She wonders if Granny ever regretted all the times she left Mum. She wonders if Granny’s head was full of bumps. She hopes so.
Mum is massaging her temples and swearing repeatedly through gritted teeth. She is obviously regretting speeding away from the hospital like that, since the first thing she has to do after dropping Elsa off at school is drive straight back to the hospital so she can go to work. Elsa pats her on the shoulder.
“Maybe you can blame it on your baby brain?”
Mum shuts her eyes in resignation. She’s had rather too much baby brain lately. So much so that she could not even find Elsa’s Gryffindor scarf when they looked for it this morning, and so much so that she keeps putting her telephone in strange places. In the refrigerator and in the trash bin and the laundry basket and on one occasion in George’s jogging shoes. This morning Elsa had to call Mum’s telephone three times, which is not entirely uncomplicated as the display on Elsa’s telephone is quite fuzzy after its encounter with the toaster. But in the end they found Mum’s telephone ringing inside Elsa’s backpack. The Gryffindor scarf was also there.
“You see!” Mum tried to say. “Nothing is really gone until your mum can’t find it!” But Elsa rolled her eyes and then Mum looked ashamed of herself and mumbled, “It’s my baby brain, I’m afraid.”
She looks ashamed of herself now as well. And full of regret.
“Darling, I don’t think they’ll let me be the head of a hospital if I tell them I had a police escort to the emergency entrance”
Elsa reaches out and pats Mum on the cheek.
“It’ll get better, Mum. It’ll be fine.”
Granny used to say that, Elsa realizes as soon as she says it. Mum puts her hand on Halfie and nods with fake self-assurance in order to change the subject.
“Your dad will pick you up this afternoon, don’t forget. And George will take you to school on Monday. I have a conference then and—”
Elsa patiently gives Mum’s head a scratch.
“I’m not going to school on Monday, Mum. It’s the Christmas holidays.”
Mum puts her hand on Elsa’s hand and inhales deeply from the point where they are touching, as if trying to fill her lungs with Elsa. As mums do with daughters who grow up too fast.
“Sorry, darling. I . . . forget.”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Elsa.
Even though it does a little.
They hug each other hard before Elsa hops out of the car. She waits until Kia has disappeared before she opens her backpack and gets out Mum’s cell phone, then scrolls to Dad’s name in the address book and sends him a text: ACTUALLY: THERE IS NO NEED FOR YOU TO PICK UP ELSA THIS AFTERNOON. I CAN MANAGE IT! Elsa knows this is how they talk about her. She is something that needs to be “picked up” or “sorted.” Like doing the laundry. She knows they mean no harm by it, but come on! No seven-year-old who has seen films about the Italian Mafia wants to be “sorted” by her family.
Mum’s phone vibrates in Elsa’s hand. She sees Dad’s name on the display. And underneath, I UNDERSTAND. Elsa deletes it. And deletes the text she sent to Dad from the outgoing messages. Then stands on the pavement, counting down from twenty. When she’s got to seven, Kia screeches back into the parking area and Mum, slightly out of breath, winds down the window. Elsa gives her the phone. Mum mumbles, “It’s my baby brain.” Elsa kisses her on the cheek.
Mum touches her throat and asks if Elsa has seen her scarf.
“In your right-hand coat pocket,” says Elsa.
Mum pulls the scarf out. Takes Elsa’s head in her hands and pulls her closer and kisses her forehead very hard. Elsa closes her eyes.
“Nothing is really gone until your daughter can’t find it,” she whispers into Mum’s ear.