Come Back and Care
Edith, open up right now! We know youre in there! Ann saw the light in the window!
Edith was tying a drooping stem of lisianthus to her wooden support when she heard the voices. Her hands were stained green from stems, her apron smeared with soil. She lifted her head and gazed through the fogged glass door of her workshop. Two figures stood in the drizzle outside, one tall and broad-shouldered, with rusty-dyed hair unmistakably Mrs. Wilson. Her ex-mother-in-law.
Edith didnt hurry. She placed the lisianthus in the water bucket, took off her gloves, hung them on the crooked nail above her workbench. Then, finally, she went to unlock the door.
Good evening, she said, sliding back the old-fashioned bolt.
Mrs. Wilson stepped inside first, without waiting for an invitation, trailing rainwater on her boots. Behind her squeezed Ann, Victors sister, with red-rimmed eyes above a scarf wound hastily round her throat, one end dragging.
Whats good about it, Edith, are you out of your mind? Mrs. Wilson surveyed the little workshop as if searching for something to condemn. She found it: Sniffing your blooms while someones dying.
Whos dying? Ediths voice was even.
Victor! Ann burst out, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Hes in hospital… Accident. His back
Edith kept her silence. Deep inside, something twinged, but it wasnt that old fierce wine-press ache her chest had known a year ago whenever someone uttered Victor. It was different. Quiet, watchful. Like the hush after youve been burnt once before, and now you shy from hot ash.
Sit down, she said, nodding at two rickety stools near the worktop.
Hardly time to sit, Mrs. Wilson retorted, but she sat anyway, lowering herself carefully. Edith remembered: bad legs varicose veins, and trouble with her blood pressure.
Ann stayed standing, fiddling with her scarf.
Just tell me what happened? Edith asked.
They told her, taking turns, interrupting, sometimes contradicting each other. Three days prior, Victor had been driving down the A1 in the rain, spun off and crashed into the barrier. The car, they said, was a write-off. He survived but his spine was broken. Compression fracture. The operation was successful, but the doctors were cautious: he might walk, he might not. He needed care. He needed family near.
And Karen? Edith asked.
For the first time, the name emerged smoothly. Even Edith was surprised, as a year ago it would have been a splinter under her skin, a sliver of glass. Karen, twenty-eight, a sales manager the woman for whom Victor had left after eighteen years of marriage.
Mrs. Wilson pursed her lips.
Karens gone.
Where?
To her mums. In Salford. Anns voice was sharp, now more angry than distraught. As soon as she heard there was a chance he wouldnt walk, she packed her bags. Two suitcases, three hours flat. Wont answer our calls.
Edith said nothing. The sound of a taps steady drip echoed from the old sink, mingling with the moist, heady scent of earth and lilies.
What is it you want from me? she finally asked.
Mrs. Wilson straightened, her hands knotting in her lap.
Edith, you lived together eighteen years. You know him best. He listens to you. He needs someone that
Mrs. Wilson, Edith interrupted, youre talking about a man who left me for someone else. About a man who, a year ago, in the very life wed built, couldnt find a place for me.
Oh Edith, Ann chimed in. Thats all in the past. This is about his life now!
His life?
The doctor said that without constant care, he might get bedsores, or pneumonia! He had spinal surgery, Edith, do you understand? This isnt a sniffle!
Edith moved over to the sink and turned off the dripping tap. She stood, looking at her hands. Fifty-two years old. These hands could tie bouquets that customers photographed and framed on their mantels. They could knead dough, give injections when her son had a fever, bandage Victors cut finger, rewire plugs, hoist heavy bags from the greengrocer. They could do anything. Yet for years, she hadnt really considered whether she wanted to, or simply did because it was expected because thats what one did. Because there wasnt another way.
She dried her hands on a towel and turned.
Ill consider, she said.
Theres no time to consider! Mrs. Wilson stood, her voice now hard, almost threatening. While youre standing about, hes lying there alone! No wife, no-one! Anns at work all day, I cant, my backs gone, I can barely walk! You cant just sit here with your flowers and pretend its none of your concern!
Whose concern is it, then? Edith asked softly.
No one answered.
Beyond the glass door, it was now entirely dark. October dusk falling early. Edith watched the street, the sick yellow glow of the lamppost, the shining wet tarmac, the empty bench outside the shop, where in summer customers had sometimes perched while waiting for a bouquet.
A story from life, she thought. There it is: a story from life. Not a film, nor a novel. Two people standing before you, demanding you become the woman you once were and no longer are.
All right, she said. Ill come tomorrow morning. Ill see how he is. But I cant promise anything.
