Page 83 of Mad Mabel

“I need a poo!”

I’ve always prided myself on being the kind of elderly lady who hasn’t forgotten the hardships of being young, and who never underestimates the new challenges that younger folk face that haven’t been a part of my own experience. The type who never insinuates that our generation are the golden ones and younger people are simply not hardworking enough, or are too hardworking, or let their children rot in front of screens. I recall the pressures of being a penniless young woman working several jobs. As for raising achild, while it isn’t something I’d experienced, it’s plain to see it is every bit as difficult as people report.

With that said, I’d completely underestimated the impossibility of putting a small child to bed. Daphne, who’d also underestimated this, absconded an hour ago, ignoring my threats and pleas.

“Elsa?”

“Knock yourself out!” I call from my sofa.

I’ve given up the will to argue. I’ve also given up the will to keep correcting her when she calls me Elsa. The child can call meHoraceas long as she goes the fuck to sleep.

I’d set Persephone up in the second bedroom, which I’d spent the afternoon putting the finishing touches to so it now resembled an ordinary room. In the two hours since I’d read her a book and put her to bed, Persephone has required four additional stories, three glasses of water, Hippy her stuffed hippo (who I’d had to retrieve from her house), and a wee. Just when I thought there was nothing left to request, she asked for a back rub.A back rub!The hide of her! I imagined my mother’s face, or Cess’s, if I’d ever asked for such a thing. She didn’t even wait for a response, just rolled onto her tummy. For the love of God. Under duress, I agreed to do it “for a minute”—but the minute stretched to forty-five, and was accompanied by instructions of “harder… harder… owww, not that hard! You have long nails, Elsa.”

If I was the praying sort, I’d have started praying for death to come swiftly.

Eventually she quieted down and I slipped out of the room and made a cup of tea. Just as I lowered myself into my armchair, a poo.

As I live and breathe.

I wonder if Roxanne will hold me to my offer of babysitting. With no money exchanging hands, and no contract signed, it feelslike it would be difficult to enforce. Yes, I wanted to help the woman out, a single mother and all, but an old lady has her limits.

As I finish my tea, I listen to Persephone rattling around in the bathroom, flushing and taking an outlandish amount of time to wash her hands. Finally I hear her little feet on the floorboards as she takes herself back to bed. I glance at the clock. 11:33PM. Mother of God.

I take myself off to bed shortly after midnight, amused—and mildly horrified—that after everything I’ve endured in my life, it’s a seven-year-old child who’s managed to break my spirit. For the first time in a very long time, I feel an affinity with my infamous nickname, Mad Mabel. Thankfully (for Persephone), as I pass the spare room and catch sight of her sleeping soundly—head at the foot of the bed, feet on the pillow—I manage to access some softer, more charitable emotions for the child.

I leave the door ajar and lumber back to my room, where I fall into a deep, heavy sleep the moment I hit the bed. When I wake, it’s dark, and quiet enough that I can hear Persephone breathing in the next room. The clock reads 3:33AM. I’m just about to roll over when something shifts beside me in the bed. I leap backward and fumble for the lamp switch.

And there she is. Persephone. Fast asleep on top of the blankets, one arm slung around my waist like I’m a giant teddy bear. For pity’s sake. Roxanne could offer triple rates and a Christmas bonus and still not find a babysitter willing to take this gig. I push back the covers, and walk around to her side of the bed. I try to scoop her up, but it’s futile with my broken wrist, and I just end up prodding her.

“Mother of God.”

“What… what’s happening?” Persephone mumbles.

I wince. “Nothing, child. It’s just me, Elsa. You need to go back to your own bed.”

“No. I sleep with you.”

She curls deeper into the mattress, nuzzling into my pillow. Unlike earlier, she falls asleep in seconds. Before I can even formulate a plan, she lets out a little snore.

Perfect.

I stand there, considering my options. When tiredness takes over, I grab the comforter from the end of the bed and drape it over her, then go back around to my side and slide in under the blankets. Not a full minute passes before she wriggles across and flings an arm over me again.

Silly child, I think. You silly, precious child.

The wave of emotion barrels through me without warning. It arrives too fast to dodge, too heavy to bear. Suddenly, I’m weeping. Not sniffling. Not dabbing the corners of my eyes like they do in the movies. I’m crying in great, helpless gulps.

And still, she sleeps.

Of course she does.

52

When Adeem and Libby arrive the next morning, Adeem has a Tupperware container full of brownies with him.

“Meera made them,” he says as he hands the container over.

“How thoughtful,” I reply, setting it down on the counter. “She must’ve heard I’ve been through the wars.”