Come back and care for him
Vera, open up now! We know youre in there! Susan saw your light on!
I had just finished tying a stem of lisianthus to a wooden stake, hands marked with green from the stems, apron smudged with soil. I looked up towards the glass door of my workshop. Behind the misted glass, two figures waited. One I recognised immediately, even through the condensation: broad shoulders, dyed hair an odd shade of burgundy. Mrs. Margaret Smith. My mother-in-law. My ex-mother-in-law.
I took my time. Set the lisianthus into a bucket of water, removed my gloves and hung them on a nail. Then, finally, I moved to open the door.
Good evening, I said, sliding back the bolt.
Margaret barged in first, without invitation. Susan, Victors sister, slipped in behind, eyes red and scarf wrapped any old way, trailing down the front of her coat.
Good, is it? Vera, have you lost your mind? Margaret surveyed the workshop, looking for something to condemn. She found it: Sniffing your flowers while someones dying.
Whos dying? I asked evenly.
Victor! Susan blurted, immediately clapping her hand over her mouth. Hes in hospital. Accident. His back.
I looked at them, silent. Something in me curled up tight, though not like it used to at the mere mention of Victor. Not pain, just worrya shrinking back, as if someone already burnt steps away from the flame.
Sit down, I nodded at the two stools by the worktable.
No time to sit, Margaret snapped, but still eased herself onto the stool with difficulty. Her legs had always been troublesomeI remembered. Varicose veins, hypertension.
Susan remained standing, fumbling with her scarf.
Tell me properly, I asked.
They did, both at once, interrupting and contradicting each other. Three days ago, Victor had been driving along the motorway. It was raining. He lost control of the car, crashed into the barrier. The cars a write-off. He survived. Fractured spine, compression injury, surgery done, but the doctors are cautiously pessimistic. He might walk. He might not. He needs care. Family around.
And Karen? I asked.
I managed to say her name calmly, though that surprised me. A year ago, even hearing Karentwenty-eight, sales manager, the woman Victor left me for after eighteen years of marriagewas like glass under my skin.
Margaret pursed her lips.
Shes gone.
Where?
To her mums. Manchester, Susan murmured, her tone sour. As soon as she heard he might not walk, she packed two suitcases in three hours and left. Wont answer our calls.
I waited. The workshop quieted, just the drip of water from a leaking tap, the scent of soil and something rich and sweet, perhaps lilies.
What do you want from me? I asked at last.
Margaret straightened her back.
Vera, you lived with him for eighteen years. Eighteen! You know him better than anyone. You know how to care for him. He listens to you. What he needs now is someone who
Margaret, I interrupted, Youre talking about the man who left me for someone else. Who, a year ago, couldnt find a place for me in the life we built together for eighteen years.
Oh, but thats all just history, Susan cut in. This is about his life!
His life?
The doctor said, without constant care, therell be complicationsbedsores, pneumonia! Vera, you know he had spinal surgery. Its serious.
I walked to the sink, turned off the tap, stared at my hands. Fifty-two years old. These hands had made bouquets people took photographs of and framed. They could knead dough, give injections when our son had fevers, dress Victors cut finger, fix sockets, carry heavy bags from the market. They could do everything. But Id never paused to wonder if I wanted to, or if I just did it because it was expected, almost compulsory.
I wiped my hands and turned back.
Ill think about it, I said.
We havent got time for that! Margaret rose, her voice suddenly sharp, almost threatening. While youre here dithering, hes lying there alone! No wife, no one! Susans working all hours, I can hardly walk! You cant just sit here with your flowers and pretend its nothing to do with you!
Is it nothing to do with me? I asked quietly.
No reply.
Outside the glass door, the street was nearly black. October nights come early. I looked at the lamp-lit street, the wet pavement, the empty bench outside the entrance where in summer customers sometimes sat while I finished up a bouquet.
Life, I thought. This is real life. Not a film. Not a novel. Two people standing before you, demanding you become someone you no longer are.
All right, I said. Ill come tomorrow morning. Ill see how hes doing. But I cant promise anything.
Margaret exhaled in relief. Susan threw her arms around me, and I simply endured it, not hugging her back, waiting for her to let go.
