Come Back and Take Care of Me

Come Back and Care

Emma, open up right now! We know youre in there! Sarah saw the lights on!

Emma was just finishing tying up a stem of lisianthus to the wooden support. Her hands were streaked green from the stems, apron dusted with soil. She lifted her head and stared at the glass door of her workshop. Through the misted glass, two figures stood framed. One, even in the foggy dusk, she recognised: broad shoulders, dyed hair the colour of mulled wine. Margaret Brown. Her ex-mother-in-law.

Emma didnt rush. She placed the lisianthus in a bucket of water, slipped off her gloves, and hung them on a hook by the bench. Only then did she walk to unlock the door.

Good evening, she said, sliding back the bolt.

Margaret swept inside first, not waiting for any invitation. She was followed by Sarah, Victors sister, red-eyed with a rumpled scarf hanging limp from her neck.

Good? Good, Emma? Are you quite well? Margaret surveyed the workshop with a look as if searching for something she could immediately disapprove of. She landed on her target: Sniffing your flowers while someones dying!

Whos dying? Emma kept her tone even.

Victor! Sarah burst out, covering her mouth with her trembling hand. Victors in hospital. Accident. His spine.

Emma stared at them. Somewhere deep inside, something tightened, but not at all like the way she used to shrink at the mere mention of Victors name a year ago. Now it was quieter. Wary. The way someone steps back from a fire after once being badly burned.

Sit down, she said, nodding at the two stools by the workbench.

We havent time for sitting, Margaret snapped, but then, remembering her own aching legs, lowered herself down. Emma rememberedthe varicose veins, the constant trouble with her blood pressure.

Sarah stayed standing, knotted fists worrying at her scarf.

Tell me properly, Emma asked.

And so, in overlapping voices and contradictory details, they told her. Three days ago, Victor had been on the M1 in the rain. He lost control, hit the barrier. Car destroyed. Hed survived, but with a crushed vertebra; the operation had been done, but the doctors were giving guarded answers. He might walk again, or he might not. He needed care. He needed someone who understood him.

And what about Carina? Emma asked.

She could say Carinas name without flinching. Even she was surprised. A year ago, it was like a sliver of glass beneath her skin. Carina, twenty-eight, account manager, the woman Victor left Emma for after eighteen years of marriage.

Margarets mouth pinched shut.

Carinas gone.

Where?

To her mothers. Up in Durham. Sarah clamped her mouth againthis time the anger just about boiling over. The instant she knew he might not walkgone. Two suitcases packed in three hours. She wont answer our calls.

Emma waited. The workroom was quiet except for the drip of a leaky tap and the scent of damp earthsweet, lily-heavy.

So what exactly do you want from me? she finally asked.

Margaret straightened on the stool.

Emma, you and Victor were together for eighteen years. Eighteen! You know him better than anyone. You know how to look after him. Hed listen to you. Right now, he needs

Margaret, Emma cut her off, Youre talking about a man who left me for someone else. Who a year ago looked at the life wed builteighteen yearsand chose not to include me in it.

Sarah jumped in, Thats all in the past! This is about a lifeabout him living or not!

A life?

The doctor said without proper care, he could have complications! Bedsores, chest infections! Hes had spinal surgery, Emma, you do understand? This isnt a cold!

Emma walked over to the sink and turned off the tap. She stood, staring at her hands. Fifty-two. These hands had made bouquets so beautiful people photographed them, hung them in frames. These hands kneaded bread, gave injections when her son Maxwell had a fever, bandaged Victors cut fingers, fixed plugs, lugged heavy bags from the market. Theyd done everythingnever once stopping to wonder if she wanted to, or just did it because it was custom, because it was required, because not to was unthinkable.

She dried her hands and turned to face them.

Ill think about it, she said.

