Come Back and Take Care of Me

Come back and care for him

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

Sarah was just finishing tying a spray of lisianthus to a wooden support. Her hands streaked green from the stems, her apron smudged with soil. She lifted her head and looked through the glass door of her workshop. Two shadowy figures waited outside. She recognised one instantly, even through the foggy glass: broad shoulders, dyed hair the colour of overripe cherries. Margaret Baker. Her former mother-in-law.

Sarah didnt hurry. She set the lisianthus in a bucket of water, peeled off her gloves, hung them on a nail by the workbench. At last, she went to open the door.

Evening, she greeted, sliding the bolt aside.

Margaret bustled in first, invitation be damned. Emma squeezed in behind her, Victors sister, eyes swollen from crying, scarf thrown about her neck carelessly.

Whats so good about it, Sarah? Are you right in the head? Margarets hard eyes swept the workshop, as though seeking something to judge. They found it: Sniffing flowers while a real persons dying.

Whos dying? Sarah asked calmly.

Victor! Emma blurted, clapping a trembling hand over her mouth. Victors in hospital. Car accident. Spinal injury.

Sarah just looked at them. Something clenched inside her, but not the way it did a year ago at the mere mention of Victor. This was different, wary, like the hunch of someone whos been burned and now instinctively keeps their distance from fire.

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

Weve no time for sitting, Margaret snapped, but her legs struggled and she lowered herself all the same. Bad veins, high blood pressure: Sarah remembered.

Emma stayed standing, fiddling with her scarf.

Tell me the whole story, Sarah requested.

So they did, tripping over each other, correcting little details. Three days ago, Victor was driving on the motorway. Rain, he lost control, car smashed into the barrierutterly wrecked, they said. Victor survived. But a compressed fracture in his spine: surgerys done, prognosis guarded. He might walk, he might not. Hed need care, family by his side.

And Charlotte? Sarah asked.

She gave the name with surprising equanimity. A year ago it was a splinter under her skin. Charlotte, twenty-eight, a sales manager. The woman Victor had left his family for after eighteen years of marriage.

Margarets jaw tightened.

Gone, she said.

Gone where?

To her mums. Manchester. Emmas voice this time cracked not from grief, but some sharp-edged scorn. As soon as she heard he might not walk, she packed in three hours. Two suitcases. We ring, she wont answer.

Silence hung in the workshop, bar the distant drip of a tap above the sink and the damply sweet scent of lilies and earth.

So what are you asking me for? Sarah finally said.

Margaret straightened on her stool.

Sarah, you and Victor were married for eighteen years. Eighteen! Thats not just words. You know him. You know how to look after him. Youre the only one he listens to. He needs someone now who

Margaret, Sarah cut in, youre talking about the man who left me for another woman. The man who, after eighteen years of a life we built together, couldnt find a place for me in it.

Oh, don’t start, Sarah, Emma jumped in. Thats the past, isnt it? This is about somebodys life now!

Life?

The doctor said he cant be left alone! Bedsores, chest infectionsthey can all crop up if he isnt looked after! Hes had spinal surgery, Sarah, do you get that? This isnt a cold!

Sarah walked over to the sink, turned off the dripping tap. Stood there, looking at her handsfifty-two years old; hands that tied bouquets people photographed and framed, that kneaded dough, gave their son injections at forty-degree fevers, bandaged Victors cut fingers, fixed broken sockets, lugged heavy bags from the market. Capable of everything. Shed never stopped to wonder whether she wanted any of it, or simply did it because it was expected of her, because it had to be done, because there was no other way.

She dried her hands and turned around.

Ill think about it, she said.

Theres no time! Margarets voice struck out, just shy of threatening. While you sit here thinking, hes there on his own! No wife, no one! Emmas at work all day, my backs gone, I can barely get about! You cant just hide here with your flowers and pretend it isnt your responsibility!

And whose is it? Sarah said softly.

No one replied.

