“Miss Giles will be happy about that!” I smile.
“Look, I’ve got to go,” says Ellie. “Tons of homework. I’ll try and come again on Thursday.”
It’s only after she’s gone that I realize I forgot to tell her about last night.
3
My words to Ellie may have sounded brave and determined, but I know it’s not going to be that easy. I am not in the same classes with all my friends but, back in September, I did try to be. Nobody knew I was going to be so sick for so long.
I remember Ellie waiting for me at the school entrance, a beaming smile spreading across her face when she spotted me.
“I’m so glad you made it!” she told me. “I didn’t want to start the new school year without you!”
“Same here,” I said, waving Mom off in the car. I meant it, too. I’d always been determined to get well by the end of summer vacation. I knew that I wasn’t okay, though. I was achy, weak, and in pain. I’m sure Mom knew it, too, but we both wanted to believe that once I was in school, I’d feel better and everything would somehow, magically, go back to normal.
“Come on, let’s go in,” said Ellie. “Don’t want to be late on the first day!”
We walked to the main entrance. I felt so weird and wobbly, as if the ground underneath me was moving. I tried to ignore the dull ache in my legs and the swollen glands making my neck stiff and uncomfortable.
Inside, everything seemed different. The corridor looked so much longer. Erin and Tilly rushed up to say hi, and Tilly tried to hug me. It hurt, but I didn’t want to say so. They were clearly happy to see me back, chattering and asking me questions.
“I thought it was just tonsillitis,” said Erin. “How come it took you so long to get better?”
“The doctor said I had post-viral fatigue,” I explained. “I still felt sick even though the infection was gone. No idea why. It just happens sometimes. Did you have a good summer?”
“We went camping in France,” she told me. “The first week was amazing, but then it rained the rest of the time! I never want to go camping again.”
She kept talking, telling me about all the other things she’d been doing. I zoned out. People were talking all around me, too. I couldn’t take the noise. School never used to be this loud, did it? As we reached the stairs to our homeroom, I looked up and was overcome by panic. It was a flight of stairs—a flight I’d climbed every day for years, but now it looked like a mountain. How would I ever get up there? And the crowds—I couldn’t stand all the people swarming around me. I suddenly felt so fragile, as if I was a delicate flower about to be trodden into the ground.
“You are okay, aren’t you?” Ellie asked.
“Not really,” I told her.
“You can use the elevator if you need to.”
I did, but I felt weird, embarrassed, standing waiting for it. The elevator is for disabled students. I’m not disabled. When I got out on the first floor, I was sure everyone was staring at me.
I sat down with relief in my homeroom, listening to more vacation stories, with people coming up to say they were so happy I was better and how I looked fine. I didn’t feel fine, even sitting down. When I looked at my class schedule, I had a sinking feeling. I even asked Ellie, “Have they added more classes this year?” and she looked at me like I wasn’t making sense.
“French first!” she said cheerfully. “Look, we’ve got Madame Dupont! She’s the best.”
I like Madame Dupont, and I like French, but I didn’t smile back, because the room was on the other side of the school. The thought of having to stand up and walk down more corridors, packed with students, already felt like too much.
I made it to French, but within minutes I felt so sick I couldn’t sit any more—I had to lie down. Ellie took me to the medical room. The nurse called my Mom right away.
I’d lasted thirty-seven minutes in class.
* * *
Now, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down. I imagine I’m an Olympic skier at the peak of a challenging slope. The previous contender has been taken off in an ambulance. I don’t know the extent of her injuries but, after checks, the organizers have declared the course safe. I am not so sure.
I cling to the banister, aware that I am holding my breath as I put one foot tentatively forward. Then the other. I’m getting into a rhythm, but halfway down I feel light-headed, and my legs feel like they’re going to give way. I haven’t been downstairs since that day—the first day of the semester, September 2, when I tried to go back to school. But I am starting to improve.
When I didn’t get better after tonsillitis, Mom and Dad were constantly trying to get me to do more, and I had to make them understand that I couldn’t. Dad actually thought I’d gotten lazy from being sick in bed. Mom thought it must be depression or anxiety, especially when she took me to the doctor, who did blood tests that all came back clear. The doctor said it was possible I had post-viral fatigue, and mentioned chronic fatigue syndrome or CFS, though it’s more often known as ME. It stands for myalgic encephalomyelitis. That was probably the reason I was taking so long to recover. But I don’t think Mom and Dad realized exactly what that meant, or how long it might take. I didn’t, either. I know now, though.
I. Know. Now.
People can be sick for years with this. Some people never get better. I’m not going to be one of them. I can’t.
I’ve been thinking about trying to come downstairs for a couple of weeks—but I’ve been so scared of getting stuck halfway, or not feeling well enough to go back up again, that I’ve been too frightened to even try. I know I have to get over this fear, but it’s based on real experience. I only have to do the smallest thing, and it wipes me out completely. Already I need to sit down, but that’s okay. Now it is as far to go back up as it is to keep going, and down is definitely easier.
I start going again, before I panic. And then I’ve made it! I’m down! I’m a little giddy, but I’m here.