No time for thinking! Margaret heaved herself up, voice grown hard and sharp with threat. While youre dithering, hes lying there on his own! No wife, no one! Sarahs out at work all day, my backwell! I can barely walk myself! You cant just sit here with your flowers and pretend it has nothing to do with you!

And whose business is it then? Emma asked quietly.

Nobody answered.

Outside, the evening had fallen hard and early. October, and the dark came faster. Emma stared through the door at the orange lamp across the road, the shining wet tarmac, the empty bench outside her shop, where in summer customers sometimes waited while she finished their bouquets.

A real-life story, she thought. Here it isnot a film, not a novel. Two people standing in front of you, demanding you become someone you no longer are.

All right, Emma said. Ill come tomorrow morning. Ill see how he is. But I promise nothing.

Margaret let out a long sigh. Sarah suddenly rushed to hug Emma, who stood, hands by her sides, unmoving, just patient until Sarah let go.

After they left, Emma sat a long time on the same stool Margaret had used. Looked at her flowers. The pink lisianthus, delicate, with buds like secret letters. Chrysanthemums lining the wooden crates. Sprays of physalis with orange lanterns. Shed made this place herself. Rented it three months after Victor left. Painted the walls herself in just the shade of grey-white she liked, with her neighbour, Mr. Hall, doing the cabinet doors in exchange for a decent bottle of wine. Shed named the place The Stema name that made her laugh at first, then stuck. Found suppliers, made a website, learned to photograph flowers so that people stopped on each photo, wanted to see more.

A year. A year she spent building a life for herself. Living for herself. It was not selfishness. Not arrogance. Just normal.

And now, here it was.

She stood, turned off the big light over the worktable, left only the little lamp by the dooralways just the one. Then walked home.

***

The hospital was vasta typical 1970s NHS block, corridors seemingly endless, thick with that unmistakable smell Emma recognised and had always disliked: bleach, institutional dinners, something else unnameable that only ever belonged to hospitals. She found the right ward, asked at the nurses desk. The nurse eyed her closely.

Are you a relative?

Ex-wife, Emma replied.

The nurse gave the faintest of eyebrow lifts but offered no comment, just pointed her the right direction.

Victor was in a four-bed ward, but the other three beds were empty. He lay with the cover pulled up to his waist, hands resting atop the blanket. Hed lost weight. Face greyed, eyes bruised underneath. Tea glass and his phone on the bedside table.

He saw herand something shifted in his face. Not joy. More like relief, as if hed been waiting and shed finally arrived.

Emma, he said.

Hello, she replied, placing a bag with apples and sparkling water beside himnot out of love, simply because you never visited a hospital empty-handed.

She didnt sit on his bed. She chose the chair by the window.

Are you in much pain? she asked.

Manageable. They give me tablets. He paused. You came.

I did.

Mum called. Said they came to see you.

Yes.

He looked at the ceiling, then back at her. I didnt think youd come.

I didnt think I would, either.

Silence. The rain rustled outside. November was catching up with October, rushing in.

Carinas gone, Victor mumbled.

I know.

Just like that. Like a scene in a film. Storm breaksa man crosses himself. Except its too late for that now.

Emma said nothing. She wasnt going to pity him, nor was she going to finish him off. She just watched this manher husband for eighteen years, father to her son, the man shed argued with over money and made up with, and fought with again, believing this was simply what life was.

Emma, he saidhis voice had softened, more gentle, the tone hed always used when he wanted something from her. She recognised it instantly and instinctively braced.

Ive had a lot of time to think, lying here. Funny, you get that luxury when you cant even get yourself up. I was a fool. I realise now, what was real in my lifewas you. Home, the familyCarina He shrugged. You get it. Im not asking for forgivenesstoo late for that. But youre all Ive got left. My closest, my own.

She listened, feeling his words lining up in her mind: My closest. My own. I was a fool. Youre the one. All just phrases to persuade hernot for love, not to rebuild something pure, but so someone could change a drip, talk to the doctors, bring something home-cooked since hospital food tastes of cardboard. The things Emma had always known how to do.