Beyond the glass door, it was already pitch dark. October: nights drew in early. Sarah gazed out at the street, the yellow lamplight across the road, the wet tarmac, the empty bench by the door where, in summer, customers sometimes sat while she finished their bouquets.

A story from real life, Sarah thought. This is one of those stories. Not a film, not a novel. Just two people standing before you, demanding you become someone you no longer are.

All right, she said. Ill come round tomorrow morning. See how he is. But I cant promise anything.

Margaret exhaled hard. Emma flung her arms around Sarahand Sarah stood there, hands by her sides, patient, unresponsive, waiting to be released.

When theyd gone, Sarah sat for a long while on the stool Margaret had just vacated, looking at her flowers. The lisianthus in their bucket, tender pink, buds tight like folded letters. Chrysanthemums in the wooden crates along the wall. Physalis branches with their orange lanterns. Shed made this place with her own hands, rented it three months after Victor left, did the painting herselfgrey-white, the way she likedand the cupboard doors were hung by her neighbour George, for a decent bottle of red. Shed chosen the name Little Stems, which at first made her laugh, then stuck. She found suppliers, started an online page, learned how to photograph flowers so people actually stopped to look.

One year. One year shed spent forging a life for herself. Living for oneself, shed learned, was not selfishnot a luxury. Just normal.

And here she was.

She flicked off the workbench light, left the little nightlamp on by the entrance, as always, and headed home.

The hospital was a sprawling, old brick thing, with endless corridors and the recognisable, unwelcome smell Sarah associated instantly with illness: bleach, institutional food, something else entirely, unique to hospitals. She found the right ward, asked the nurse at her station for directions. The nurse looked her over.

Family?

Ex-wife, Sarah answered.

A flicker of an eyebrowbut nothing more. The nurse explained where to go.

Victor lay in a ward for four, but three of the beds were empty. He was covered to his waist, arms on the blanket. He looked gaunt; neck and jaw grey, bruised hollows under both eyes. On his bedside locker, a half-empty glass of tea, phone screen face-down.

He saw her, and something subtle changed in his facenot happiness, but a drop of tension. Like hed been waiting for her, and shed finally come.

Sarah, he said.

Hi. She put a bag of apples and a bottle of mineral water on the lockerbecause you simply couldnt visit someone in hospital empty-handed, not because she wanted to.

She didnt perch on the edge of his bed. She sat in the window chair.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

Its manageable. Theyve given me something. Silence for a moment. You came.

I did.

Mum rang. Told me theyd visited you.

Yes.

He stared up at the ceiling. Then at her again.

I thought you wouldnt come.

I thought so too.

Outside, the rain battered at the window. November was coming fast on October’s heels.

“Charlotte left,” Victor said.

“I know.”

“Just like that.” He gave a sour little grimace. “Straight out of a film, isnt it? Thunderstorm, crisismans clever all of a sudden. Pity its too late.”

Sarah didnt respond. She had no intention of pitying him, nor of rubbing his nose in it. She simply watched: the man shed lived with for eighteen years, raised a son with, spent every summer at the same cottage, fought over money, made up, fought and made up again, believing that was what life was, and it could be no other way.

Sarah, he said softly, voice changedgentler, coaxing. The voice he always used when he wanted something, and she knew it, felt herself instantly wary. Ive had a lot of time to think. You do, when you cant move. I was a fool. Everything that really mattered was ours. Home. Family. Charlotte you know. Im not here to grovel for forgiveness. Its late for that. But youre the closest person Ive got. My family, still.

Sarah heard these words as a chorus shed learned by rote. Closest person. My family. I realise. I was a fool. Only you. All of it: a script to have her agree. Not for love; for convenience. Someone to change his drip, talk to the doctors, bring food because hospital meals are dreadfuldo all the things that Sarah could do.

Divorce, she thought, sometimes looked exactly like this. Not dramatic, not frightening. Just someone finding you when they need younot for love, but because youre useful.

