“Where are you going?” I cried.

“What’s it to you?” Mum hissed. “You clearly don’t want me around, even with everything I do for you. You’ll be fine without me.”

Instantly, I was shaking. “No. We do want you around. We need you. Don’t go, Mummy, PLEASE!”

She locked the door behind her. I banged at it, screamed for her to come back, pressed my ear against the door to listen for movement. When it became clear she wasn’t coming back, I sat in the hallway. Fern sat beside me, silent but serious.

I quickly figured out that we couldn’t call the police—if we did that and Mum returned, she’d be furious. We couldn’t go to the neighbors for the same reason and, besides, Mum didn’t like us talking to strangers. We couldn’t do anything. We just had to wait.

After a couple of hours, I went to the kitchen and checked the cupboards, determining that we had enough food to last us a week or so if we cooked the pasta and rice and defrosted the frozen food. If Mum wasn’t back by then, I’d have to make a new plan. I kept making plans well into the night, long after Fern was asleep, her head lolling against my shoulder.

Eventually I must have fallen asleep too, because when I woke up it was light outside, Fern was sprawled on the floor beside me, and Mum was there, standing over me. It took me a few seconds to put everything back together—what happened, where we were, what day it was. When I realized she was back, I flew into her arms so fast I nearly knocked her over. Of course, I burst into a fresh flood of tears. But this time, when I cried, it didn’t seem to upset Mum. To the contrary, she fell to her knees and held me, rubbing my back in rhythmic circles.

“Shhh. Mummy’s here now,” she said. “Shhh. Everything is going to be all right.”

FERN

When I took Alfie back to the vet yesterday, the vet had stressed the importance of making sure Alfie wasn’t left alone. This had made me feel better about the fact that I’d arranged for Wally to look after him today. I help a woman wanting a book recommendation for her introverted twelve-year-old daughter who wants to become a writer (I give her a copy of I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith); I set up chairs for a Toastmasters group in the function room; and I ask a man who has been in the bathroom for over an hour if he requires any assistance (it turns out he dropped his wedding ring down the sink, and Tom, the maintenance man, has to search for it in the S-bend). I fold and restack the newspapers and lie on the floor to read a book to a little boy who doesn’t want to sit on a chair in the kids’ area. So more or less a regular day at the library.

When Wally arrived outside my building in his orange kombi van, I will admit to being relieved to see him. Yes, we’d made an arrangement, but people can be fickle with arrangements. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, plans can be canceled, postponed, or even just deemed to be an idea rather than an actual plan (as is often the case when coffee is involved, I’ve found—“Let’s have coffee,” people will say, but then seem perplexed when I get out my diary to determine when we will drink it). So I was pleasantly surprised when Wally showed up.

I was all ready for him, naturally. I had packed up Alfie’s lead, his food, his water bowl (and two large bottles of tap water, so Wally could fill it up even if he couldn’t find a tap or hose). I’d also given Wally a wad of plastic bags for dog poo, and a tennis ball. Wally took it all eagerly, which was quite nice. I’d always found there was something agreeable about people who liked dogs and something untrustworthy about those who didn’t. The night before, I’d considered telling Rose that I was outsourcing Alfie’s care for the day, but after careful consideration, I’d decided against it. After what had already happened with Alfie, I wanted to spare her the additional worry of a stranger looking after her dog (even if, judging by the text messages Wally has been sending from the dog park, Alfie is receiving a vastly superior level of attention than he would receive in either Rose’s or my care).

Midmorning, I’m looking at one such text message—a photo message of Alfie, sitting on Wally’s lap at a café drinking from a bowl shaped as a coffee mug labeled PUPPY-CINO—when I am intercepted by Carmel and her cart.

“Fern, I’m glad I ran into you,” Carmel says, even though she was not running and nor had we made physical contact. She is wearing a bold yellow dress that suits neither her skin tone nor her personality. “I notice you haven’t put your name down for the staff bowling day.”

She pauses expectantly, as if waiting for an answer, even though no matter how many times I replay her comment, I can’t find the question. Once, years ago, Rose told me that conversations were simply a series of questions. One person asked a question, the other person answered, and it went back and forth like this until the questions ran out. This explanation has assisted me through countless episodes of small talk. But lately, it feels like more and more people are opting for statement-to-statement types of conversation. Which generally leaves me at a loss. I am still searching for an appropriate response when Carmel continues.

“Cat got your tongue?”

The expression isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds. I googled it several years back and established there were two possible origins: one, referencing a whip used by the Royal navy called the cat-o’-nine-tails (apparently the pain this whip inflicted was so severe that it caused the victim to stay quiet for a long time), or two, derived from ancient Egypt, where liars’ and blasphemers’ tongues were cut out and fed to the cats.

“I am able to speak,” I confirm. “And you are correct that I haven’t put my name on the list for the bowling day.”

Carmel’s eyes narrow. Her eyelashes are short and sparse and could do with a coat or two of that volumizing mascara that Rose wears. “Fern, these team-building events are important. Getting the team together in a social environment helps make for better communication in the workplace.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “It’s a company-sponsored event, so you don’t have to pay.”

Again, no question has been posed. I look around and let out a long sigh—attempting to send out a nonverbal message that I am tiring of the conversation and she should speed it up.

“Fern, are you planning to put your name down?” Carmel says snippily, which frankly is a little annoying as I’m the one who is being put through this pitiful attempt at conversation. But at least she’s finally asked an actual question.