Come Back and Care
Sarah, open up this instant! We know youre in there! Linda saw the lights go on!
Sarah was just tying a stem of lisianthus to a wooden stake. Her hands were streaked green from the stalks, and her apron was thick with soil. She looked up at the glass door of her workshop. Behind it stood two silhouettes. One shed recognised immediately, even through the steamed panebroad-shouldered, cherry-dyed hair. Margaret Atkinson. Her mother-in-law. Her ex-mother-in-law.
Sarah took her time. She placed the lisianthus in a bucket of water, peeled off her gloves, and hung them by the worktable before finally going to the door.
Good evening, she said, sliding the bolt back.
Margaret stepped inside first, not waiting for an invitation. Behind her squeezed in Linda, Victors sister, red-eyed, her scarf knotted in a careless lump, trailing to the floor.
Good evening? Are you mad, Sarah? Margaret scanned the workshop as if seeking something to scornand soon found it: Sniffing at your flowers while hes dying!
Whos dying? Sarah replied, holding her voice steady.
Victor! Linda wailed, clamping a hand to her mouth. Victors in hospital. A car accident. His spine
Sarah watched them in silence. Something curled inside her, but not like it had a year ago, at the mere mention of Victors name. This was quieter, guarded. The way someone recoils after being burned once before.
Sit down, Sarah offered, nodding to two stools by the workbench.
No time to sit, snapped Margaret, yet she collapsed heavily onto one anyway. Her bad legs, Sarah recalled. Varicose veins, high blood pressure.
Linda lingered standing, twisting the frayed ends of her scarf.
Tell me properly, Sarah said.
And so they told her, the story tumbling out in pieces, their accounts overlapping and diverging in the details. Three days ago, Victor was driving up the A1. Heavy rain, lost control, ploughed into the barrier. Car’s a write-off, they said, but he survived. Compression fracture of the spine. Hed had surgery. Prognosis uncertain. Maybe hed walk again, maybe not. He needed looking after. Needed someone close.
What about Caroline? Sarah asked.
The name felt neutral now. Even she was surprised. A year ago it had been a splinter under the skin, fireglass. Carolinetwenty-eight, sales managerthe woman Victor left his wife for after eighteen years.
Margarets lips pinched.
Carolines gone.
Where?
To her mothers, in Bristol. Lindas voice bristled, not with sorrow this time, but irritation. As soon as she heard he might not walk again, she booked a train. Packed her cases in three hours. She wont pick up the phone.
Sarah let silence fill the room. Only the drip of an unclosed tap broke it, mingling with the scent of wet earth, lilies.
What is it you want from me? she asked at last.
Margaret sat up straighter. Sarah. You were together eighteen years. Eighteen! You know him best. You know how to look after him. He listens to you. Now he needs someone
Margaret, Sarah cut in, Youre talking about a man who left me for someone else. Who, in the life we’d built for nearly two decades, couldnt find space for me.
Oh, dont start all that again, Linda yelped. Its the past, Sarah! This is about his life!
Is it?
The doctor said hell get bedsores if theres no care! His lungs could fill up! They operated on his spine, Sarah, not his nose!
Sarah turned to shut off the tap. She watched her handsfifty-two years old. These hands made bouquets people framed in photographs. Kneaded pastry, nursed her sons fevers, bandaged Victors cuts, fixed plugs, lugged heavy shopping. Theyd done it all. For most of those years, she hadnt truly wondered whether she wanted to. She did it because it was expected.
She dried her hands. Turned back.
Ill think about it, she said.
Theres no time to think! Margaret heaved herself up, voice hardening, nearly threatening. Hes lying there alone! No wife, no one! Lindas at work, I can barely move from my back! You cant just sit here with your flowers pretending this isnt your problem!
And whose is it then? whispered Sarah.
No one answered.
Beyond the workshops glass, darkness pressed in. Octobernight closing early. Sarah watched the yellow streetlamp, wet pavement, the empty bench outside where summer customers once waited for bouquets.
A chapter out of real life, she thought. Not a book, not filmreal life. Two people demanding you become again someone you no longer are.
All right, she said. Ill come tomorrow morning. See how he is. But Im not making any promises.
Margaret let out a long breath. Linda threw herself at Sarah in a hug. Sarahs arms hung at her sidesnot hugging back, simply enduring, patient until Linda let go.
