Chapter 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?”
Peter shrugs. “Didn’t hurt that Joan’s nephew put in a call too. He’s a partner in a law firm.”
“I’m surprised Joan would volunteer her nephew to help me,” I mutter, more to myself than to Peter.
“She’s not so bad,” Peter says. His voice is soft, almost thoughtful.
I stop walking and turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “Peter,” I say slowly. “Are you and Joan …?”
“Just friends,” he says. His lips twitch, then he schools his face into something neutral. But there’s a twinkle in his eye.
I feel a surge of something I shouldn’t.
“You could do better,” I blurt out.
Peter smiles at me. “You think so, do you?”
I lift my chin. “I do.”
“Well,” he says. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
Ouch.
Peter walks me to my door. He offers to see me inside, but I decline. Daphne will be over soon, and besides, I need some time alone.
The Nguyens don’t appear to be home, and I’m relieved not to have to collect Nugget right away. Ever since yesterday I’ve felt something building inside me. The moment I close the door, I can’t hold it off anymore … I cry. I cry and cry and cry and cry.
To say it isn’t like me to cry is an understatement of the highest order.
Even on my very worst days—and my goodness, those days were bad—I wasn’t one to cry.
My thoughts follow a circular pattern, traveling from the humiliation of the neighbors’ reactions to the horror of being assaulted to the fear of what could have happened to Persephone.
The pattern repeats, and awful as it is, I can admit there is a catharsis in it. So when there is a knock at my door, I feel irritated at having my misery interrupted.
My irritation, though, is almost immediately followed by anxiety.
I can tell by the politeness of the knock that it’s not Persephone.
I’d told Peter that I was going to have a nap, so he wouldn’t be likely to knock.
And Daphne was at home having a lie-down herself, which ruled out all the likely suspects.
I tiptoe down the hall, feeling ridiculous.
I’ve been a single woman all my life—I’ve unclogged drains, ousted spiders, and investigated suspicious noises without missing a beat.
The fact that I am nervous about answering the front door in the middle of the day feels like a betrayal of myself, not to mention of all the women who paved the way before me.
And yet, I find myself stepping into my bedroom to try to glimpse my guest through the front window.
It’s Roxanne.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Roxanne smiles when I open the door, offering me a small posy of wild daisies. I recognize them from the Nguyens’ garden. “These are from Mrs. Nguyen.”
I take them. “That’s kind of her.”
“Sorry if I frightened you,” Roxanne says. “I imagine you’re a bit spooked.”
“Not at all,” I say.
“Well, Persephone made me promise I’d come and check on you. You’ve got a devoted friend there.”
I smile, ignoring the little spot in my chest that aches at this. “I’m fine. Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you.”
She follows me into the back room and begins to pace.
I find a vase and shove the stems in as best I can with a broken wrist.
“Is something on your mind, Roxanne?”
She stops pacing and drops into an armchair. “I’m sorry, Elsie, but I have to ask you something.”
I place a small ceramic vase in the sink and turn on the cold tap. “Go ahead.”
“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: “My daughter has 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. I am sorry. 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 a but coming.
“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.