Victor, Im glad youre alive. Honestly. Im glad the surgery went well. But I wont come back. Not to care for you, not for anything. Were divorced.

I know

Let me finish.

He fell silent. Old habits: shed always let him talk over her. Apparently, this surprised him.

Ill sort a carer for youa proper, professional one. Ill pay the first month, because right now you cant deal with it yourself. But thats all. And one other thing She rummaged in her handbag, extracted a folder, took her time, because it had slipped behind her purse and notebook. Here are the papers. We never got round to finishing the settlement. You stalled; I stalled. But Im asking you to sign them now.

Victor eyed the folder.

Youre serious.

Utterly.

Im lying here just out of surgery and you bring me paperwork.

Yes. Because tomorrow you might say you werent thinking straight, or your solicitorll say you signed under duress. I know how these things work. Right now youre lucid, youre stable. The doctor can confirm youre capable.

He stared at her for a long moment. She held his gaze.

Youve changed, he whispered finally.

Yes.

You could never have done this before.

No. Probably not.

He took the folder. Flicked through. Sarah handed him a pen.

At that exact moment, the door opened, and in walked the doctora compact, fortyish man in a grey coat, patients files under his arm. Unpretentious, tired in the way of people who have long since learned not to force cheeriness they dont feel.

Good afternoon, he greeted. His look at Sarah was questioning, but polite.

Im Andrew Williams, Victors physician.

Sarah, she said.

Youre

Ex-wife, she repeatedfor the second time that day. It was becoming familiar.

Andrew nodded as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, then turned to Victor.

How was your night?

Fine. Slept well.

Good. The doctor noted it down. Today lets lift the bedhead a bit and see how you get on. Too early to give predictions yet, but your recoverys on track.

Doctor, Sarah prompted, could I speak with you a moment?

They stepped into the corridor. Sarah closed the door behind her.

I want to arrange a carer, she said. Properly trained. Can you tell me exactly whats neededexperience, skillsand if theres any equipment we should buy?

Andrew studied her. You wont be looking after him yourself?

No.

I see. He paused. Honestly? Thats wise. Dont take it as offence, but family members who feel obliged through guilt or dutyit rarely goes well. The patient needs steady, peaceful care. No dramas, no scenes, no unending tears. An experienced carer knows how. Rarely do relatives.

Sarah met his eye. Do you say this to everyone?

Only when they ask, he said.

She nearly smiled. Almost.

Could you write out whats needed? She took her phone.

He listed it all; she wrote it down. He explained about agencies the hospital worked with, that the nurses on station could provide contacts. Sarah thanked him.

One last thing, he said, just as she turned to go. Hes got a decent chance of recovery. Not young, but not old either. Surgery was straightforward. Might be walking in six months. No guarantees, thoughnot quickly.

I understand, Sarah replied.

Its most important that he does too.

Back in the ward, Victor still held the folder on his stomach, pen beside him.

Are you going to sign? she asked.

He eyed the ceiling.

What if I say I want to think it over?

Victor.

All right. Ill sign. Youll get your way now, no doubt. Youre different.

I was always this way, she said. I just used to hide it. Im not sure why.

He signedthree places. Sarah put the documents away.

Ill arrange the carer by the end of the week, she said evenly. Ill ring Emma and explain. Ill send the first payment to the agency directly. After that, youre on your own.

Sarah, he said, as she zipped up her bag.

What?

Thank you. For coming.

She gazed at him. For a long minute. No pity, no anger. Just a look you give something that was once part of your life and is no longer.

Get well, she said.

And left.

In the corridor, she stopped by the window. The hospital courtyard; a few trees, leaves long since blown away. A bench, wet from the rain. On it, an old man in a dressing gown looking out into the distance, at nothing really, simply breathing the damp air.

Sarah drew a long breath herself.

Something let go. Not everything. But something important. As if shed been carting a heavy bag and, for the first time, simply set it on the floor. Not hurled it downset it down gently. And straightened her back.

