Page 82 of Mad Mabel

Roxanne promised she’d have Persephone over by 7PM, freshly bathed, fed, and pajama-clad. At 7:35, there’s still no sign of them. Punctuality, it seems, has joined common sense and properly made furniture on the growing list of things that no longer exist.

“Calm down, Elsie, for pity’s sake,” Daphne says. “You’re making me nervous.”

It’s true that I’m a little on edge. I wasn’t the sort of girl who babysat in her youth. I didn’t have younger siblings (well, not for long, and not in any meaningful way). And truth be told, I’ve never been particularly fond of children. The evening has disaster written all over it, probably in permanent marker.

“It’s one child,” Daphne says, “we can manage.”

“One demon child,” I reply.

“We were demon children once,” Daphne says.

“And look how we turned out!”

We chuckle.

“It’ll be fun,” she says. “And if not, it will make a good story.”

Daphne loves a good story. She’s only just recovered from the excitement of me being hauled off to the police station, not to mention the soap opera–level twist of being rescued by Joan’s nephew.

“Why do I always miss the excitement?” she’d wailed.

“I don’t know,” I’d told her. “But next time you disappear, take me with you. I’d like to miss a few exciting bits myself.”

I walk to my front door—which is open because I’ve developed the bad habit of hoping people might actually arrive. “What on earth are they doing?” The lights are on. I can see the flickering silhouette of a small, hyperactive person doing laps of the living room. For all I know, Roxanne is taking a bloody nap.

Which would be fine, except for some reason that escapes me entirely, I baked an apple pie. A whole one. I even made a trip to the supermarket for vanilla ice cream. I’d envisioned Persephone and me sharing a bowl before reading a book. But at this rate, she’ll arrive just in time to brush her teeth and be tossed into bed, and the pie will sit there, untouched, like a monument to my misplaced optimism.

At 7:40PM, I declare to Daphne that I’m going over there, and march out into the laneway. I’ve barely knocked when Persephone answers the door, sopping wet, wrapped in a towel.

“Elsa!” She launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her towel drops to the ground, but she continues holding on to me. After a moment or two I idly pat her sodden head. “Elsie,” I correct.

She pulls back, leaving a wet patch on my blouse. “Elsie.”

“Persephone, PUT YOUR JAMMIES ON THIS INSTANT!” Roxanne calls.

The child winces, as do I. A moment after she’s scampered off into her bedroom, Roxanne appears, dressed in black leggings and a blue jumper and hideous plastic clogs. Her hair is looped in a tumbling waterfall atop her head. “Oh, Elsie. Sorry. I couldn’t get Persephone out of the shower. Persephone!”

“I thought you started work at 8PM.”

“I do.” She looks at her watch. “Shit!”

I sigh. “Go get ready. I’ll get her ready for bed and take her back to my place.”

Roxanne looks confused. “I’m ready.”

I give her the once-over.

“I’m a cleaner, Elsie. I work in an empty office. No need to wear my finery to work.”

I hold up my hands. “All right, all right. In my day, people wore uniforms but times change, evidently. Off with you then.”

“Are you sure?”

I glance into Persephone’s bedroom and see her jumping on her bed in her shorts, the towel now covering her head.

“Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Roxanne tosses me the keys and, a moment later, is gone.