When theyd gone, Sarah lingered on the stool her ex-mother-in-law had used, staring at her flowerspink lisianthus in the bucket, soft and letterlike in bud; chrysanthemums in crates along the wall; physalis stems glowing with orange. Shed made this place herself. Signed for the lease three months after Victor left. Painted the walls herself in the storm-grey shade she preferred. Neighbour John helped hang the cupboard doorsfor a decent bottle of wine. She came up with the name Little Stem. At first it seemed silly. It stuck. She found suppliers, built a website, learned to photograph flowers well enough that people paused to look.
A year. Shed built a life for herself. It turns out, living for oneself isn’t selfish or flighty. Its just all right.
And now, this.
Sarah switched off the workbench lamp. Left the small nightlight near the door on, as always. She headed home.
The hospital was vast, built in the 60s, its corridors soaked in a smell Sarah recognised and never liked. Bleach, institutional food, something elsedistinctly hospital. She found the right ward, asked a nurse.
Are you a relative?
Ex-wife, Sarah said.
The nurse lifted a brow, minimally, but just showed Sarah where to go.
Victor was on a four-bed ward, but all other beds stood empty. He lay covered to the waist, hands on the blanket. He looked thinner; his face was pale, hollow-eyed. On his table, a cold mug of tea, phone facedown.
When he saw her, something shifted in his expression. Not joy; more like a weary relief.
Sarah, he said.
Hello, she replied, placing apples and mineral water on his table. Not because she wanted to please himbecause you never visit a hospital empty-handed.
She sat, not on the bed, but on a chair by the window.
Much pain? she asked.
Bearable. They give me tablets. A pause. You came.
I did.
Mum rang. Said theyd been to see you.
Yes.
He stared at the ceiling. Then back at her.
I didnt think youd come.
I didnt think I would, either.
Silence. The rain whispered outside. October running hard into November.
Carolines gone, Victor said.
I know.
So thats it, then. He gave a crooked, joyless smile. Like in the films, the tables turn and its all too late.
Sarah said nothing. She hadnt come to pity or punish him. She just sat, looking at the man shed lived with for eighteen yearsraised a son, holidays at the same old cottage every summer, rows over money, and reconciliations, and rows again, believing this was simply life.
Sarah, he said, voice softening into a tone she recognisedthe one he used when he wanted something. She tensed, instinctively.
Ive done a lot of thinking while Ive been stuck here. When you cant walk, you find time to think. I realise how stupid Ive been. All that I had, that was real, was you. Our home. Family. Caroline He waved a hand. You get it. I’m not asking for forgiveness, I know its too late. Youre the closest person I have. The dearest.
Sarah listened, oddly detached, as if overhearing. The words lined updearest one, closest, I realise, I was a fool. Words to draw her in, not for love, not out of a wish to repair, but for convenience. So someone would handle his drips, speak to his doctors, bring real food because hospital fare is inedible. The things Sarah was good at.
This, she supposed, is what post-divorce sometimes looks like. Not pretty, not horrific. Just blunt. Someone comes to find you, not from love, but because it suits.
Victor, she said, I am glad youre alive. Truly. And glad the operation went well. But Im not coming back. Not to care for you, not for anything. Were divorced.
I know were divorced
Let me finish.
He stopped. Surprised, perhaps, that she insisted on her say.
Ill find you a nurse. A proper one. Ill pay for the first month, since you cant sort that yourself just now. Thats as much as Im willing to do. She reached into her bagslowly, having to dig behind her purse and notepad. And another thing. These are the divorce settlement papers. You put it off and so did I, but its time. Please sign.
Victor stared at the folder.
Youre serious.
As ever.
Im lying here after spinal surgery and you bring me paperwork.
Yes, Sarah replied. Because tomorrow you might claim diminished responsibility, or your solicitor will say you werent in sound mind. Right now, you are. The doctor will confirm that.
They locked eyes.
Youve changed, he said quietly.
I have.
Youd never have managed this before.
Perhaps not.
He took the pen and folder.
At that moment, the door creaked and in walked a doctora short man in a grey tunic, forty-five perhaps, stories of illness tucked under his arm. His face was calm, tired, with the look of a man long past needing to fake cheer.
Good afternoon, he greeted, glancing inquiringly at Sarah, but politely.
Sarah, she said.
You are?
Ex-wife, she said once again, more at ease with it now.
He nodded as if that were perfectly routine, and turned to Victor.
How was the night?
