Page 78 of Mad Mabel

“If not, Mabel and I are leaving. Come on, Mabel.”

I stared at Cess in horror. This, I assumed, was not part of her plan.

“Don’t look at her, you stupid girl,” my father snapped. “Go pack a bag. We’re leaving.”

I started to stand.

“Sit down, Mabel,” Cess said. To my father, she said: “Mabel isn’t going anywhere. As I’ve been acting as her guardian since her mother died, you’ll need to apply to the courts to reclaim her. I should warn you, though, as a father, with your work and travel schedule, without a current place of residence, you don’t stand a chance.”

My father and Cess locked eyes. The silence stretched out for several seconds.

“Aren’t you clever?” my father said finally. “I’m impressed. Your sister was far too stupid to pull off such a thing.”

Cess didn’t respond, and she even managed to keep her face fairly neutral, though I could see the comment enraged her.

I didn’t have the same restraint. “My mother was not stupid.”

My father stood. “You’re all stupid if you think I’m not going to end up in the house.”

“The law disagrees with you,” Cess said.

“Actually,” he says, “the law states I do have a claim to the house. If there are no other living relatives.”

He let that comment settle between us for a second before he reached for his briefcase. Then he picked up a piece of toast and popped it between his teeth. And then, with a wave, he was gone.

“He’ll be on the phone to lawyers as we speak,” I said to Cess once we heard the front door close.

“Probably,” she agreed. “Good luck to him. The paperwork is iron-clad.”

“Was that a threat, what he said about him having a claim to the house if he was the only living relative? You don’t think he’d actually…”

“No!” Cess stood and started clearing away the dishes. “He justdidn’t want to lose face. Don’t you worry about that. Anyway, you’re staying here with me! That’s good news, isn’t it? Didn’t I tell you to trust me?”

“You did. But—”

“Mabel.” She stopped doing the dishes. “Look at me.”

I did.

“I promised you I wouldn’t leave you with him, didn’t I?”

I nodded.

“I’m promising you again. He can contact his lawyers, file the paperwork, become a High Court judge for all he wants, but I won’t let it happen. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

And I did. I believed, in a way I never had before, that I was loved.

48

Billy came out of his coma on a Tuesday, just under a month after his accident. He didn’t remember what happened to him on Bonfire Day. In fact, there were whole chunks of time that he didn’t remember. The doctors said these memories might come back, or they might not.

He returned to school six weeks after his injury. On the whole, it looked like nothing had changed. He looked the same, he sounded the same. But he was also different. Stupider, certainly. And on occasion he’d be hit by a sudden blankness that rendered him silent for ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Afterward, we could see he was unaware of what had happened, and no one ever told him. They were afraid. Because that was the other thing about Billy after the accident.

He was meaner.

Sundays had become my favorite day of the week. Cess and Ness joked about how pious I’d become, such was my desperation to getto Mass each week, and they commented on how much more care I was taking with my presentation, styling my hair carefully and trying out new outfits. It was clear they suspected a boy, but they didn’t pry, nor did they seem to notice when I slipped out the side door shortly after Mr. Loukas during the service. Afterward, I always waited outside the back double doors, re-tucking my skirt and fixing my hair, ready to hand out flyers to unsuspecting parishioners as they poured out the doors.