I wait for a few moments to get steady, then I take a deep breath and stroll casually into the kitchen. I’m almost surprised that it looks exactly the same. I feel like so much time has passed that Mom might have a new tablecloth or kettle or something. She’s busy at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The smell is like a life force to me. I feel stronger just being close to it.
“Hi, Mom! That stew smells delish.”
She nearly drops the spoon in the pan.
“Kasia!” She rests the spoon on a plate and flings her arms around me. She knows to be gentle. She lets go of me and rubs her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Mom!” I tease.
“It’s onions, just the onions,” she says with a smile. “You should have told me you wanted to try coming down. I would have helped you, mój aniele! Do you feel okay? Are you sure it wasn’t too much? Come—sit. After all those stairs, you need to sit. Let me get you a drink.”
She brings me a cushion for the hard, plastic chair.
My whole body is so sensitive these days. I’m already starting to feel weak, but I don’t say anything about it. I hope Dad gets home soon. I’m not sure how long I’m going to last.
I glance at the photos on the fridge. Me and Dad making silly faces, Mom posing on a bridge, a picture of my aunt and uncle in Poland. There’s one missing—the one of me and my brother Marek. I’m sad, but not surprised. Dad and Marek haven’t spoken since he dropped out of college and went traveling around Europe.
Dad is home early, to my relief—and the expression of delight on his face as his large frame and bald head fill the kitchen doorway makes it all worthwhile.
He’s still in his work clothes, dirty from his day at the building site, but he does his funny version of a traditional Polish celebration dance in the small kitchen. Mom hastily moves pots and pans out of the way so nothing goes flying, and I am laughing so much it actually hurts.
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��Moje kochanie,” he says, gently stroking my hair. “It’s so lovely to have you down here and not exiled upstairs. I hope this is a sign of good things to come.”
“I only wish Marek was here to see you, too,” Mom says, sighing.
“So do I,” I tell her, getting a pang as I imagine my brother here, too, grinning and high-fiving me.
Dad tuts scornfully.
“Dad!” I protest.
“Let’s not spoil the evening talking about him,” Dad says firmly. “Give me two minutes to get changed and when I come down, we’ll talk about something else, something happier.”
Mom winks at me when he’s gone and picks up her phone from the counter. “I’ll take a photo of you at the table and we’ll message it to him,” she says quietly. “Marek will be so pleased.”
Dad comes back down and Mom serves up. “Well, what’s new?” Dad asks.
“We had a visit from a police officer,” Mom says. “He was very handsome!”
“I hope he didn’t stay long, then,” Dad teases. “This about what you saw the night before, Kasia?”
I nod and Mom tells Dad what he said.
“I hope they find the woman,” I say. “I just want to know she’s okay.”
“Well, you did the right thing reporting it,” Dad says to me. “The rest is up to them.”
I know Dad’s right. There’s nothing else I can do.
“I thought we were going to talk about happy things,” says Mom.
“Hey, yes! How about this for a happy thing?” I say, smiling.
I tell them about winning the writing competition, and they are both thrilled. Dad gets up to do another celebration dance, but Mom tells him to stop or he’ll get indigestion.
“I want to get well enough to go the award ceremony,” I tell them. “And I want you both to come with me.”
“I’ll do my best,” says Dad, “but you know how things are. It isn’t always easy for me to get time off. It’s a big project, this assisted living facility, and we’re a month behind already. Hopefully by then we will be back on track.”
Although I want Dad to be there, I’m glad that he’s not even questioning the idea that I’ll be able to go myself.
“It’s exciting, Kasia, but you need to be careful,” says Mom. “We’ll have to see how you are closer to the time.”
Mom may be more realistic, but I prefer Dad’s optimism. However, as she speaks, I realize that the room is starting to spin. I don’t want Mom to be right, but, in the end, I have to tell her. “I need to lie down.”
“Let me help you back up to bed,” she says. “You’ve done really well, but that’s enough for now. I can bring you up dessert if you’d like some.”
As I stand up, panic rises in my chest. “Mom—I don’t think I can do it—I don’t think I can get back upstairs. I need to lie down now!”
“Lie on the sofa for a minute,” Dad suggests. “Here, take my arm.”
He helps me into the family room, where I collapse on the sofa. I still feel like I’m on a boat in a storm and the panic is overtaking me. I want my bed—I want to be in my room.
After twenty minutes, I don’t feel any better. Dad sits down beside me.
“I want to go to bed,” I tell him.
“I’ll help you, kotku.” He holds out his arm.
I shake my head. “I can’t stand up, Dad.”
“Lucky you have a strong father then,” he says. He’s standing now, smiling and holding out both arms.
“Dad!” I exclaim. He hasn’t carried me anywhere since I was about five years old.
“I’ve carried heavier things around the site today,” he assures me. “Look at these muscles.”
Before I can protest, he has me in his arms and is lifting me. As much as I hate being treated like a child, I enjoy feeling safe and warm and held, and I am more grateful than anything when he lowers me gently onto my bed.