After they left, I sat for ages on the same stool Margaret had used. I gazed at my flowers. Lisianthus in the bucket, pale pink, buds wrapped like tiny letters. Chrysanthemums in wooden crates. Sprigs of lantern-bright physalis. Id created this place myself. Rented it three months after Victor left. Decorated it myselfthe neighbour, Mr. Brown, put up the cupboard doors in exchange for a decent bottle of wine, but I painted all the walls dove-grey, just as I wished. I chose the name Stem & Bloomat first it seemed silly, but then it stuck. I found suppliers, built an online page, learnt to photograph flowers so people would pause on the images.
A year. A year spent building a life around myself. It turns out, living for yourself isnt selfish or frivolous. Its just ordinary.
And now, this.
I switched off the lights above the worktable, left the little lamp by the door onhabitand headed home.
The hospital was a sprawling NHS building, the corridors long, the air tinged with the unmistakable smell of bleach and institutional cookingsomething Id never liked. I located the ward, asked for Victor. The nurse glanced at me.
Are you family?
Ex-wife, I said.
Her eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly, but she said nothing, simply directed me.
Victor lay in a four-bed room, but he was alone. Covered to the waist, hands on top of the blanket. He’d lost weight. His face was ashen, blue beneath the eyes. On the bedside table, a mug with cold tea and a phone turned face-down.
He saw me, and something shifted in his face. Not joymore like relief, as if hed been waiting and the waiting was finally over.
Vera, he said.
Hello, I answered, setting down apples and mineral water. Not because I wanted to, but because you never turn up at hospital empty-handed.
I took the chair by the window, not the edge of his bed.
Are you in pain? I asked.
Bearable. They give me tablets. He paused. You came.
I came.
Mum called me. Said they visited you.
Yes.
He gazed up at the ceiling. Then at me again.
Didnt think youd come.
I didnt think so either.
Silence. The rain brushed outside the windows. November, sliding into October, hurrying by.
Karens gone, he said.
I know.
So thats it, he said with a thin humourless smile. Just like in movies. When lightning strikes, the bloke crosses himself. Only, a bit too late.
I said nothing. I had no intention of pity, or of scorn. I simply sat, watching himthis man Id spent eighteen years alongside, raised a son, holidayed every summer at the same old cottage, argued over money, made up, argued again, and trusted it was all just what life was.
Vera, he said, and now his tone softened, almost coaxing. I recognised that tone straight away, braced myself by instinct. Ive done a lot of thinking, stuck here. Theres so much time to think when you cant stand. I see now what a fool I was. That the only real thing I had was you. Our home, our family all of it. Karen he waved it off. You get it. Im not asking for forgiveness. It’s too late for that. But youre the closest person I have left. The only one.
I heard his words as if from a distance. They lined up in neat rows: closest person, the only one, I understand, I was a fool. All things said just to get me to agree. Not for my sake. Not to restore something real. Simply because someone needs to come round, swap drips, talk to doctors, bring homemade food because canteen slop is awfuleverything Ive always been able to do.
Post-divorce relationships, I thought. They look nothing like they do in filmsneither grand, nor tragic. Just real. Someone finds you when things go wrong. Not out of love. Out of convenience.
Victor, I said, Im glad youre alive, truly. Im glad the surgery went well. But Im not coming back. Not to care for you, not for anything. Were divorced.
I know
Let me finish.
He fell silent. He was used to me letting him interruptperhaps he was surprised.
Ill find you a carer. A proper, professional one. Ill pay for the first month, since youre not really able to do all this yourself just now. But thats it. Also I fetched a folder from my bag. It took a while; it had slipped behind my purse and address book. These are the papers. We never finished sorting the finances after the split. You kept delaying; I wasnt in a hurry either. But I want it signed now.
He looked at the folder.
Youre serious.
Absolutely.
Im lying here post-surgery, and youve brought me paperwork.
Yes, I said. Because tomorrow you might start insisting you werent in your right mind. Or your solicitor will claim you signed under duress. But right now, the doctor will confirm youre of sound mind.
He stared at me, long and hard. I didnt look away.
Youve changed, he said at last.
Yes.
Youd never have done this before.
Probably not.
He took the folder, flipped through. I offered him a pen.
At that moment, the doctor walked in. Mid-forties, average height, wearing a grey NHS tunic and looking gently tiredsomeone whos worked a lifetime and long since quit pretending work isnt exhausting.
Good afternoon, he said, glancing at me curiously but politely. Im Dr. Andrew Collins, Victors consultant.
Vera, I replied simply.
Youre
Ex-wife, I said for the second time in one day. I was getting used to saying it.
He nodded as if it were the most unremarkable thing, and hinged towards Victor.
