Chapter 51
“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 7:40 PM, 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 8 PM.”
“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.
“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 a child, 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 me Horace as 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 feels like 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. 11:33 PM. 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 3:33 AM. 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.