My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry(20)

Elsa still thinks he should thank her for it, because that’s probably the nearest that boy ever got to a book. But then the teacher came running and put a stop to it all and said that no one could be Spider-Man because Spider-Man only existed in films and so he wasn’t a “literary character.” And then Elsa got possibly a bit disproportionally worked up and asked the teacher if he’d heard of something called Marvel Comics, but the teacher hadn’t. “AND THEY LET YOU TEACH CHILDREN?!” Then Elsa had to sit for ages after the class “having a chat” with the teacher, which was just a lot of teacher-babbling.

The boy and a few others were waiting for her when she came out. So she tightened the straps of her backpack until they hugged her tight like a little koala hanging on to her back, and then she ran.

Like many children who are different, she’s good at running. She heard one of the boys roar, “Get her!” and the clattering of footsteps behind her across the icy asphalt. She heard their excited panting. She ran so fast that her knees were hitting her rib cage, and if it hadn’t been for her backpack she would have made it over the fence and into the street, and then they would never have caught up with her. But one of the boys got a grip on her backpack. And of course she could have wriggled out of it and got away.

But Granny’s letter to The Monster was inside. So she turned around and fought.

As usual she tried to shield her face so Mum wouldn’t get upset when she saw the damage. But it wasn’t possible to shield both her face and the backpack. So things took their course. “You should choose your battles if you can, but if the battle chooses you then kick the sod in his fuse box!” Granny used to tell Elsa, and that is what Elsa did. Even though she hates violence, she’s good at fighting because she’s had a lot of practice. That’s why there are so many of them now when they chase her.

Mum comes out of the headmaster’s office after at least ten eternities of fairy tales, and then they cross the deserted playground without saying anything. Elsa gets into the backseat of Kia with her arms around her backpack. Mum looks unhappy.

“Please, Elsa—”

“It wasn’t me that started it! He said girls can’t be Spider-Man!”

“Yes, but why do you fight?”

“Just because!”

“You’re not a little kid, Elsa. You always say I should treat you like a grown-up. So stop answering me like a little kid. Why do you fight?”

Elsa pokes at the rubber seal in the door.

“Because I’m tired of running.”

And then Mum tries to reach into the back and caress her gently across her scratch marks, but Elsa snatches her head away.

“I don’t know what to do,” Mum sighs, holding back her tears.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Elsa mumbles.

Mum backs Kia out of the parking area and drives off. They sit there in the sort of silent eternity that only mothers and daughters can build up between themselves.

“Maybe we should go to a psychologist after all,” she says at last.

Elsa shrugs.

“Whatever.” That’s her second-favorite word in English.

“I . . . Elsa . . . darling, I know what’s happened with Granny has hit you terribly hard. Death is hard for everyone—”

“You don’t know anything!” Elsa interrupts and pulls so hard at the rubber seal that, when she lets go, it snaps back against the window with a loud noise.

“I’m sad as well, Elsa,” says Mum, swallowing. “She was my mother, not just your grandmother.”

“You hated her. So don’t talk rubbish.”

“I did not hate her. She was my mother.”

“You were always fighting! You’re probably just GLAD she’s dead!!!”

Elsa wishes she’d never said that last bit. But it’s too late. There’s a silence lasting for all imaginable eternities, and she pokes at the rubber seal until its edge comes away from the door. Mum notices, but she doesn’t say anything. When they stop at a red light she puts her hands over her eyes and says resignedly, “I’m really trying here, Elsa. Really trying. I know I’m a bad mother and I’m not at home enough, but I’m really trying. . . .”

Elsa doesn’t answer. Mum massages her temples.

“Maybe we should talk to a psychologist anyway.”

“You talk to a psychologist,” says Elsa.

“Yeah. Maybe I should.”

“Yeah. Maybe you should!”

“Why are you so horrible?”

“Why are YOU so horrible?”

“Darling. I’m really sad about Granny dying but we have t—”

“No you’re not!” And then something happens that hardly ever, ever happens. Mum loses her composure and yells:

“YES I BLOODY AM! TRY TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO’S CAPABLE OF BEING UPSET AND STOP BEING SUCH A LITTLE BRAT!”

Mum and Elsa stare at each other. Mum covers her mouth with her hand.

“Elsa . . . I . . . darl—”

Elsa shakes her head and pulls off the entire rubber seal from the door in a single tug. She knows she’s won. When Mum loses control, Elsa wins every time.

“Cut it out. It’s not good shouting like that,” she mumbles. And then she adds without so much as glancing at her mother: “Think about the baby.”