How to let go of the past? shed write, if she kept a diary. She didnt know. But perhaps it didnt happen in a single decision or a single instant, only in a dozen tiny stepsand one had just been taken.

Sarah found a carer through an agency in two days. A woman of around fifty-eight, Linda, experienced in geriatrics and rehabilitationcalm, business-like, with a thick sheaf of references. They met in a café near the hospital; Sarah gave the rundown. Linda listened carefully, asked all the right questionswhat Victor was like, his risk of depression, his pain threshold, what family would be around.

Often family are more trouble than help, Linda said. Not their fault. It just happens.

I know, said Sarah.

They agreed the terms, Sarah wired the fee. She rang Emma and explained. Emma started to protestbut Victor wants his loved onesbut Sarah stopped her firmly but kindly, and realised, with surprise, that shed never spoken like this before; if shed argued at all, it would have been in anger, not composure. But, this time: calm.

Emma, you can visit every day, if youd like. Linda wont stop you. But I wont be there. I have my own life. I dont have to organise it round anyone else’s crisis.

Emma was silent, then murmured, All right.

Just that. No accusations, no tears. Maybe she was exhausted too. Maybe, deep down, she understood Sarah was right.

A week later, Margaret rang herself. Her voice now was differentquieter, older.

Sarah, Lindas a good woman. Victors settling with her. Thank you for sorting it out.

Youre welcome, Margaret.

Dont cut yourself off altogether. Ring now and then.

Sarah promised nothing. Simply said goodbye, putting her phone away in her apron. She was back in her workshop, as usual. How do you let go of the past? someone might ask. Just keep living, shed say. Not heroically, not for show. Just get up, go to work, do what you love. Troublesome exes and difficult family dont disappear altogether. They simply stop being central.

Winter came early that year. In November, it snowed, and Sarah discovered, to her surprise, that she liked it. She’d never thought about it before, not when Victor was around, forever grumbling about the cold, his arthritis, his tea at precisely the right minute. Now, she could simply gaze at the snow and thinkbeautiful. And that was enough.

Come December, business picked upcorporate bouquets for end-of-year parties, Christmas arrangements. Sarah hired an assistant: Holly, twenty-three, a part-time student, cheerful, quick, a touch forgetful but trainable. Together, they worked well. Sarah showed Holly how to see flowers not just as goods, but as an artist might see their paints. Holly listened carefully, sometimes coming up with bouquet ideas that surprised Sarah herself.

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

Oh, I just look at the customer, Holly shrugged, and think which flower might suit them or the person theyre gifting.

Thats a good method.

You taught me, miss. You said a bouquet should feel alive.

Sarah didnt recall saying it. But she must have, because she believed it.

January, February. Life went on. Sarah signed up for more floristry courses, even though Holly said there was nothing left to learn. Theres always more, Sarah explainednot for lack of skill, but because it was interesting. That was new for her: taking up something simply because she wanted.

Living for oneselfspoken aloud, it sounded a little selfish. But in real terms, it meant floristry classes; evenings in an armchair with a book, with no snide comments about how long she spent reading; day trips to nearby towns just to look at old buildings because shed always loved them though no one else cared.

By February, Emma rang. Victor was slowly improving. Using crutches now, Linda worked with him methodically, no drama, no fuss. Sarah was glad, and for the first time, this gladness was purefree from guilt or bitterness. Just relief.

March brought the thaw and the first spring orders. Tulips, hyacinths, anemones. Sarah loved this transition: arrangements with cotton and eucalyptus making way for colour and vibrancy, bursting with impatience for the new season.

And then, in March, he came.

Sarah was at her bench, packing a bouquet of daffodils and daisiessimple, honest. The door chimed, and a man entered. She didnt look up immediatelyher hands busy with the ribbon.

Good afternoon, she called out.

Afternoon.

The voice. She recognised it before seeing his face: steady, a little worn, calm.

