Page 8 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

The next morning I wake up before Mum does. Six thirty, like always. Get myself ready quickly because I don’t know what state

she’ll be in today. I imagine one of those rating displays you get at a public service office or train station with four smiley

faces that range in colour from red to green. Yesterday I would have pressed the far left one—red like an inferno, mouth turned

downward in a clearly identifiable frown. Today I hope for the green one.

It’s a laundry day. I can tell because I’m out of clean sweatpants. I pull open the curtains in the sitting room so I can

see the world and it can see me. I look at the people rushing past outside. A little girl drops her hair tie, and the mother

attached to her arm only reluctantly stops for it. Rush . All those people wishing to give it all up and have no fucking clue what they wish for. People with reusable cups and briefcases

walk past, making me wish I could keep the blinds closed so as not to see what all I’m missing out on, but I remember the

advice to Differentiate between day and night always, to aid your loved one being present and in the moment . The blinds are always open, and whilst my instinct is to duck and hide, Mum likes to wave at neighbours as they walk past.

At the kitchen counter I hesitate. I have photos taped to the cabinet doors so she can know what’s behind them. Whatever we

can we have in clear view, so Mum can easily pick it up. Keys, pen, paper and timer.

I prepare her toast and put small pills next to it on the plate, watching them roll around like flipper balls when I balance

it with one hand and bring it upstairs. Mum is awake.

‘Morning,’ I say.

‘Is it not a good one? Or are you saving your words for someone more interesting than me?’ She used to say that to teenage

me. Who are you saving your words for? When I’d mutter a short reply to prompts about how my day had been, or where I was headed at this goddamn hour . For a minute I wonder if she thinks I’m sixteen again and will start rubbing her thumb at a spot of breakfast staining my

shirt, then say, ‘Off to college you go, now. Buses and opportunities don’t wait for you.’

‘Not sure if it’s a good one yet, that’s all. But fine. Good morning, Mum.’

People supposedly look the oldest when they wake up. Groggy and lined from creases in the sheets, and eyes with blue bulges

underneath them. But Mum looks her youngest, her most peaceful in this moment. All the lines have relaxed overnight, her eyes

are alert and glossy as if she’s had a particularly vivid dream.

I place the tray on her lap.

‘Tea or coffee?’ I ask.

‘I know very well what you’re doing here,’ she replies, and I smile a real smile. Caught.

‘You’re giving me choices so that I feel involved and in control still. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you put two pairs

of socks out for me to choose from the other day. Although I wouldn’t call the Christmas socks from a decade ago a valid choice.’

Again: it’s laundry day.

I look at her, my hands outstretched with what she correctly identified as intentional options. I’ll drink whatever she doesn’t

choose.

‘Tea,’ she answers, and I hand her the cup, waiting to let go until her two hands are firmly wrapped around it.

‘We don’t have any appointments today, so I thought we’d go for a walk after breakfast.’

I never walked for the sake of walking before. Always walked with a destination in mind, always towards something. Now Mum

and I just walk. Slowly. Past things. Then back to where we came from.

‘Wonderful,’ she says, already halfway through her toast. ‘Then, when we get home, we can discuss your trip.’

Oh. She hasn’t forgotten.

At nine o’clock, once Mum is settled for the night with an audiobook and the laundry is dry and folded, I do what I always

do when I have a huge fucking problem that seems to have no solution: I ask Zara.

The pub is one street down from ours, offering an average food menu and peanuts that seem to have lost all of their salt.

Its unique selling point is that it’s the only place my newly purchased baby monitor will reach and therefore my only escape.

Mum tends to get restless at night after taking her medication, and I can’t trust her to sleep through.

I lower the average patron age by a good thirty years when I walk in, and I spot Zara in a far corner in full conversation with the owner Raj and his band of regulars.

They leave us with a hello so I assume they’ve now exhausted the pool of potential ladies to introduce me to.

Ever since Jade left me, I have been tortured with set-up after set-up with local girls, magically appearing alone in the pub on nights I’m there.

‘Hey, stranger,’ I say to Zara. Feels like it’s been ages since we met up like this.

‘Tell me.’ Her pink hair is held in place by a collection of small white clips. There are two drinks and a bag of cheddar

crisps on the table.

I press the baby monitor to my ear: Everything appears quiet. It’s a long-range model which I bought from Mothercare. When

I paid for it, the sales-person told me congratulations, and I wasn’t sure what to do with that or how to explain that I didn’t

have a newborn, just a mum who needed similar care, so I ended up just saying thank you.

I summarise for Zara.

‘Apparently in order to stop my mum from playing homeless outside Kensington town hall, I need to go to Sweden. She just sits

and sits at that damn bus stop, waiting for an old flame who didn’t turn up there almost thirty years ago. She said she’d

move into a care home, any care home, if I can just find Sven.’

‘Haven’t you looked for this guy before?’ She opens the crisp bag with a pop.

