Perfectly Preventable Deaths

9 Wormwood

This morning, before school, I have a bit of a rant at Mam about Mamó.

‘Is she, like, just allowed to be in our kitchen all the time? She has her own house and things. It’s weird.’ I jam a croissant into my mouth. It is fresh, still warm. ‘Wait, did you bake this?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘There’s a French family after moving up the mountain, apparently. Brian went to say hello, and came home with these. The father bakes. He’s Irish, but he learned.’

‘That must be Oona’s dad,’ I say, without thinking.

‘Who’s Oona?’

‘Just this new girl,’ I say. ‘She seems nice.’

‘Look at you,’ Mam says. ‘Making friends.’

‘One twin falls, the other rises,’ I say, pouring coffee into a KeepCup for the bus.

‘Your poor sister,’ she says. ‘Struck down with the Black Death the moment she had to do something hard.’

‘That’s so mean,’ I say. ‘She’s really sick.’

‘I know,’ Mam says. ‘She’s also really milking it. She sent me this yesterday.’ She takes out her phone, shows me the screen.

I think I could eat something. If you made me toast this exact shade.

And then there is a picture.

‘Jesus Christ.’ My sister is a monster.

‘I didn’t get it right the first time,’ Mam tells me, ‘so she found the strength to get up from her sickbed and return her order to the kitchen.’

I look at her and open my mouth like a surprised Internet cat.

‘I know,’ she says, ‘that we live in a castle now, but that does not mean she gets to be a princess.’

‘I think Catlin was always a princess,’ I tell Mam. ‘I’ll miss my bus.’

‘I’ll have a word with Brian,’ Mam tells me on my way out the door. ‘About yer wan.’

I’m not sure if she means Mamó or Catlin.

The day passes kind of boringly. I eat with the Ballyfrann kids, and mainly listen to them sharing in-jokes. Oona looks at me a few times with new-girl solidarity. I awkwardly try to weave a French ‘thank you for croissants’ into the conversation, but end up saying something like, I ate your daddy’s delicious present, and she doesn’t understand what I mean because he didn’t tell her he gave Brian croissants and I want the floor to swallow me up. I should have let Catlin breathe on me more, I think. No health is worth this shame.

But she sits beside me on the bus, so maybe she got that I didn’t mean to be a creep. Or maybe she likes creeps. We chat easily, and it’s kind of amazing to not be racking my brains for the next question to ask, the next thing to say. I just listen, and speak. Like a normal human being making a friend. Oona is a gift, and I am grateful. I feel her warmth filling me up, making me feel valid on my own. I hope that she feels the same way too. She might. When she gets out, she waves goodbye at me before she turns and walks towards her house. It means the world.

At our stop, Brian is waiting for me, with a mug of tea. He has one for Layla too. She thanks him like it was made of gold, before heading away home.

‘I thought I’d walk you to the door,’ Brian says.

I tell him thanks.

There is an awkward pause and I take a sip of the tea. It’s perfect. Warm and strong with the right amount of milk. No need to send Brian a series of images depicting my order, I think.

Brian smiles. ‘Your mother said you were wondering about Mamó, and I thought it best to walk and talk together. You never know when she’s around the corner. Like a cat.’

I smile at him. ‘She does show up everywhere.’

‘She always has. But the castle is her home too, as the fella says. She’s been through a lot.’

‘How are you related?’

‘She’s a distant cousin of my father’s. She left the village when she was a young woman, but then she lost all belonging to her and came back. We gave her a place to live, because she’s family.’

‘That’s sad,’ I say, and it is. Poor Mamó.

‘It is,’ Brian agrees. ‘She has done a lot for people in the village, over the years. And she was very good to me when my father died. I had a difficult few years.’ He swallows, and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. A half a smile.

‘There was another reason I wanted to walk and talk. Sometimes, when there’s other things to focus on, it becomes easier to share hard truths.’

I reach a hand out, rub his elbow awkwardly. Now would be a good time for a hug, but I think both of us would also hate that.

‘My father was, what you would call, domineering, I suppose. I’ve been very isolated for a lot of my life, Madeline,’ he tells me. ‘And it’s a blessing to have met Sheila, and yourselves as well. But older people are set in their ways. They fear change. And between me getting married and fewer people in the village coming to see her, Mamó feels … well, it’s very hard to know how that woman feels. But I want us to be kind to her. And to each other.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, nodding slowly.

‘You’re a compassionate young woman, Madeline,’ Brian says, ‘but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable in your own home. So, if anything … unusual were to happen with Mamó, if she were to make you feel uneasy in any way, I would hope that you would come to me, and tell me.’

Brian’s accent is strange, a little sing-songy. We thought it would be the way everyone in the village spoke, but they don’t. It’s only him.

I think about Mamó, about losing everything. My skin feels too warm underneath my coat. I want to go inside, to sit in the kitchen and drink tea. Brian is telling me things I need to know, but my head is swimming a little or something.

I feel his hand on my arm.

‘You look flushed, Madeline. Are you all right?’

‘I feel …’

‘You must be coming down with whatever Catlin has. And there’s me, walking you around in the cold. Apologies.’

‘No, Brian, it’s OK. I’m glad we talked.’

He grins at me. ‘Me too. And if I’m ever getting ahead of myself with this stepdad business, let me know. I’m new to it. I’m learning.’

‘You’re doing fine.’ I hold up my tea. ‘Gold star.’

‘Thank you, Madeline.’

I think of the lonely child Brian was, and the lost woman returning to the village she grew up in. I finger the little packet of salt I keep in my pocket. We all need comfort. Things to keep us safe. The more you get to know people, the more broken it seems we all are. Is that what growing up is? The world hurting you over and over and over again.

Brian goes up to his office to finish some paperwork. I sit at the kitchen table. Mam is starting dinner, sliding the knife across bright red bell peppers until they’re thin. She puts them in a bowl and dices onions.

‘Do you have homework to do, or are you going to help me?’ she asks.

I tell her yes to both. It feels more normal than I’ve felt today.

At dinner, I shake a little salt into my hand. Look at it. My finger still feels warm. I could be coming down with something maybe – my fever feeling hasn’t gone away. My heartbeat slows as I hold the white grains in my fist.

Mam takes my hand. ‘Put that in the bin, love. There’s no need.’

I do what she tells me, feeling like a freak. Mamó is in the garden, burying something. The body of one of her many enemies, I suppose. I think of what Brian said. I should be kinder.

Mamó finishes what it was that she was doing, and strides away. Her back is very straight and very proud. I feel the absence of the salt in my hand, and go back to the table.

I barely taste the dinner going down.