Andrew Williams stood by the entrance, taking in the shop with the look of someone whod pictured it before. He wore a dark coat, a light scarf. No case notes now.

You, Sarah said.

Yes.

A brief pause. Holly was in the back, fetching wrapping paperthey were alone.

Victor Bakers been out of hospital for ten days now, Andrew said. Recuperating at home, same carer. Prognosis is good.

I know, Sarah replied. Emma wrote.

Right. He hesitated. For just an instant, but she noticed. I was passing. Well, not exactly passing. To be honest he chuckled, genuinely this time, I came on purpose. I remembered the name. Little Stems. Found the address online.

Sarah put down the ribbon.

Would you like to buy some flowers?

I would. And perhaps more than that.

A silence, fragrant with hyacinth and fresh earth.

What is it youd like? Sarah asked.

He walked over to the anemonesviolet, deep crimson, white with black centres.

These, I think. Three. Or five. Which is better?

Odd number, she told him. Three or five, yes. For whom?

Im not sure yet, he replied, looking at her. Maybe you could help me decide.

Sarah selected three, then added two moredark, almost black at their hearts.

Five, she said. They hold together well.

She started wrapping themher hands sure, by rote. Kraft paper, damp at the base, ribbon.

Sarah he began.

Yes?

I hope you dont mind me being direct. Im not good at subtlety.

Please be direct, she answered, eyes on the bouquet.

Id like to invite you out. Not for anything medicaljust out. For a coffee, or the theatre, if you like. Or a walk, if youd rather not be indoors. I know it may be awkward. But I think adults can be frank, instead of pretending theyre only here for the flowers.

Sarah met his gaze.

He looked at hercalm, never insistent. The look of someone saying something important and giving you the space to decide.

How long have you known you wanted to ask? she said quietly.

Three months. Since that day in the corridoryou asked me to list what the carer needed.

Sarah remembered that corridor. The window, the bare trees.

I was still, technically, married then.

I know. Thats why I waited.

Outside, the March sky was brightening. The last snow, reduced to muddy streaks along the curb. Sparrows chattering on the bench. Yellow light by the doornot quite necessary now.

Im not sure, Sarah admitted, how this goes. I was married for eighteen years, and only just spent a year learning how to be alone. I dont really know how to start again.

Honestly, nor do I, he said gently. I divorced six years back. Daughter, seventeenlives with her mum, we get on all right. I just worked and worked to stop myself thinking. Then eventually, I tried thinking. Now, maybe, Im trying to live as well.

Holly reappeared with her wrapping paper, saw the visitor, smiled.

Miss Baker, do you need a hand?

No, Holly, Ive got it.

Holly retreated cheerfully, though she had no need for the paper after all.

Sarah handed Andrew the finished bouquet. He took it.

How much do I owe you?

Wait, she said quietly.

He did.

Sarah looked down at the anemones in his handsdeep burgundy, velvet petals. Shed always liked them: a little like poppies, only subtler, quieter. Not attention-seeking, but not hiding either.

A story about flowers, she thought for no reason. All this time, shed built her life among themescaped pain by nestling herself here, built something of her own, something real. And now, a person was stepping into that life. Not barging in, not demanding, not pushing. Stepping in calmly, honestlyholding anemones, awaiting her response.

All right, she said.

He raised his eyebrows.

All rightyes. Theatre. I havent been in ages.

His smile this time was real, warm.

Im glad.

Justnot tonight. Ive three orders to fill before closing.

Of course. How about Friday? Or Saturday, if thats better for you.

Saturday, she answered.

She told him the price. He paid, pocketed his change, didnt rush to leave.

Sarah, may I ask you something?

Of course.

Im just curious. How long have you been working with flowers?

This shops a year old. But Ive loved flowers my whole life. It used to be a hobby. Now, its my work.

Its good when your hobby becomes your job.

Yes. It is.