All right. Slept.
Good. Well try lifting the bedhead today, see how you cope. The recoverys early yet but the outlooks decent.
Doctor, Sarah asked, may I have a moment?
They slipped into the corridor. She closed the door quietly.
Id like to arrange a private nurse, she said. Professional and experienced. What should they know, what equipment should we provide?
He studied her closely.
You wont be caring for him yourself?
No.
He nodded, considering. Honestly, thats a wise decision. Dont take this the wrong wayrelatives looking after someone from guilt or duty, its a unique strain. He needs peace, consistency. A nurse can keep it cool; relatives often cant.
Sarah held his eye.
Do you say that to everyone?
Only to those who ask. He almost smiled.
Please, just list the requirements, she said, phone out, ready.
He dictated. She jotted notes. Then he mentioned the agencies with which the hospital worked. She thanked him.
One more thing, he added just as she was turning back. Hes got a fair shot at recovery. Hes not old, surgery was successful. He might walk again in six months. But nothings certain. And it wont be quick.
I understand, Sarah replied.
As long as he understands too.
Sarah returned to the ward. Victor was staring at the ceiling, folder on his chest, pen by his side.
Will you sign? she asked.
He didnt look round.
What if I say I want to think?
Victor.
All right. Ill sign. You always get your way these days. You’re like that now.
I always was, she replied. I just used to hide it. Im not sure why.
He signedthree sheets where required. Sarah slipped them away.
Ill arrange a nurse by weeks end. Ill phone Linda to explain. First months pay will go straight to the agency. After that, its your business.
Sarah, he called, as she zipped her bag.
Yes?
Thank you. For coming.
She looked at him, a long time. Without pity, and without angersimply as someone who has seen a part of their life for what it was, and knows that part is over.
Get well, she said.
And left.
In the corridor, she paused by a window. Outside, the hospital courtyardbare trees, a rain-wet bench. An elderly man in a dressing gown sat there, gazing out to nowhere, simply breathing the air.
Sarah, too, took a deep breath.
A weight slipped off. Not all of it, but something crucial. Like finally putting down a bag youve carried for too long. Not dropping it, not flinging it, just placing it down and straightening your back.
If she kept a diary, shed write, How to let go of the past? I dont know. But it doesnt happen in a flash; it takes a dozen small steps. Today was one.
Sarah found the nurse through an agency within two days. A fifty-eight-year-old woman named Helenexperienced in geriatrics, calm, businesslike, with a thick folder of references. They met in a café near the hospital; Sarah explained the situation. Helen listened intently, asked all the right questions: about temperament, risk of depression, pain threshold, the relatives involvement.
Often, families do more harm than good, Helen noted. Its nobodys fault. Just happens.
I know, Sarah agreed.
They sorted the details, Sarah wired the payment. She phoned Linda, explained everything. At first, Linda bristledThats not the solution, Victor wants family near him. But Sarah cut in softly but firmlya new thing for her, somewhere between yielding and sharp.
Linda, come daily if you like. Helen wont mind. But I won’t be coming. Ive my own life. It doesnt have to revolve around anyone elses crisis.
Linda was quiet for a long moment.
All right, she replied.
Just, All right. No drama, no tears. Perhaps she was weary too. Perhaps, deep down, she knew Sarah was right.
Margaret called a week later. Her tone was different, subdued.
Sarah, Helens a good sort. Victors warming to her. Thank you for sorting things.
Youre welcome, Margaret.
Dont be a stranger. Ring sometimes.
Sarah made no promisesshe simply wished her well and slipped her phone into her apron. Because, of course, she was in the workshop. As usual. Letting go of the past? Its simply this: just live. Not heroically, not noisily. Just live. Get up, go to work, do something youre good at and love. Toxic family and ex-husbands never vanish completely, but they no longer occupy the main stage.
Winter arrived early. That November, snow fell in thick flurriesand, to her own surprise, Sarah found she liked it. Once, she hadnt coherently considered such things. To wonder if you liked winter felt unnecessary, not with Victor around to grumble about the cold, his arthritis, his precise demands for tea at a certain time. Now, she could gaze out at snow, think, Its lovely. And that was enough.
In December, business boomed. Festive bouquets, office parties, New Years displays. Sarah hired an assistantJenny, twenty-three, cheerful, quick, a little dreamy, but a fast learner. They worked well together. Sarah taught Jenny to see a flower not as a commodity, but as a medium, the way an artist sees paint. Jenny listened closely, sometimes coming up with such clever bouquet ideas, Sarah marvelled.