How was the night, Victor?
Decent. Slept well.
Good. Dr. Collins scribbled a note. Today well try adjusting the head of the bed higher. Lets see how you manage. Its too soon to predict, but the outlooks not bad.
Doctor, I ventured, May I speak to you briefly?
He followed me into the hall. I drew the door quietly shut.
I want to arrange a professional carer, I explained. Could you tell me exactly what is requiredskills, equipment, any specifics we should look for?
He studied me.
You won’t be looking after him yourself? he asked.
No.
I see. He paused. Honestly, that’s wise. Please dont take offence, but family who care out of guilt or dutythats a tense business. The patient needs calm, steady care. Not tears and late-night dramas. Professional carers are used to it. Relatives, as a rule, arent.
I gave him a look.
Is that what you always say?
Only to those who ask, he replied.
I almost smiled. Almost.
Write down the details, please, I said, unlocking my phone.
He dictated; I entered notes. Then he mentioned agencies that work with the hospital and suggested the nurses could provide contact information. I thanked him.
One thing he added as I was about to leave. Hes got a decent shot at recovery. Hes not old and things went well. Six months, maybe hell be walking. But no promises, and itll be slow.
I understand, I replied.
So long as he does.
Back in the room, Victor was holding the folder on his lap, unopened, pen by his side.
Will you sign? I asked.
He stared at the ceiling.
What if I said I need to think?
Victor.
All right, Ill sign. Youll always get your way. Youre like that, now.
I always was, I replied. I just used to hide itfor some reason.
He signed, page by page. I gathered the paperwork.
Ill have a carer found by the end of this week, I said. Ill call Susan, explain. Ill pay the agency for the first month. After that, youll sort it yourselves.
Vera, he said as I did up my bag.
What?
Thank you. For coming.
I looked at him, lingering. Not with anger, not with pity. As one looks at something that once belonged to their world and no longer does.
Get well, I said.
And left.
In the corridor, I paused by the window. In the courtyard, the last few leaves rattled in the breeze. A bench, rain-spattered. An old man in a robe sat watching nothing in particular, just breathing the wet air.
I took a deep breath, too.
Something eased inside menot everything, but something important. Like setting down a heavy bag. Not flinging it awayjust putting it gently on the floor, then straightening my back.
If I were keeping a diary, Id have written, How to let go of the past. I dont know. Perhaps it doesnt come in a single moment, or from a single decision. Its many small steps. Id just made one.
I arranged a carer in two days, through an agency. Fifty-eight, Helen, with experience in elderly and rehabilitative care; firm, sensible, arms thick with recommendations. We met in a cafe near the hospital where I explained. She listened, asked questions: whats he like, is he prone to gloom, pain threshold, how often will family turn up?
Often theyre more trouble than help, she observed.
I know, I said.
We agreed on the terms, I transferred the money. I rang Susan, who started to protest that it wasnt right, that Victor wanted only familybut I interrupted, calm and confident, new even to me. I used to avoid interrupting, or else did so only in frustration. Now, I could simply be steady.
Susan, you can visit every day if you want. Helen wont mind. But I wont be coming. I have my own life, and it doesnt have to fit anyone elses emergencies.
She hesitated, then said, All right.
Just all right. No accusations, no tears. Maybe she was tired, too, maybe she knew I had a point.
Margaret rang herself a week later. Her voice was different: gentler, sounding every year of her age.
Helens lovely, Vera. Victors bonding with her. Thank you for doing this.
Youre welcome, Margaret.
Dont vanish entirely, will you? Check in now and then.
I gave no promise, just said goodbye and slipped the phone into my apron. I was in the workshop, as usual. If someone asked me now how to let the past go, Id answer: just carry on. Not like a hero, not demonstratively. Simply live. Get up, work, do what youre good at and what you love. Difficult relatives and ex-husbands dont vanish entirely. They just stop taking centre stage.
That year, winter arrived early. Snow fell in November, and to my surprise, I found I quite liked it. I never used tonot that Id bothered to think about it, when Victors constant grumbling about the cold filled the house, his arthritis, his tea needing to be exactly at the right time. Now I could simply watch the snow and think, Its lovely. And leave it at that.
December brought more ordersoffice bouquets, gifts, Christmas arrangements. I hired a helper, Amytwenty-three, a part-time student, cheerful and hasty, a bit messy but quick to learn. We worked well. I taught her to see flowers not as products but as paint, a mediumhow a florist is an artist. Amy listened, sometimes coming out with bouquet ideas so clever they astonished me.