Mrs. Wilson exhaled in relief. Ann hugged Edith with unexpected fervor. Edith stood motionless, arms by her sides not hugging back, just waiting it out.
When theyd left, Edith sat for a long time on Mrs. Wilsons stool, gazing over her flowers. Lisianthus in the bucket, pink and delicate, buds like rolled letters. Chrysanthemums in wooden crates along the wall. Stems of Chinese lantern, orange and glowing. Shed conjured this workshop with her own hands rented the space three months after Victor left, painted the walls herself the shade of grey-white she fancied, while old Mr. Jenkins from next door fixed the cabinet doors in exchange for a decent bottle of wine. Shed named it Stems & Petals it sounded silly at first, but it stuck. She found suppliers, set up a page online, learned to photograph flowers so people would stop and linger.
A year. A year building a life for herself. And shed learned: living for yourself isnt selfish or some luxury. Its simply how its supposed to be.
And now, here we are.
She stood, flicked off the worktop lights, left only the little lamp by the entrance as always. Then she walked home.
The hospital was a vast old NHS relic, with endless corridors and that hospital smell Edith recognized instantly and had never liked. Bleach, institutional food, something else, indefinable the scent of illness and waiting. She found the ward, asked the nurse at the desk for directions. The nurse looked at her with careful curiosity.
Are you family?
Ex-wife, Edith said.
The nurse arched a brow, but simply explained the way.
Victor was in a four-bed room, but the other beds were empty. He was covered to the waist, hands laid atop the sheet. Thinner, skin sallow, purplish under the eyes. On his bedside table, a teacup with dark dregs, his phone face down.
He saw her and something shifted in his face. Not joy: more like the quiet of someone who waited and finally saw what hed expected.
Edith, he said.
Hello, she replied, placing apples and sparkling water beside his bed not out of sentiment, but because you dont turn up to a hospital ward empty-handed.
She didnt perch on the bed. She sat by the window, keeping a careful gap.
Is it painful? she asked.
Bearable. They give me pills. He paused. You came.
I came.
Mum called. Said theyd been round to you.
Yes.
He looked at the ceiling, then at her.
I thought you wouldnt come.
I thought I wouldnt.
Silence. Outside, the rain sang against the window. November hurried up to October, eager.
Karens gone, Victor said.
I know.
So thats it. He gave a false smile crooked, empty. Like in a film. Thunder rolls, man repents. Only its too late, really.
Edith didnt answer. She wasnt here to pity him, but she wasnt here to punish him, either. She simply watched him this person shed lived with for eighteen years, raised a son, holidayed every summer at the same faded seaside cottage, fought and made peace, argued over money, believed that this was life as it was and would ever be.
Edith, he said, voice changing: softer, gentler. That voice he used when angling for something. She recognized it, instinctively wary. Ive had time to think. You get a lot of that, lying flat on your back. I realise now I was a fool. That everything real I had was with you. Home, family. Karen He waved a dismissive hand. You know yourself. Im not asking forgiveness its too late for that. But youre the closest I have. The dearest.
Edith listened and simultaneously heard these words at a distance. They lined up neatly: closest, dearest, I get it, I was a fool, theres only you. All assembled to make her agree. Not for her, not to rebuild anything true. But to have someone there: to swap drips, chat with doctors, bring home food because hospital meals are dire, do all those things Edith did so well.
Divorce this was how it looked, sometimes. Not tidy, nor tragic. Just simple. Hed found her when things went wrong. Not out of love. Out of convenience.
Victor,” she said, Im glad youre alive. Truly. And Im glad the surgery went well. But Im not coming back. Not to care, not for anything. We are divorced.
I know that
Let me finish.
He stopped. Surprised, maybe, that she didnt let him interrupt anymore.
Ill arrange a carer. A proper one, experienced. Ill pay the first month, since youre hardly able to sort it yourself. Thats as far as Ill go. And one more thing She fumbled in her bag for a folder, hidden among receipts and her notebook. Heres the paperwork. We never finished the divorce settlement. You dragged it out. I never rushed either, just couldn’t face it all. But now Im asking you to sign.
Victor eyed the file.
Youre serious.
Absolutely.
Im lying here after spinal surgery, and you bring me legal papers.
Yes, Edith said. Tomorrow, you could say you werent of sound mind, or your solicitor might say you signed under pressure. I know how these things work. Right now youre compos mentis, and the doctor can confirm it.
He stared at her for a long time. She didnt blink.
Youre not the same, he finally said.
I suppose not.
You’d never have done this before.
Perhaps not.
He took the file, leafed through. Edith gave him a pen.