Relationships post-divorce, she mused, often looked like this. Not noble, not ugly. Just ordinary. Hed found her now because it was easier. Not because he loved her. Because she was convenient.

Victor, Emma said, Im glad youre alive. I truly am. That the operation went well, too. But Im not coming back. I wont care for you. Were divorced.

I know

Let me finish.

He quietened, surprised. Shed always let him cut in before. Now, apparently, he noticed the change.

Ill arrange a professional carer. A proper one. Ill cover the first monththeyll know what to do, and you likely cant sort this out yourself just now. Thats all Im offering. And She fished a folder from her bag, struggling past her purse and address book. Here are the papers. Weve not finalised the settlement. You delayed; so did I, because I couldnt face it. But now, Im asking you to sign.

He eyed the folder.

Youre serious.

Absolutely.

Ive just had spinal surgery and you bring legal papers.

Yes. Because tomorrow you could claim you werent yourself, or your solicitor blames me for pressure. Right now, youre lucid. The doctor can confirm.

He stared at her for a long time. She didnt avert her gaze.

Youve changed, he said softly.

Yes.

You never could have done this before.

Probably not.

He leafed through the folder. She gave him a pen.

Just then the doctor strolled ina short, middle-aged man in a grey coat, holding a battered folder of case notes, face calm and worn with long hours, too tired to fake cheer he didnt feel.

Afternoon, he greeted Emma politely, with a touch of curiosity but no insistence, Im Dr. Andrew Mason, Victors consultant.

Emma, she said.

You are?

Ex-wife, she said, for the second time that day, getting used to the word.

Andrew Mason nodded as if it was the most natural thing, turning then to Victor.

How was the night, Victor?

Fine. I slept.

Good. Mason scribbled in his notes. Today well try lifting your head higher, see how you do. Still too early for clear predictions, but so far its promising.

Doctor, Emma spoke, could I have a word?

They stepped out to the corridor. Emma closed the door firmly.

I want to arrange a carer, she said, decisive. A professional. Tell me exactly what skills are needed, any equipment that should be bought.

Andrew Mason regarded her closely.

You wont be looking after him yourself?

No.

Thats the right choice, he said with a frankness that surprised her. Dont take it the wrong way, but family forced into caring out of guilt or duty that rarely ends well. The patient needs calm, methodical care, not drama and midnight tears. Experienced carers do this. Relatives almost never can.

Emma met his gaze.

Do you say that to everyone?

Only to those who ask.

She almost smiled. Almost.

Please, make a note of whats required, she said, fishing out her phone.

He listed out the tasks calmly; she typed. He told her several agencies worked with the hospital. The nurse on duty could give her numbers.

Emma thanked him.

One thing, he added, as she was about to go back. His prognosis is quite good. Hes young enough. Surgery went well. In six monthsmaybe walking again. But thats not a promise. Its never quick.

I understand.

The main thing is that he understands it, too.

Back in the ward, Victor lay with the folder on his stomach, eyes on the ceiling, pen beside him.

Will you sign?

He kept staring upward. What if I say I want to think?

Victor.

Fine. Ill sign. He scribbled in three places. Emma packed away the paperwork.

Ill have a carer found by the end of the week, she said. Ill let Sarah know, pay for the first month. After that, its your matter.

Emma Victor said, as she zipped her bag.

What?

Thank you. For coming.

She just looked at him for a long while. Not pitying, not angry. Just seeing something that had been part of her life and now wasnt anymore.

Get well soon, she said.

And left.

In the corridor, Emma paused by a window. A handful of trees, their leaves already fallen, stood in the hospital courtyard; a rain-soaked bench. An older man in a dressing gown sat there, simply breathing fresh air, staring into the distance.

Emma drew in a deep breath, too.