Where do you get them from? I asked once.
I just look at the person who orders, Amy shrugged. Imagine what sort of flower they resemble. Or who theyre buying for.
Thats a good method.
You taught me. You said a bouquet should be alive.
I didnt remember saying that. But I must have, because its what I believed.
January, February ticked by. I signed up for a floristry course, though Amy protested I knew it all already. I told her theres always more to learnnot from lack of skill, but curiosity. That was new, too. I used to do things only when necessary, or for someone elses benefit. Now, only because I wanted to.
Living for yourself does sound a bit selfish, spoken aloud. But in practice? It looks like this: an evening class in floristry, a book in an armchair with no snide remarks about how long Im reading, weekend trips to another town to admire old buildings Ive always loved but no one shared my interest in.
In February, Susan phoned. Victor was on the mendon crutches now, Helen working with him thoroughly and quietly. I was genuinely glad, no trace of guilt or bitterness. Just glad he was recovering. Thats all.
March brought thaw, early spring bouquetstulips, hyacinths, anemones. I savoured that shift, when wintry arrangements of cotton and eucalyptus gave way to bright, youthful, impatient blooms.
It was March when he walked in.
I was arranging a commissionyellow and white, daffodils and daisieswhen the door chimed. I didnt glance up immediatelymy hands were busy with ribbon.
Good afternoon, I said.
And to you, came the reply.
I knew the voice before I raised my eyes. Calm, a little weary, level.
Dr. Andrew Collins stood just inside the door, looking around as if recognising a place hed imagined in his head. No NHS tunic, of coursejust a dark overcoat, smart scarf, no paperwork in hand.
You, I said.
Me, he confirmed.
A pause. Amy had popped into the storeroom for wrapping paper, so we were alone.
Victor was discharged ten days ago, he said. Recovering with the same carer at home. Prognosis is excellent.
I know Susan told me.
Right. He hesitated, ever so slightly, but I noticed. Actually, I didnt just happen to be passing. In truth he smiledfor real, warm, not out of politeness, In honesty, I sought you out on purpose. I remembered the nameStem & Bloom. Found the address online.
I set down my ribbon.
Would you like to buy flowers?
I would. But not just that.
Silence. The room smelled of hyacinth and damp soil.
What sort would you like? I asked.
He went to the anemonespurple, crimson, white with black centres.
These, I think. Three? Or fiveis that better?
An odd numberthree or five, yes. For whom?
I havent yet decided, he said, looking at me. Perhaps youll help me choose.
I joined him by the anemones, picking three, then added two deep burgundy ones.
Fivethe colours work nicely together.
Wrapping came naturally: kraft paper, a twist of white ribbon.
Vera, he said.
Yes?
May I speak directly? I dont know how else.
Go onspeak directly, I said, still wrapping.
Id like to see you outside of hospitals, not on businessjust as ourselves. Coffee, or the theatre, if you enjoy it. Or just a walk, if inside isnt your thing. I know it might seem odd, but I figure adults can speak frankly, without pretending we only came for flowers.
I looked up.
He held my gaze. Calmly; no pressure. The way one looks when they say something important and allow the other person space.
How long have you felt that? I asked.
Three months. Since the hospital corridor, when you asked me to list what was needed for a carer.
I remembered that corridorthe hospital window, leafless trees.
Then, I was still marriedtechnically.
I know. Thats why I waited.
Outside the workshop, March was in full swing. Only slushy grey strips of snow remained by the kerb. Sparrows bickered by the bench. A yellow lamp glowedunnecessary now, as it was bright.
I dont know, I admitted.
Dont know what?
How these things are done. I was married eighteen years. Then alone for a year, learning to be myself again. Im not sure how to proceed.
Neither am I, if Im honest, he replied. I divorced six years ago. My daughters seventeen, lives with her mumthey get on, I visit. For a time, I just workedkept busy. Then I dared think, Maybe theres space to do more than just think.
Amy reappeared with packaging, noticed a customer, grinned.
Ms. Vera, need any help?
No, Amy. All sorted here.
She vanished, reading the room.
I handed Dr. Collins the finished bunch. He took it.
How much?
One moment, I said.
He waited.
I looked at the anemones he held: deep burgundy, velvety petals. Ive always liked anemones, so like poppies, but finer, subtler. A flower that doesnt demand attention but doesnt shrink, either.
