Page 50 of Mad Mabel

Peter chuckles and goes back to his newspaper. I continue to huff and mutter under my breath, desperately clinging to my curmudgeonly facade. I know if I let the veil slip, even for a second, I might just weep at his kindness.

Persephone visits after she’s been assessed and released without a scratch on her.

“She wouldn’t let me leave without coming to see you,” Roxannesays, as Persephone climbs onto my hospital bed. “Literally wouldn’t let me leave. She’s hidden the ticket that I need to get my car out of the parking lot.”

“I had to come and thank Elsa for saving my life!”

I snort. “Saving your life? What rubbish. I’d have used you as a human shield if I’d had a chance to think.”

“Nice try,” Peter says. “We all saw you push the child behind your back as that man approached. You’re a hero.”

“See?” Persephone says. “You saved me. I could have been killed!”

I roll my eyes. The man in the next bed lets out a great fart, as if in solidarity with Persephone.

“Excuse you!” the child cries, fanning the air in front of her nose. Roxanne, by the door, winces.

“We should leave Elsie to rest,” Roxanne says.

Persephone looks appalled. “But I need to sign her cast!”

“Another time, darling.”

“Why not now? I want to be the first one.”

“I don’t think you’re going to have a lot of competition, Persephone,” Roxanne says.

There’s a beat of silence. I suspect that Roxanne means because there are no other children around, but it comes out a little harsh.

“I don’t know,” Peter says, winking at Persephone. “I might beat her to it.”

“Not if I get there first!” Daphne says, and takes off, presumably in search of a Sharpie.

“See, Mum?” Persephone says, triumphant.

Roxanne relents—as if she ever stood a chance—and when a nurse produces a blue marker, Persephone is the first to sign my cast.

“Right then,” Roxanne says, the moment she’s done. “You’ve signed the cast. Time to go.”

Roxannedoesseem very eager to leave. I glance at Daphne, who I can see is thinking the same thing.

“But why?” Persephone whines. “We have the whole—”

“Now, Persephone,” Roxanne says.

I tell myself that the speed with which they leave afterward is a result of the flatulence of my roommate, but I have a sneaky feeling in my bones that it’s more than that.

29

Peter collects me from the hospital in an Uber the next morning. The car smells like stale air-conditioning and too much pine-scented air freshener. As the driver takes a turn too fast, I grip the door handle with my good hand, my body aching in more places than I care to count. The Uber driver says nothing, just taps the steering wheel along to a tinny pop song playing through his phone.

I brace myself for the media circus when we pull up to Kenny Lane. I expect flashing cameras, microphones shoved into my face, the aggressive hum of reporters circling like flies. Instead, the road has been blocked off with orange traffic cones, and a uniformed cop stands at the end of the lane, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking bored.

“What’s this?” I ask Peter as we step onto the curb. The hospital may have let me go, but my body hasn’t quite caught up with the idea that it’s ready for freedom.

“I put in a call to the police,” Peter says, slamming the door. “When people start getting injured, things have gone too far.”

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Wow. And the police actually did something?”