Just then the door shuddered and a doctor swept in a stocky man in his mid-forties, with tired eyes and a battered grey coat. His face was calm, a little weary like someone who worked too much to pretend at cheerfulness.
Good afternoon,” he said, giving Edith a polite but questioning look. I’m Andrew Parker, Victors doctor.
Im Edith.
Youre…?
The ex-wife, she replied. Second time today getting used to the phrase.
Dr Parker nodded as if it were the most ordinary thing, then turned to Victor. How was the night, Mr Wilson?
Fine. Slept.
Good. The doctor made notes. Today well try raising the head of the bed. See how you manage. We wont rush, but so far youre on a good path. Too soon for predictions, but theres progress.
Doctor, Edith said, could I have a word?
They stepped out.
Id like to arrange a professional carer, Edith said. Could you specify what experience, any particular skills? Any equipment I should provide?
Dr Parker nodded, studying her.
Youre not going to do it yourself?
No.
I see. Pause. Honestly, thats probably for the best. Forgive me, but family doing it out of guilt or duty It can make things fraught. What he needs is steady, professional support. No drama, no midnight tears. Carers manage that. Family mostly cant.
Do you tell everyone that? Edith asked.
Only those who ask, he said quietly.
She very nearly smiled.
Please write down whats needed, she asked, phone ready.
He dictated. She typed. He told her about agencies with ties to the hospital, to talk to the ward sister for contacts. Edith thanked him.
One thing, he added as she turned to leave. Hes got a fair shot. Hes not that old, and the op went well. In six months, he might walk again no promises, but the odds arent bad. It wont be quick.
I understand, she said.
The key is he has to understand that too.
She returned to Victors room. He held the folder closed atop his stomach, the pen beside it.
Will you sign? she asked.
He looked at the ceiling.
What if I say I want to think about it?
Victor.
He gave a long breath.
Yes, Ill sign. He took the pen. Youll get your way, always do. Thats who you are now.
I always was, Edith said softly. I just buried it before. Dont know why.
He signed three places. Edith gathered the documents.
Ill have the carer arranged by the end of the week, she told him. Ill explain it to Ann. First months fee, Ill send it to the agency. After that, its up to you all.
Edith, he said, as she fastened her bag.
What?
Thank you. For coming.
She looked at him a long time. Not with pity, not anger. Just looking, as one does at something that was once part of their own life and now no longer is.
Get better, she said.
Then she left.
In the hallway, Edith paused by a window. Outside, the hospital courtyard: dark trunks dropping rain onto a bench, wet, empty apart from an old man in a dressing gown watching nothing in particular. Just sitting and breathing the cold English air.
Edith breathed deeply too.
Something loosened. Not everything. But something important. Like shed been carrying a heavy bag and, at long last, set it gently on the floor. Not thrown, not dumped just gently, deliberately placed. And she straightened her back.
How to let go of the past, she thought. If she kept a diary, shed write that. I dont know. But it doesnt happen in a single moment, nor with a single choice. Its many, many small steps. And one had just been made.
The carer was sorted in two days: a woman of fifty-eight, Mrs Graham, who specialised in elder and rehab care, practical and calm with a folder of references. Edith met her in the café by the hospital, explained the situation. Mrs Graham listened with understanding, asked all the right questions: about Victors moods, pain thresholds, the relatives whod drift in and out.
Relatives usually do more harm than good, Mrs Graham observed. Its not their fault. It just is.
I know, Edith agreed.
Terms discussed, Edith paid. She rang Ann to explain. Ann started to object, say Victor needed his own family, but Edith gently, firmly, interrupted. She surprised herself before, shed either never interrupted, or snapped. This new tone was even, calm.
Ann, come every day if you want. Mrs Graham wont mind. But I wont be coming. I have my own life it doesnt have to weave itself around someone elses crisis.
Ann paused, then said:
All right.
Just all right. No accusations, no tears. Maybe Ann was weary too. Maybe some part of her knew Edith was right.
Mrs. Wilson phoned a week later. Her voice was different, softer, older.
Edith, Mrs Grahams a good sort, Victors getting used to her. Thank you. Really.
Youre welcome, Mrs Wilson.
Dont disappear. Just a call now and then.
Edith gave no promises. She just wished her well and put her phone away. She was standing in her workshop, as usual. How do you let go? someone asked, and she would have answered: just keep living. Not heroically, not dramatically. Just Living. Up at dawn, off to work, doing what you know and love. Toxic kin and ex-husbands dont vanish. They just stop dominating your life.
That winter came early. November snow fell thick and soft, and Edith discovered unexpectedly that she liked it. She never used to. Or rather, she never thought about it; there hadnt been space for liking or disliking winters when Victor was always moaning about cold, his arthritis, wanting his tea at four exactly. Now she could stand at the window and think: beautiful. Thats all.
