Page 52 of Mad Mabel

“I’ve read the news, obviously. And I’ve had a conversation with Joan. There’s a lot of… information out there and I don’t know what to make of it all. So, I thought I’d ask you.”

“Ask me what?”

She sighs. Steadies herself. “Are you Mad Mabel?”

Roxanne is sitting forward now on the edge of her chair, her elbows on her knees. I get the feeling she is desperate for me not to be guilty. Desperate for me to be good. I remember this desperation. It used to radiate from my mother.

I turn off the tap and haphazardly shove the daisies into the vase. Then I cross the room and sit. “I don’t refer to myself as such, but yes, that’s what people call me. My full name is Mabel Elsie Waller. Fitzpatrick was my mother’s maiden name.”

“But how can this be true?” she says. “You seem like such a… a…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. I don’t blame her. “A nice lady” probably doesn’t fit. Instead she says: “Mydaughterhas been spending time here with you!”

“Not at my behest,” I point out. It probably doesn’t ingratiate me to Roxanne, but it is, simply, a fact. To soften it, I add: “And hasn’t she come back, unharmed each time?”

“You went to prison!” she cries. “You were the youngest Australian ever to be convicted of murder in this country. We learned about it at school.”

“Actually,” I say, “my lawyer fought hard to get me into a mental asylum, though admittedly it was nothing more than a prison with anti-psychotics. But yes, I was the youngest Australian, etcetera, etcetera.”

Roxanne sinks back into the armchair.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Iamsorry. I’m sorry that along with everything else she has to deal with as a single mother to a monstrous child, she has to process this information. I’m sorry that she will feel unsafe now. Mostly, I’m sorry that Joan was right, because it would have been nice to have called her insane and laughed together over cups of tea.

Roxanne drags a hand through her hair. “Persephone adores you.”

I fight the urge to retort, “The feeling is not mutual.” Because I feel abutcoming.

“But… under the circumstances, I think it’s better if she doesn’t spend time over here anymore.”

It hits like an arrow to the heart. “Of course.”

“I’m sure you won’t be upset,” she says, with an empty laugh. “You’ll get your peace and quiet back.”

“It’s all right, Roxanne. I understand completely.”

“If it was just me, I would give you the benefit of the doubt. But it’s not just me. And I have to be the most responsible mother I can be because of Persephone. To keep her safe.”

“I understand,” I repeat, several more times before Roxanne finally leaves. And I do understand. I understand that ever since I was a little girl, people around me have died, one after another. And I understand that, if it was my little girl, I wouldn’t want her anywhere near me either.

30

THEN

Here’s a tip. If you ever feel that hot, bubbly rage—the rage that is black in color rather than red—run. Run and run and run until you’re out of breath and your body is weak and the anger drains out of you. This not only gets you out of trouble, it also leaves you too weary to conjure up any more rage. That’s what I did on Bonfire Day. I ran from Billy, away from Daphne and the other kids, up the beach as far as I could until I couldn’t run anymore. Then, I stood by a rubbish bin catching my breath.

“Mabel?”

I startled. “Mr. Loukas?”

Mr. Loukas was barefoot, his trousers rolled up, a white fluffy dog at his ankles. A brown leather leash was draped across his shoulders like a beach towel.

“I thought that was you.”

It was jarring, seeing him outside the school grounds. I had not considered the prospect that his existence continued beyond theparameters of the classroom. I had certainly not considered his existence to include a white, yappy dog.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I nodded. Then shook my head. I felt my face contort and crumple, finally losing in my efforts to keep myself together.