How do you come up with this? Sarah asked one day.
I just look at whos ordering, Jenny shrugged. Then try to match a flower to them. Or to the person theyre buying for.
Sarah smiled.
Thats a good technique.
You taught me. You said every bouquet should feel alive.
Sarah couldnt recall saying that. She supposed she hadbecause it was what she believed.
January, Februarylife jogged on. Sarah signed up for a floristry course. Jenny insisted she didnt need to, that she could teach, not take classes, but Sarah explainedthere is always something to learn; and not because youre lacking, simply out of curiosity. That was new for her. She did things now out of interest, not obligation.
Living for yourself, spoken aloud, can sound selfish. In reality, its this: a floristry course, a quiet evening with a book and no one to complain shes wasting time, a city break to admire old buildings because she fancied it, nobody there to disagree.
In February, Linda rang. Victor was slowly getting better, up on crutches. Helen worked with him patiently, with no fuss or drama. Sarah was gladgenuinely gladwithout guilt or bitterness. Just glad. That was all.
March brought the thaw, the first rush of spring bouquetstulips, hyacinths, anemones. Sarah loved this shift; where winters cotton and eucalyptus yielded to bold, impatient brights.
That was when he walked in.
Sarah was tying a yellow-white bouquetdaffodils and daisies, honest and exuberant. The bell above the door chimed. She didnt look up; hands were busy with ribbon.
Good afternoon, she called.
Good afternoon, replied a calm, gentle voice.
Something about itshe recognised it as she was still glancing down. Dr Andrew Collins. Her doctor.
Not in a tunicjust a dark wool coat, a simple scarf. Smiling without paperwork clutched to his chest.
You, Sarah said.
Yes, me, he nodded.
A beat passed. Jenny had popped out to the storeroom for more wrap. They were alone in the shop.
Victor was discharged ten days ago, Andrew said. At home now, still with Helen. Prognosis looks promising.
I knowLindas written.
Right. He paused for half a second, smiled sheepishly. If Im honest, I didnt just happen past. I remembered Little Stem, Googled your address purposefully.
Sarah put her ribbon down.
Would you like to buy flowers?
Yes. And not only that.
Silence. The shop hummed with the scent of hyacinths and dark earth.
What exactly do you want to buy? Sarah asked.
He strolled to the anemonesviolet, dark red, white with black centres.
These, I think. Three? Or five? Whats best?
Odd numbers, Sarah replied. Three or five, yes. Who for?
He met her gaze. Not sure yet. Perhaps youll help me figure it out.
Sarah selected three, then added two moredeep maroon, nearly black at the heart.
Five, she decided. They hold together well.
She wrapped the bunch, her hands sure and deft with long practice. Brown paper, damp at the tips, a length of ribbon.
Sarah, Andrew said softly.
Yes?
If you dont mind me being frank Id like to ask you out. Not in hospital, not on any pretext. Justout. A coffee, or the theatre if youre keen. Or even just a walk, if you dont want anything enclosed. I know it might sound strange, but adults can be straightforwardno need to pretend to be here solely for flowers.
Sarah looked up.
He met her eyes squarely, no pressure, simply honestly. The way someone says something important and lets you decide for yourself.
How long have you been thinking of this? she asked.
About three months. In the corridor, when you asked for the nurses list.
Sarah pictured that corridorthe hospital window, bare trees.
I was still technically married then.
I know. Thats why I waited.
Outside, March was surging on. The snow had all but melted, except for grimy drifts at the kerb. Sparrows were squabbling on the bench. The yellow lamp glowed, unnecessary in the evening sun.
I dont know, she said.
What is it youre not sure of?
I dont know how this goes. Eighteen years married, a year spent just learning to breathe alone. Im not sure how to start again.
Andrew smiled softly. If Im honest, neither do I. My divorce was six years ago. Seventeen-year-old daughter lives with her mum. We get along. At first, I just worked non-stop. Then, bit by bit, I began to thinkperhaps I can do more than just keep busy.
Jenny slipped out of the storeroom, spotted Andrew and beamed.
Everything all right, Sarah?
Yes, Jenny. Ive got it.
She discreetly ducked back out, pretending shed forgotten something.
Sarah handed Andrew the flowers. He took them gently.
How much do I owe you?