Come December, the shop was full of orders: Christmas bouquets, workplace parties, winter table pieces. Edith hired a helper a bright girl called Lucy, twenty-three, studying part-time, cheerful, quick, a tad scatterbrained but eager to learn. They worked well together. Edith taught her to see flowers as material like an artist mixing colour. Lucy listened, sometimes coming up with bouquet ideas that surprised Edith.
Where do you get that from? Edith asked.
I just look at the person, Lucy shrugged. Then I think what flower is like them, or the person theyre buying for?
Thats not bad, Edith mused.
You taught me that. Bunches should have life in them.
Edith didnt remember saying it. But maybe she had; that was truly how she felt.
January. February. Everyday life ticked by. Edith signed up for a floristry course, though Lucy said she ought to be teaching by now. Edith replied theres always something to learn; not because she lacked skill, but because it was interesting. That was new. She used to do things out of necessity, or someone elses request.
Living for yourself sounded selfish aloud. But in reality, it looked like this: a floristry class, an evening with a novel in an armchair, no snide comments about time wasted, a day trip to nearby Oxford just to see the old buildings shed always loved.
In February, Ann rang. Victor was improving, now using crutches. Mrs Graham was working methodically no fuss, no drama. Edith was simply glad. Genuinely glad. No sting of guilt anymore just glad. That was all.
March brought thaw and spring orders tulips, hyacinths, anemones. Edith loved that moment when the winter cotton-and-eucalyptus arrangements gave way to something vivid and impatient.
March was also when he came.
Edith was at her workbench, tying a bouquet: yellow-white, daffodils and daisies, honest and bright. The bell tinkled a man entered. She didnt look up immediately; her hands were busy with ribbon.
Good day, she said.
Afternoon, he replied.
She knew the voice before she lifted her eyes. Even, slightly weary, familiar.
Dr Parker stood in the doorway, gazing around as if visiting a place hed pictured long before. Minus the usual coat, in a charcoal jacket and soft scarf. No medical notes under his arm.
Its you, Edith said.
Its me, he agreed.
A small pause. Lucy had just popped into the back room for wrapping paper. They were alone.
Victor Wilson was discharged ten days ago, said Dr Parker. Still convalescing at home. Prognosis good.
I know Ann wrote.
He hesitated, then smiled genuinely, not professionally. Truth is, I came here on purpose. I remembered the name Stems & Petals. Found the address online.
Edith set aside the ribbon.
Looking to buy flowers?
Yes. Not just flowers, though.
The room filled up with the scent of hyacinth and earth.
What are you after? she asked.
He drifted to the anemones. Grape-purple, crimson, white with dark hearts.
These, I think. Three? Or maybe five. Is it bad luck to have an even number?
Odd numbers, Edith replied. Three, or five. For whom?
Not sure yet. He caught her eye. Maybe you could help me decide.
Edith picked three, then added two dark, almost black ones.
Five. They work well together.
She started to wrap them: waxed kraft paper, a twist of ribbon her hands operating by memory.
Edith? he said.
Yes?
Mind if Im blunt? I dont really do preambles.
Be blunt, she said, eyes on the bouquet.
Id like to take you out. Not the hospital, not for business. Just for coffee. Or the theatre, if you like theatre. Or just a walk, nothing enclosed. I get if its strange, but I thought we could be honest. Not pretending weve only met about flowers.
Edith looked up.
He was watching her, waiting. Not pressing just waiting, as one does when stating something real and granting the other time to reply.
How longs this been on your mind? she asked.
About three months. When you asked me in the corridor what a carer would need.
She remembered the corridor. Hospital window. Bare trees.
I was still married, technically, she said.
I know. Thats why I waited.
Beyond the glass, March sprawled on the street. The last snow had guttered away, save for sooty heaps in the gutters. Sparrows jabbered near the bench. The old lamplight burned, though it was bright enough.
I dont know, Edith said.
What dont you know?
I dont know how to do these things. I was married eighteen years, and then a year learning to be myself again. Im not sure how now.
Truth? Im not sure either, he said. I divorced six years ago. Have a daughter, shes seventeen, lives with her mum, were on good terms. I drowned myself in work for ages. Then I decided maybe it was time to try not just working.
Lucy entered then, holding a roll of tissue. Noticing the visitor, she grinned.
Ms Clarke do you need a hand?
No, Lucy. Ive got it.
Lucy exited, deferring with unnecessary paper.
Edith handed Dr Parker the bouquet.
How much? he asked.
One moment, she said.
He waited.
