The Rose Bush

Stockholm in the evenings was mellow. The park's statues were slowly resigning their copper to green moss bathed in the declining light, and a man sat on a stool outside of a cafe with an emptied coffee cup on the little table in front of him. His mother had just died.

   It had always struck him as peculiar how small the tables were in Stockholm, how crowded together and impossible to share - on the other hand there was no one to share it with this evening, he noted. Which was still a stranger still; he was never alone these days, always surrounded by grieving family. And still: now, spending his last evening in his childhood city, Stockholm, he was sitting utterly alone watching the park he once played in, back when he would scrape his knees to go crying to his mother like a little brat. He remembered the park as so lush and lovely from when he was little. Now, there were mostly just drunk teenagers chugging beer and sharing cigarettes.

All these years, he had stayed here for his mother. He had slept on a mattress next to her bed and learnt how to shave hair. How to hold someone’s hand without crushing it with one’s own anxiety. And then how to hold someone upright. But now, he had no excuse not to leave. Yet now, with nothing stopping him, he was left hopeless and confused. He had booked a  flight to Copenhagen, a flight leaving in five hours from Arlanda.  

  Sighing, he lifted the empty cup, now only a trace of coffee from his lips left, staining the cusp. He considered calling someone to accompany him but decided against it; he was too dependent on others, he thought. Instead, he looked around. The adolescents in the park were laughing hysterically at something. There were not many other diners outside, which was also strange. On the other hand, it was midsummer. Stockholmers would rather get drunk than eat dinner at a mediocre bar. Hell, he would rather get drunk. Once again, he sighed. Then he saw that familiar mane of hair. Shockingly red, it was unmistakable. Even her figure was strikingly recognizable, sitting just a few tables away from him. Those sloping shoulders, and the delicate hands he had held so many times. Abruptly, he stood up.

“Mamma?” he whispered. He blinked twice. “Mamma!”

The few other diners looked up. The man made a motion to follow, looked down at his belongings on the table and sat down again, in disbelief. But of course, hallucinations were a side effect of grieving, weren’t they? Seeing them everywhere? Yes, that must be - that was what he’d heard people say. He turned to look at the teenagers in the park, but they were too intoxicated to care. The stool his mother had just sat at was empty. The man recomposed himself. And so he waved to the waiter and paid for his overpriced order before navigating through the maze of tables. As he passed his mother’s table, he lingered slightly. And once again, he was taken by surprise.

   A book sat on the stool. He wouldn’t think anything of it, except it was the book Ylvali by Astrid Lindgren. The book he had begged his mother to read over and over again when he was little about a girl who visits her dead twin sister by crawling through a hole in the rose bush in her garden. Behind the rose bush her sister Ylvali  lives in an alternative, beautiful world. Yet, the girl, Barbro, must return. The next morning, at home, she wakes to see the hole in the rose bush has been overgrown. This is the sign, thought the man in disbelief. This is the rose bush. Picking up the book incredulously, he turned it in his hands. That’s when he saw that label. Stadsbiblioteket. Of course! That was where they’d always gone, and then to Vasaparken to read it. His Mother must have borrowed it and left it as a sign for him to find it. He was convinced. Putting the book underneath his arm he stumbled out of the bar, stepping out on the street. Across him was the opening to the metro. At this point he was almost running as he pulled out his commute card, scanning it before rushing down the escalator. This was the rose bush, and he was crawling through the tunnel, on his way to his mother. 

He hopped on the train and then hopped off at Rådmansgatan, rushing up the stairs. When he finally stood outside of Stadsbiblioteket he was out of breath with pearls of sweat forming on his forehead. He went up the stairs to the library, jittery with anticipation as grabbed the handle of the door. He pulled it towards him, almost violently. When it didn’t budge, he laughed. What a silly mistake! He pushed it instead. But still, the door didn’t move. Circling the building, he realized it must be completely empty. Inside it was dark. 

“Hey!” The man turned and stood face to face with a patrolling guard with tobacco under her lip. “The library’s closed today for midsommar. It opens again on Monday.”