Something let go inside her. Not everything. But something heavy. As if shed finally set down a suitcase shed been carrying half her life. Not thrown, not droppedjust placed carefully. And straightened her back.

How do you let go of the past, she might have written in a diary, if she still kept one. She didnt know. But felt this: it isnt sudden, nor a single decision. Lots of small steps. One of them, just taken.

Emma found the carer, through an agency, in two days. Sandra, fifty-eight, decades in elderly care and rehabilitation, calm and businesslike, a thick sheaf of sterling references. Emma met her in a café near the hospital, explained. Sandra listened, asked all the right questions: patients personality, will he get depressed, his pain threshold, family whod be around.

Relatives often hinder more than help, Sandra remarked. Through no fault of theirs. It just happens.

I know, Emma nodded.

They agreed payment terms; Emma transferred the funds. She phoned Sarah, explained. Sarah objected at firstVictor wants only familybut Emma, surprisingly to herself, interruptedquiet but firm. Not as she used to, shrill and flustered; now, just steady.

Sarah, you can visit every day if you wish. Sandra wont get in the way. But I wont be coming. My life is my own, and I dont have to change it for anyone else.

Sarah was silent for a while. Then simply said, All right.

No extra accusations, no tears. Maybe she was tired too. Maybe deep down, understood Emma was right.

Margaret phoned a week later. Her voice was different now; smaller, older.

Emma, Sandra is just the right woman. Victors settling. Thank you for sorting it all.

Youre welcome, Margaret.

Dont vanish completely, will you? Ring sometimes.

Emma gave no promises; just said goodbye politely and slipped her phone in her apron pocket. She was in the workshopwhere she belonged, almost always. If someone asked now how to let go of the past, shed answer: simply carry on. No heroics, no drama. Just wake, go to work, do what you love. Toxic exes and difficult in-laws dont vanish, but they stop running your life.

That year, winter arrived early. By November, snow fell thick outside. To her surprise, Emma realised she liked itshed just never considered it before. It hadnt seemed possible, not while Victor, always grumbling about the cold, his arthritis, room-temperature tea served at the precise right time, lived beside her. Now she could just gaze at the snow and think: beautiful. That was all.

In December, orders picked upcorporate bouquets for Christmas, gifts, festive arrangements. Emma took on help: a young woman called Daisy, twenty-three, part-time uni, lively, quick, a bit scatterbrained but keen. They worked well together. Emma taught Daisy to see flowers as an artist sees paintnot just as a commodity. Daisy listened and sometimes created arrangements so fresh Emma was honestly surprised.

How do you come up with those? she once asked.

I just look at whoevers ordering, Daisy shrugged. And thinkwhat flower are they like? Or the person theyre buying for?

Emma smiled. Thats a good method.

You taught me. You always said bouquets should feel alive.

She didnt remember having said it. But it made senseshed always thought it.

January, February. Life went on its slow, steady track. Emma signed up to a flower arranging course, though Daisy insisted she had nothing left to learn. Emma explained: theres always something to learn, not because youre lacking, but simply out of curiosity. This was all new territory. She was used to doing things out of duty or because someone asked, not simply because they were interesting.

Doing things for yourself might sound selfish. But really it looked like this: signing up for a floristry course, an evening reading with no one telling you to put the book down, a weekend day out in Winchester, admiring crumbly Georgian facades because you adore old buildingseven if no one else ever cared.

In February, Sarah calledVictor was slowly improving. Learning the crutches. Sandra coached him patiently, with no drama. Emma found herself glad for himpure gladness, not tinged with guilt or bitterness. Simply: good, hes recovering. Thats that.

March brought the first thaworders for spring bouquets began. Tulips, hyacinths, anemones. Emma always loved the moment when winters cotton-and-eucalyptus pale arrangements gave way to something vivid, brash, impatient.

And then, in March, he walked in.

