to Malm o . There is a strong gust of wind in the cemetery, and I wrap my coat tighter around me. I am quite looking forward to Swedish

winter. The meals have gotten heartier, and we now get full-fat whipping cream with our pudding as if we’re back in the 1800s

and they’re feeding us ahead of a hardships to come. I’m excited for snow. For a clearly defined black-and-white landscape

that is easier for my brain to navigate than a world with colour.

‘You may wait over here,’ I say to Helen. She is a lovely little thing, but a woman needs privacy every now and again. I stretch

out my hand and take the folding chair from her, a useful Amazon purchase which I use to sit down on in all types of places.

Forest, beach and here. With him.

In my hand I have carnations, which are a symbol of love, Sophia says. Roses are a symbol of sorrow and grief, and God knows

we have all had enough of that. While I can still remember people, I plan to love them.

As I lay the flowers down and look at his name I allow myself to think of what could have been, the sunsets we could have watched, the times he could have carried my shoes flung over his shoulders or dangling from his hands when my feet got sore.

I think of the times I could have cooked inedible meals and he would have grumbled but ordered takeaway saying, You’ll be the financial ruin of us, all those groceries gone to waste as he tipped it into the bin.

I think of getting tipsy and not feeling my lips anymore, just a soft tingle as I’d be pressing

them harder against him, blood rushing there. I imagine him holding my hands to his lips and promising to love me always.

Instead here I am. Promising to love the only girl he loved after me. To love Sophia.

Then I see him. Across the lawn, tall and straight and with the faintest of smiles. He has been dead for years but he is as

real as the wind on my cheek or the ache in my right knee. I know that I can take out my phone and snap a picture of him,

like I do with my other visual hallucinations. And some part of me knows that when I look down at the screen it will be empty.

I also know that I can reach into my pocket and pull out the soft handkerchief with the perfume I’ve used for years and bury

my nose into it, breathing in reality and forcing my senses to stay with me. Instead I stand there and just look at him. I

smile back. I enjoy this gift that my brain is granting me a second time. I stand in the company of him, and I feel just calm,

no fear, just blessed to have this moment. When I finally look up again, he’s gone.

‘Thank you for not being my Svennie,’ I say after him. ‘I had history all muddled up for a while. Ever so sorry about that.

Ever so sorry about everything.’

Then I touch my hand to the cool stone and see if they come—the tears—but they don’t, so I turn around.

And I think of all the quiet signs of passing time. Age spots. Wrinkles. Lukewarm coffee. Expirations dates. Melted ice. They happen so quietly you don’t know if you are in the beginning, the middle or the end. Trying to guess is pointless.

Then I realise I have a feeling of peace inside. As if the rage, worry and faff that’s filled me for so long has run out and

my mind and I are only stillness.

I’m no longer waiting.