‘Well, yes.’ I did a thorough Facebook search, which should have yielded something, considering everyone has Facebook still,

but no. ‘But I’m tired. Tired of worrying about her. Tired of being on edge constantly. Every time I leave the house I check

my phone is on highest volume about fifteen times. Every time there’s a call I jump. Where has she been now? What’s she getting

up to this time? I need to know she’s safe and that I can leave the house for more than a half hour at a time without suffering

a panic attack.’

I stop for air and a gulp of cold cider then continue to fill the silence.

‘Her latest scans show that it’s progressing fast. I’ve got all these nurses asking how I’m coping, and that’s all there is.

Questions. Because there’s no solution. No answers. I can’t stop the disease, and I can’t be what Mum needs all the time She

needs more than what I’m capable of. She needs to be happy, and I can’t seem to give her that.’

‘Unless you find Sven?’

‘Unless I find Sven.’

I stop for a minute to ponder how I ended up here, in a pub with my best friend discussing taking a trip to Sweden. Some people

are busy climbing a career ladder or honeymooning in the Maldives or running marathons or hell, even just catching up on the

latest show. I got left behind big-time. I wouldn’t change it for the world—but also wouldn’t have chosen it.

‘You want to come along for the ride? Could be massively entertaining to watch me search aimlessly for a man I’ve never met,’

I say. Zara is my only constant. Other friends have been circumstantial, there whilst we had a joint location to be, a class

to share or a desk opposite one another. I hadn’t realised until they all disappeared that Zara is my one true friend, there

since we were sixteen, still here despite all the changes in life.

‘I only have two weeks of leave left, and as much as I love you, a tour of Swedish care homes looking for some man your mum’s

obsessing over is not how I intend to spend them. Sorry. Eagerly awaiting the video chats, though. Do you think there are

any hotties? Everyone gushes abut Swedish women, but the men are equally gorgeous. All trendy denim, tall and handsome.’

‘Unless you’re into older men, I doubt you’ll find someone where I’m headed.’

Zara falls silent, and I wait. She has been contemplating the problem for long enough that I start to shake my left leg and am about to open my mouth. She puts up a hand to stop me. Don’t disturb the genius.

‘But this is a short-term thing?’ my best friend finally asks.

‘For sure. Couple weeks at the most. Find a man, take a picture, arrange a phone call. Let the nostalgia flow and maybe set

up a pen pal scheme. Let’s say I give myself two weeks? Money will run out, if nothing else. I’m not even sure how I’ll make

ends meet to be honest. I’ll need to look into a carer whilst I’m away.’ Shit. Only just realised that cost will add to my

travel expenses. I’d hoped to have two weeks. More like two days. In the cheapest motel there is with shared shower facilities.

‘Hmmm.’

‘Which means?’ The monitor rustles in my hand, and my foot starts tapping the floor. I’ve been out half an hour, and already

the guilt is setting in. What if I reach the point where I can’t do this anymore? I’m barely able to step out and go to the

gym or the supermarket. Yet, I have to hold on because there’s no choice. Can’t think about what happens if my trip doesn’t

go well, if no lead turns up and I return without any news. What if she can’t cope?

‘Okay, so maybe I can’t go with you, but I could work from your mum’s. I once babysat Natalie’s twins, and that’s got to be

worse. Besides, your mum — I love her. Happy to sit and watch movies and make her some food and talk about whatever it is she feels like talking about

that day. Would be rather fun, I think. But go within the next two weeks if you can. After that I’m swamped.’

‘You would work from my house so I can go on a wild goose chase across Sweden?’ I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

But then, I always suspected Zara was equally fond of my mother as she is of me.

Who wouldn’t be fond of someone who, when you turn up on their doorstep after having been expelled from school over green hair, exclaims, ‘Green is the colour of intellectual stimulation and thinking. A great colour, if I may say so,’ and puts the kettle on rather than calling their parents?

‘This is important, right? I have some editing deadlines, but I don’t see why not. The early nights and being forced to stay

in will be great for me.’

‘You’re amazing.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

‘I will write you a list—a manual—for everything you’ll need.’ I’ve never let go before, never let someone else in to help.

My head spins with everything Zara will need to know. ‘But I have to say, it’s a lot of hard work.’

‘You think because it’s only you and her, this is your load to carry alone, and I get it. But you’re also only one guy, Blade.

This could be a good break for you too, a step away from all the responsibility, and one that you need or else you’ll burn

yourself out. I’ve got this. You’re not the only person capable of caring for your mum.’

I want to believe her.

Badly.

When I get back to the house an hour later, I go straight upstairs and lie down next to her.

Half my body fits on the bed and the other I keep propped up with the help of my leg.

My hand finds hers. I stroke it and let my mind pause for a second on my mum.

She’s strong. Despite the erratic instructions from her brain, her body is still going, still working everyday, harder even than I am.

Me and you, Blade. Me and You , she’d say to me.

Yes, Mum, me and you , I’d echo. And it would be enough for her.

One trip. This may be the last thing your mother asks from you.

You can do this, Blade.