Emma was at her bench, packing a boxed bouquet of yellow narcissi and daisieshonest, cheerful. The bell tinkled; a man stepped in. She didnt look up at once, hands busy with ribbon.

Good afternoon, she called.

Afternoon, came the reply.

The voice. She recognised it before she looked up: calm, a little weary, steady.

Dr. Andrew Mason stood in the doorway, looking round the workshop as if mapping a place hed pictured often. No coat this timebut a dark overcoat, smart scarf. No clipboard.

You, Emma said.

Me, he agreed.

A small pause. Daisy was in the back, fetching wrapping paper. They were alone.

Victors been discharged ten days now, Andrew said. Recuperating at home with Sandra. Prognosis is good.

I knowSarah messaged me.

Good. He hesitatedjust a flicker, but Emma caught it. I walked past. He grinned unexpectedly, a real smile, not the polite one from hospital. Welltruth is, I came on purpose. I remembered your shops name, looked it up online.

Emma put down her ribbon.

Would you like to buy some flowers?

I would. And not only that.

Silence. The scent of hyacinths and earth pressing in.

What exactly do you want to buy? Emma asked.

He wandered to the anemones: purple, burgundy, white with black hearts.

These ones, maybe. Three? Or fivewhats best?

Odd numbersthree or five. She smiled. For whom?

Im not sure yet. He looked at her. Maybe you could help decide.

Emma picked out three, then added two of the deepest velvet ones.

Five. They suit each other.

She started wrapping. Her hands worked on their ownbrown paper, a damp wisp at the base, ribbon.

Emma, Andrew said quietly.

Yes?

Mind if Im blunt? Its the only way I know how.

Go ahead, she said, eyes still down.

Id like to see you. Not about the hospital. Not for any reason exceptI want to. Go to a café, or the theatre if you like theatre, or just walk if you prefer. I realise it might sound odd. But adults can be direct, cant they? Id rather not pretend I only came for flowers.

Emma looked up.

He watched hercalm, no pressure. The way people look when theyve said something that matters and are not going to chase the answer.

How long have you been thinking that? she asked.

About three months. Since the corridor, when you asked me to give details for a carer.

She remembered that corridor. The bleak trees.

I was still married, technically.

I know. So I waited.

Outside, mid-March was in full swing. Snow nearly gone, sparrows squabbling by the bench. The orange lamp glowed pointlesslythere was plenty of light.

I dont know, Emma admitted.

Dont know what?

How any of this works. I was married eighteen years. Then a year learning to be alone. Now, I have no idea.

To tell the truth, neither do I, he said. My divorce was six years ago. Daughter, seventeen, lives with her mumwere fine. I hid in work, did nothing but work for ages, just to stop thinking. Then I thought. Then I thoughtperhaps its okay to do more than just think.

Daisy emerged from the back with her roll of paper, smiled at the customer.

Do you need anything, Mrs. Walker?

Its fine, Daisy.

Daisy vanished again, probably not needing any paper at all.

Emma handed Andrew the bouquet.

How much?

Wait, please.

He waited.

Emma stared at the anemones in his hand. Deep, velvet purple. Shed always loved anemonesa bit like poppies, but finer, quieter. A flower that didnt shout, didnt hide.

A story about flowers, she thought. Her life had grown around flowers; hiding here from pain, and starting again, found something real. And now someone was entering this worldgentle, direct, expecting nothing. Five anemones cradled in his hands.

All right, Emma said softly.

He raised his eyebrows.

All right, what?

The theatre. I havent been in ages.

Andrew grinneda real, honest smile.

Im glad. Not tonight, I suppose?

No chance. Ive three orders due before closing.

I understand. Maybe Friday? Or Saturday, whatever suits.

Saturday, said Emma.

She named his total. He paid and pocketed his change, but made no rush for the door.

Emma, may I ask one more thing?

Go on.

Just curious. How long have you worked with flowers?

The shopjust over a year. She paused. But flowers? All my life. It used to be a hobby. Nowits work.