One moment, she replied.
He waited.
Sarah studied the anemones. Dark red, silken, a touch of velvetshed always preferred them to poppies, favouring their quiet dignity, never seeking attention and never hiding.
A story about flowers, she thought. Shed built a life around them. Fled to them for solace, rooted herself. Now, another person was entering that life, not barging, not demanding. Justentering. Gentle, direct, holding anemones, awaiting an answer.
All right, Sarah said.
His eyebrow twitched.
All rightas in?
Id like to go to the theatre. I havent been in years.
Andrews smile turned genuine. Im glad. Not today, thoughIve three more orders before close.
Saturday, then, if that suits?
Saturday, she agreed.
She named her price. He paid, slipping the change into his pocket, not hurrying to leave.
Sarahmay I ask something?
Of course.
Im just curious Have you always worked with flowers?
The shops been open just over a year. But flowers, my whole life. It was just a hobby beforeuntil it wasnt.
Its good when your hobby becomes your living.
She nodded. It is.
He found a grip on the bouquet and headed for the door. At the threshold, he turned.
See you Saturday, Sarah.
Saturday, Andrew.
He almost laughed. Just Andrew.
Saturday, Andrew.
She watched as he crossed the streetpast the bench, past the sparrows who never found resolution. Coat, scarf, anemones. He didnt look back.
Jenny returned immediately.
Sarah, who was that? she demanded, feigning indifferencenot very convincingly.
A client, said Sarah.
A client you chatted with for fifteen minutes?
Jenny.
Yes?
Can you wrap the chrysanthemums for Mrs Osbourne? Shes due at four.
Jenny positively skipped off, delighted. Sarahs hands fell into their old rhythmpaper crinkled, water dripped into a bucket. The scent of hyacinth hung in the air.
Saturday. Four days away. Four regular days of orders and deliveries, Jennys cheerful chatter, the wholesalers call about peonies. Ordinary days in her determined, hard-won year.
Sarah didnt dwell on Saturday itself. She simply got on. Sometimes, alone with her flowers, shed remember the conversationnot word for word, just: calm voice, anemones in hand, Saturday, Andrew.
Grown-ups, hed said, can speak plainly.
Maybe, finally, they can.
She didnt know what would happen Saturday. Whether conversation would come easily, whether shed want to see him again. Didnt matter. For now, she alone would decide. Not Margaret, not Victor, not guilt, not fear. Just her.
It was a new sensationnot intoxicating, not dizzyjust solid, like finding dry pavement after snow.
On Friday evening, after closing up and waving Jenny off, Sarah placed a handful of anemonesthe leftoversin a vase by the register. Dark, velvety petals. Setting them there just for herself, not for sale.
They hold together well in fives, shed once said.
True enough.
She flicked off the light, headed for home. Tomorrow was Saturday.
Saturday dawned overcast, the scent of fresh coffee tickling the air. Sarah poured herself a cup from the machine shed bought six months agosomething Victor would never have allowed: too extravagant, unnecessary. Unnecessaryone of those words marriages sow like weeds, until you cant see the words you need: Want. Like. I will.
She sipped her coffee, watched the wet rooftops, a pigeon settling on a windowsill, a car weaving around a puddle.
Her phone sat on the table. A message, from a little before seven: Morning. The plays at seven. Want to grab something to eat first? Or skip, you choose. Andrew.
She smiled at his Morningmissing the good. Replied: Morning. Food sounds good. Six?
Sent it, set her phone down, finished her coffee.
March rattled the windows outsidedripping roofs, blustering wind, a sparrow scaring off the pigeon. The city, waking up, indifferent to small beginnings. The city simply continued.
Her phone blinked: Deal.
Sarah stood, rinsed her cup, tied on her aproneight hours until closing, shop to open. Key in hand, she turned at the door for a last glanceher flat, small and pale, anemones in a glass on the sill. Hersher coffee machine, her flowers, her Saturday.
She left.
The door whispered shut behind hera soft, sure click, the sound of something properly closed.
Andrew was already outside the café at twenty to seven, phone in hand, pocketing it at her approachcoat, scarf, no flowers this time.
Evening, said Andrew.
Evening, said Sarah.
They looked at each other for two steady beatsa man and woman, standing on a wet March street, together by choice. Not from need. Not from fear. Just because they wanted to.
So, Andrew said, smiling, shall we?
We shall, said Sarah.
And they went in.