A story about flowers, I thought. Id built my life around flowers, retreated into them to heal. I found something real within themand now, someone else was stepping into that space. Not storming in. Not demanding. Simply stating his truth, anemones in hand, waiting for an answer.
All right, I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
All right, how?
The theatre. I havent been in ages.
Andrew smiled, really smiled.
Im glad.
Just not tonight. Three orders left before closing.
Quite right. Friday? Or Saturday, if better for you.
Saturday, I said.
I told him the price. He paid, put the change away, lingering by the counter.
Vera, may I askjust out of interest. How long have you been in floristry?
The workshops a little over a year old. I hesitated. Flowersmy whole life. It was always a hobby. Now, its my job.
Its good, when a hobby becomes your work.
Yes, I agreed. It is.
He nodded, gathered the bouquet, and headed to the door. On the threshold, he glanced back.
See you Saturday, Vera.
See you Saturday, Andrew.
He chuckled softly.
Just Andrew.
Saturday, then, Andrew.
Door closed. I watched him outsidepast the bench and the heated sparrows. Overcoat, scarf, anemones in hand. He didnt glance back.
Amy returned instantly.
Ms. Vera, who was that? she asked, trying and failing to be nonchalant.
A customer, I replied.
A customer you spoke to for fifteen minutes?
Amy.
What?
Go wrap those chrysanthemums for Mrs. Moore. Shell pick them up at four.
Amy obeyed, visibly pleased by whatever shed observed. I returned to my work. My hands fell into their rhythmkraft paper crinkling, water dripping, the scent of hyacinths rising.
Saturdayfour days away. Four ordinary days, filled with orders and deliveries, Amys questions, calls about peony prices. Four days like any other in this carefully rebuilt, hard-won year.
I didnt dwell on Saturday. I just worked. Sometimes, if the shop was quiet and only the flowers kept me company, I recalled the conversation. Not every word, just the calm voice, anemones in his hands, See you Saturday, Andrew.
Adults, he had said, can speak plainly.
Perhaps they can.
I didnt know what Saturday would bringwhether it would feel right, whether conversation would stray from work and hurt and history. I didnt know if Id want to see him again. I knew just one thing: it was my choice to make now. Not Margarets, not Victors, not guilt or fear of loneliness. Mine.
That felt new. Not intoxicating, not dizzy as books describe. Just solid. Like firm ground beneath your feet after months slipping on ice.
Friday evening, after the shop closed and Amy left, I put a few leftover anemones in the vase by the till. Deep burgundy, soft velvet. For myself, not for sale. Just because.
They keep well together, Id remarked about five.
It was true.
I switched off the lights and headed home. Tomorrow was Saturday.
Saturday began at eight, grey clouds, the scent of coffee from the new machine I bought six months agosomething Victor would never approve, too expensive, unnecessary. Unnecessary, one of those toxic marriage weeds that choke out want, joy, whim, will.
I drank coffee at the window and watched the street: damp roofs, a pigeon on the sill opposite, a car navigating puddles.
My phone lay on the table. A message had arrived an hour agonot just now, but a full hour, as if composed in advance and finally sent:
Morning. Theatre starts at seven. Maybe grab something to eat first? Or notwhatevers easier. Andrew.
I read it again. Noted the missing e in morning. Smiled.
I sent: Morning. Food would be good. Six?
Sent. Set the phone down.
Finished my coffee.
March rumbled on outside: water dripped, wind rattled, a sparrow drove the pigeon away. The city woke up, indifferent to private first steps and small private choices. The city always continues regardless.
The phone blinked. One word: Deal.
I got up, rinsed my mug, put on my apron. There were still eight hours till evening, and the shop would not open itself. Took my keys.
I paused in the doorway, glancing around my flatsmall, bright, with anemones in a glass on the window ledge, just for me. My flat. My coffee machine. My flowers. My Saturday.
I left.
The door clicked softly behind me, the way a door closes when youve latched it properly.
Andrew was already waiting outside the café when I arrived, ten minutes before seven. He stood a little way off, looking at his phone but pocketing it the moment he saw me. Overcoat, scarfthe same as ever. No flowers this time.
Good evening, he said.
Good evening, I replied.
We looked at one another. Two grown-ups on a drizzly March evening, there because they chose to be not out of duty, not to avoid being alone. Simply because they wished.
Well then, said Andrew, Shall we go in?
We shall, I replied.
And together, we went in.