The man stared blankly at the guard, and then burst out laughing. “Oh, but of course…” The woman in the guard uniform backed away. Knarkare, she warily thought. Crackhead. “Mom always liked games! Yes, even with puzzles, you know. Everyone else played with marbles, but my mom made me do sudoku!” The guard rolled her eyes. Well, I can see how well that worked for you, she thought. She then eyed the book under his arm; it was a children’s book. She almost shook her head. An alcoholic dad, perhaps? She felt bad for the kid and the wife. But then she mostly just felt bad for herself. Since rejecting her boss’ request for a date, he’d given her the worst shifts… She could already taste the refreshing Heineken she was going to drink as soon as she got home. Just a few more hours...

“Yeah, yeah. But I think it’s best if you go home and sober up a little.” She then walked away, making a point not looking back. If the man vandalized anything she didn’t want to spend her summer in court as a testifying witness. The man didn’t notice though - he was already searching his mind for how to break into the library. He thought of the puzzles once again. And then of Ylvali and the rose bush. Bushes! They were everywhere surrounding the walls of the building. He paced around the building, peering into the bushes. There must be a tunnel somewhere. Then he saw the vent, just behind a bush. It had lilacs, not roses, but he decided that it was of little importance. He kneeled down and inched through the dense branches until his body was filling a pocket of space between the apricot colored wall and the wall of flowering lilacs. Then his fingers got to work prying the vent open. It was much more difficult than he’d imagined, but finally he managed. He was overjoyed as it opened. How marvelous! And what a marvelous woman his mother was, planning all of this so meticulously for him. When he reached the other end he kicked the vent before climbing out. He was in the children’s section, which had clearly been renovated since all those decades ago. It also looked very different, almost haunted, in the darkness. Only light sun rays escaped through the cell-like windows.

The man felt like he’d transformed into his child-self, standing there suddenly helpless once again. He started hesitantly walking. Where was his mother? Then he remembered the corner they’d always sat in, with her reading to him for hours. Of course, that’s where she must be! Smiling, although a little unsurely, he continued looking. Before turning the corner to where they’d always sat, he inhaled expectantly. Exhaling, he turned. 

   But it was empty. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there before the salty taste of bitter disappointment marked his tongue. Noticing his tears, he wiped them off quickly. But they kept falling. Furious and heartbroken, he stormed to the librarian’s desk, with Ylvali still firmly under his arm. He sat down on the chair behind the desk and turned the aging computer on. He refused to accept he had been mistaken. Staring back at his tear-ridden wrinkled face was the screen. It demanded a password. Frantically, he began typing. From 1234 to stadsbiblioteketstockholm, the computer coldly refused each one. At last, he typed in Ylvali. It was rejected, of course. He tried again. AstridLindgren. After a few moments, the computer unlocked. He stared in disbelief. But, then again, of course! Because who loves Astrid Lindgren more than Swedish librarians?

Hand shaking, he took the scanner and aimed the lazer at the barcode of Ylvali. Almost immediately information appeared on the screen. Before scrolling to see the person who had borrowed he was overcome with terror, pure terror. It could not be her, and at the same time it had to be. He nudged the wheel of the mouse. And there it was. His mother’s name. In writing. She had been here! She must be here right now! He shot up from the chair, but everything was quiet. How could it be possible? His hands, still holding the book, started trembling. 

No… The rose bush had already been overgrown. And something was terribly wrong… He returned to the desk, scrolling through the information. His eyes shifted to the date of the day it was borrowed. The eighteenth of June, 1981, marked with an overdue alert.

He reloaded the page over and over again. It was still there.

Then it all came back to him. His hand in hers by the barren hospital bed, flickering between the small ripples of her breath over her chest and the beeping monitor. And then the stop of one confirmed by the other. No, he whispered. No, no, no. The phone in his pocket rang. The screen read Barbro. He fumbled to answer the call. A hysterical voice immediately filled his ear.

“Pappa!? Oh, thank God, you finally picker up! Are you okay? The home called and said you were missing, and I got so furious… But you bought a plane ticket! To Copenhagen! Where are you? You’re at the library, aren’t you? Don’t go anywhere, I am on my-”

The man, suddenly aged again, dropped the phone to the floor. His field of vision started blurring as he stumbled for support he couldn’t find. Roses were covering his eyes. Oh no. The rose bush was closing. Oh no, no, no, he whispered softly. But the smell of roses had engulfed him completely, even covering the stench of alcohol. There was nothing left. There had never been anything to begin with.