He nodded, shifted the bouquet, walked to the door. Paused on the threshold.

See you Saturday, Sarah.

Saturday, Andrew.

He grinned.

Just Andrew.

“Saturday, Andrew.”

The door closed. Sarah stayed by the counter, watching him walk awaypast the bench and the feuding sparrows. Overcoat, scarf, anemones in hand. He didnt look back.

Holly popped her head in.

“Miss Baker, who was that? she tried to sound casual and failed.

A customer, Holly.

“A customer you spoke to for fifteen minutes?”

Holly”

“What?”

“Go wrap those chrysanthemums for Mrs Chapman. Shell be here at four.

Holly left, satisfied shed witnessed something important. Sarah returned to work. Her hands moved as they always hadfamiliar, loving, sure. Kraft paper rustling, water dripping into a bucket, the scent of hyacinths.

Saturday. Just four days away. Four ordinary days, filled with orders and deliveries, Hollys questions and a supplier haggling over peony prices. Days that looked just like all the others of her earned, peaceful, personal year.

Sarah didnt dwell on Saturday. She just worked. Now and then, when no one was in the workshop, shed recall the conversationnot all the words, but the steady voice, the anemones, See you Saturday, Andrew.

Adults, hed said, can speak honestly.

Perhaps they could.

She didnt know what Saturday would bring. Whether theyd get along, whether theyd have anything but work and sorrow and the past to discuss. Whether shed want to see him again. She knew only that this was hers to decide. Not Margaret, not Victor, not duty, nor fear of loneliness. Hers.

It was a new kind of feeling. Not euphoric, not dizzying. Stronglike solid pavement underfoot when youve walked through snow.

Friday evening, after closing up and seeing Holly off, Sarah put five anemones from that days delivery into a vase on the counterdeep burgundy, velvet petalsjust where she always kept flowers for herself, not for sale.

She looked at them.

They hold together well, shed said about the five.

It was true.

She turned out the lights and went home. Tomorrow, Saturday.

Saturday began at eight. Grey skies, the scent of coffee from the machine shed bought herself six months agosomething Victor would never have countenanced: Too dear. Waste of money. Wasteone of marriages weed-words, growing unchecked, choking out all others: want, like, will, can.

She sipped coffee at the window, surveying the street. Wet roofs. A pigeon on the opposite sill. A car gingerly skirting a puddle.

Her phone blinked with a message, sent an hour beforenot impulsively, but as if hed mulled, then written: Morning. Theatres at seven. Shall we grab something to eat first? Or not, if you prefer. Andrew.

Sarah read it twice. Noticed ‘good morning’ missing the ‘g.’ Smiled.

She replied: Morning. Food sounds good. Six?

Sent. Put the phone down.

Finished her coffee.

Outside, March continued its business. Water trickled from roofs, wind blowing, sparrow chasing the pigeon from the bead. The city woke up, indifferent to individual Saturdays, first dates and anxious decisions. Cities never notice when someone makes a quiet, important change. The city just keeps going.

Her phone blinked again: Agreed.

Sarah stood, put her cup in the sink. Pulled on her apronstill eight hours until evening, and the workshop wouldnt run itself. She took her keys.

At the door, she glanced back at her flat. Small, light, with anemones in a tumbler on the windowsill, leftovers shed brought home the day before, just for herself. Her flat. Her coffee machine. Her glass of flowers. Her Saturday.

She left.

The door shut gently behind, as things do when theres nothing more to be said.

Andrew was already waiting outside the café when she arrived at twenty to seven. He stood a little to one side, phone in hand, but tucked it away immediately as she came near. Dark coat, same scarf. This time, no flowers.

Evening, he said.

Evening, she replied.

For two seconds, maybe less, they simply looked at each other. Two adults on a wet March street, here only because theyd chosen it. Not because they had to. Not because there was no other way. Simply because they wanted.

Well then, Andrew said, shall we?

Lets, Sarah replied.

And together, they went inside.