Edith studied the anemones. Shed always loved them for their velvet petals, subtler than poppies, neither showy nor shy.
A story about flowers, she thought suddenly. All this time shed built a life around flowers somewhere to escape pain, somewhere to grow roots. And now a person hadnt crashed through, hadnt demanded his way in hed simply entered, said what he meant, held flowers, and waited for her answer.
All right, Edith said.
His eyebrows twitched.
All right, meaning?
A theatre. I havent been in ages.
Dr Parker smiled, properly this time.
Id like that.
But not tonight. I have three orders to finish.
Of course. Maybe Friday? Or Saturday, if better?
Saturday, Edith decided.
She named the price, he paid, tucked his change away, didnt rush off.
Edith, can I ask just out of interest how long have you been working with flowers?
The shops a year old. Flowers in general, all my life. But it was a hobby. Now, its work.
Nice, when a hobby becomes a job.
She smiled softly. Yes. It is.
He nodded, took the bouquet, headed to the door.
See you Saturday, Edith.
Saturday, Andrew.
He gave a hint of a grin.
Andrew.
Until Saturday, Andrew.
He left. Edith watched as he strode off down the street past the bench and the bickering sparrows, coat swinging, scarf neatly knotted, anemones held upright. He didnt look back.
Lucy bounced from the storeroom.
Ms Clarke, who was that? she asked, trying to sound casual, not quite managing.
A customer.
A customer you chatted to for fifteen minutes?
Lucy.
Yes?
Wrap those chrysanthemums for Mrs Norton. Shell be by at four.
Lucy left, pleased to have witnessed a scene. Edith got back to work paper rustling, water splashing, the scent of hyacinths hanging round her.
Saturday. Four days away. Four normal days orders and deliveries, Lucys questions, a suppliers call about peonies. Four days as unremarkable as the rest of her peaceful, hard-earned year.
Edith did not dwell on Saturday. She simply worked. Sometimes in the quiet, with only the flowers for company, she recalled the conversation not line by line, just the feel: a quiet voice, anemones in his hands. See you Saturday, Andrew.
Adults, hed said, can be direct.
Maybe they really can.
She had no idea what Saturday would bring. Whether theyd get on, what theyd talk about, whether shed want to meet him again. She knew only one thing: it was her choice now. Not Mrs. Wilsons, not Victors, not duty nor fear of solitude. Hers.
The sensation wasnt dazzling, as novels claim just solid. Like firm ground underfoot after a long trudge through mud.
Friday evening, when the shop was shut and Lucy had gone, Edith put a few leftover anemones in a vase on the counter dark velvet petals, not for sale but for herself.
She gazed at them.
Theyre good together, shed said, of the five blooms.
And they were.
She turned off the lights and walked home. Tomorrow was Saturday.
Saturday arrived at eight, with slate sky and the scent of coffee from Ediths new machine a splurge Victor would have mocked as pointless. Pointless one of those marriage words, like stubborn dandelions in a lawn, stifling other words. Why? Because. I want. I like. I will.
She sipped coffee at the window, watching a grey city wake beneath the drizzle. Rooftops shining. A pigeon on the ledge. A car edging along, swerving puddles.
Her phone sat on the kitchen table. There was a message, sent an hour ago not hastily, but with the air of someone whod been up, made his decision, sent his answer:
Good morning. The plays at seven. Shall we eat beforehand? Or perhaps not, up to you. Andrew.
She read it again, noting good morning missing the final a, smiled.
She replied:
Good. Lets eat beforehand. Six?
Sent the message. Put the phone down.
Finished her coffee.
Outside, March pressed on. Rain dripped, wind chattered, a sparrow chased off a pigeon. The city awoke oblivious to other peoples Saturdays, first steps and small, brave resolutions. Cities never do notice they just keep on.
Her phone pinged. One word:
Agreed.
Edith got up, washed her cup, put on her apron eight hours till evening, and the shop wasnt going to open itself. She grabbed her keys.
At the door, she paused and looked round the flat. Modest, light, with a jam jar of anemones in the window a few rescued from work the night before. Her flat. Her coffee machine. Her flowers. Her Saturday.
She stepped out.
The door closed behind her quietly, as doors do, when finished with the past.
Andrew was already waiting by the café at twenty to seven. He hovered near the entrance, glancing at his phone, pocketing it as soon as she appeared. Same dark jacket, same scarf. No flowers this time.
Evening, he said.
Evening, she replied.
They looked at each other for two seconds, no more. Two grown-ups on a misty English street, there because they had chosen. Not because they had to. Not because another way was impossible. Just because they wanted to.
Well, said Andrew, shall we?
We shall, said Edith.
And in they went.