Its good, when your hobby becomes work.

Yes. It is.

He nodded, gripped the flowers more comfortably, moved to the door. On the threshold, he paused.

See you Saturday, Emma.

Saturday, Andrew.

He smirked.

Just Andrew.

See you, Andrew.

He left. Emma watched from behind the counter as he walked past the bench, past the sparrows caught in their endless squabble. Overcoat, scarf, anemones in his hand. He didnt look back.

Daisy poked her head out.

Mrs. Walker, who was that? she asked, trying for casual, not quite making it.

A client, Daisy.

A client who stood chatting fifteen minutes?

Daisy.

Yes?

Go wrap those chrysanthemums for Mrs. Johnson. Shell collect at four.

Daisy disappeared, clearly pleased with what shed seen. Emma returned to her work. Her hands moved in their familiar rhythmbrown paper rustling, water dripping into the pail, the scent of hyacinths.

Saturday. Four days to go. Four ordinary daysorders, deliveries, Daisys questions, a phonecall about peony prices. Four days like every other in this hard-won, calm, entirely her own year.

Emma didnt let her thoughts dwell on Saturday. She just worked. Sometimes, when the shop was empty but for the flowers in waiting, she remembered the conversationnot all of it, just the memory: his calm voice, the anemones, Saturday, then.

Grown-ups, hed said, can say things directly.

Maybe they can.

She didnt know what Saturday would hold. Didnt know if theyd click, if theyd talk of things other than work or illness or the past. Didnt know if shed want to see him again after. The only certain thing: it was her decision to make. Not Margarets, not Victors, not duty, not fear of being alone. Hers.

It was a new feeling. Not intoxicating, not dizzying, like books describe. Just solid. Like stepping off snow onto dry ground.

That Friday evening, after closing up, when Daisy had gone home, Emma put five leftover anemones from the delivery into a vase on the counternot for sale, just for herself.

She looked at them.

They hold together well, shed said when picking five.

It was true.

She clicked off the lights and headed home. Tomorrow was Saturday.

***

Saturday arrived at eight, sky grey, the scent of coffee drifting from the machine shed bought six months agosomething Victor would never have approved, too expensive, too pointless. Pointlessone of those words that grow in a marriage like weeds in a border, until you stop for noticing how they choke out why not? I want. I like. I will.

She drank her coffee by the window, watching the wet roofs, the pigeon perched on the opposite sill, a car dodging puddles.

Her phone buzzeda message sent an hour earlier, as if the sender had woken, resolved, and typed:

Morning. Theatre starts at seven. Shall we get a bite first? Only if suits. Andrew.

She read it again, smiled at the missing good before morning.

She replied:

Morning. A bite sounds good. Six?

Sent it, put down the phone.

Finished her coffee.

Outside, March wintered ondrips from the eaves, wind guttering, a sparrow driving the pigeon from the opposite sill. The city was waking, oblivious to her first steps, to small decisions or new beginnings. Cities never notice what matters quietly to people. They just move on.

Phone pinged. One word.

Deal.

Emma stood, rinsed her cup, put on her apronthe day still ahead, plenty of work until evening, the shop not about to open itself. She grabbed her keys.

At the door, she turned, surveyed her flatsmall, bright, anemones in a tumbler on the windowsill. Her flat. Her coffee machine. Her flowers. Her Saturday.

She left.

The door clicked softly behind her, shutting with the calm of closure.

Andrew was already waiting outside the café at twenty to seven. Stood just off to the side, phone in hand, put it away swiftly as she approached. That same dark coat, same scarf. No flowers this time.

Evening, he said.

Evening, Emma replied.

They looked at each other, for a second or two. Two adults, standing in the drizzle on a March street, both there because they chose to be. Not because they must, not because no other option existed. Simply because they wanted.

So, Andrew said, shall we?

Lets, said Emma.

And in they went.