4
I can’t get up the next day or the next and, apart from crawling to the bathroom next to my room, I don’t try to do much else. The only other thing I stand to do is draw the curtains—open in the morning and closed at night. I know Mom would do it, but I want to look out—remind myself that there is a world out there.
This evening, I look across the street, and I can see a light on upstairs in the room opposite mine at number 48. Someone is drawing the curtains there, too. I briefly catch a glimpse of the figure, but it doesn’t look like the man or woman who live there. It’s someone skinnier—a girl, I think. Was it her I saw in the window the other night, when the woman was abducted?
Now that I’ve been downstairs, my small bedroom is feeling even smaller than it did before. Lying in my bed, all I can see is the pale pink walls, painted when I was six, matching pale pink curtains, my wicker chair by the window, and a white desk and white bureau against the wall. On the wall is a small picture—a Polish village scene with a girl outside a church—that once belonged to my grandmother. And I have a tiny bedside shelf for my glass of water, phone and clock.
My duvet cover makes my room look more grown up—it’s silky pink with splashes of purple on it. There’s no room for my cello in here, and maybe that’s for the best. It’s downstairs in the corner of the family room, and I am glad not to have to look at it and be constantly reminded that I can’t even pick it up, let alone play it. Marek’s room is a little bigger than mine, and Dad asked if I wanted to swap when Marek went to college. But I didn’t—his room is painted black and orange, which would have taken many coats of paint to cover. And anyway, I didn’t want to think of Marek as having left home. I thought he’d be back for summer vacation, and even when he’d finished college. I’m glad his room is still as he left it, waiting for him to come back.
I lie in bed, sleeping, listening to podcasts and audiobooks on my phone, meditating, and thinking of ideas for stories. Then my mind turns to Josh. I like him so much. Only Ellie knows how I feel. I wish I’d had the courage to say something to him while I was healthy. I kept hoping he’d speak to me, but maybe he’s shy. He’s in the grade above me but we were both in the orchestra—I could have said something then, but I didn’t. He’s probably going out with someone else by now and I wouldn’t blame him. He has no idea how I feel about him, so it’s not as if he’d be waiting for me to get better.
I get a message from Marek. He’s seen Mom’s photo of me sitting downstairs, and his message is full of excited smiley emojis, along with a photo of a frozen pizza, with the caption “My job is cheese sprinkling!”
Dad had better not see that!
I reply, telling him about the writing competition, and get more excited smiley emojis back. I think about telling him about the abduction, but I’m too tired to text that much.
I lie back and think about the award ceremony again. I just have to get well enough to go. I must.
* * *
A few days later, I’m feeling a little bit better. I don’t feel like attempting the stairs again, but I’m mostly okay being out of bed. I sit on the floor and open my chest of drawers, just for something to do. There I find the get-well card with the cheerful yellow sunflowers on it. I open it and run my finger over Josh’s signature. I wonder if he ever thinks about me now. The card is also signed by the other twenty-four members of the orchestra, but his is the only name in there that really matters to me. He’s an amazing violin player, and when we’d finished orchestra practice, he used to meet my eyes sometimes and smile. I’m sure something would have happened between us one day.
I put the card back in the drawer. My legs are hurting from sitting on the floor, but I don’t feel too bad otherwise, so I stand stiffly and sit on my wicker chair by the window, looking out. I still feel like I’m on a boat—but it’s a gentle rowing boat now. I watch as the woman at number 48 comes out, bumping the gray stroller with a rain cover over it, down the steps to the street. She hurrie
s off up the road, and I glance up to the window above. There’s no one there.
It’s raining heavily now—big drops streaking down my window like bars, reminding me of the prison my room has become. It’s hard to see through the rain, but I try. There’s no one looking out across the street. Cars splash past in the big puddle by the bus stop.
The haziness makes everything seem unreal. It’s like the rain is trying to wash away what I saw—washing it all away, wiping the slate clean, a fresh start.
I can’t remember it clearly now. Maybe none of it happened at all. But if it did, what happened to that woman? I can’t help wondering about her.
* * *
It’s a week later when I get up the courage—and have the energy—to go downstairs again. And it’s fine! I stay for a whole meal, and also get back upstairs by myself, too. I do it again, each day stretching it out a little longer, and I don’t have any ill effects.
I feel full of hope—I’m finally getting better—and I want to do more.
Mom comes into the living room, waving a package at me. “I’m just running next door,” she tells me. “The deliveryman left it here this morning, when he couldn’t get anyone to sign for it.”
“I could take it,” I offer.
Mom looks at me in surprise. “Are you sure you feel up to it?”
“It’s only next door. And it would be good to get outside. Let me, Mom. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” says Mom, but she’s looking very doubtful.
“Is it forty-three?” I ask her. “Won’t they be at work?”
“No—forty-seven,” says Mom. “Mrs. Gayatri.”
“How did she manage to miss a package?” I comment. “She never goes out.”
“She does sometimes,” Mom says with a shrug. “Maybe she was having a nap or just didn’t hear the door.”
“Okay. I won’t be long,” I tell Mom.
It’s weird putting on outdoor shoes when I’ve worn nothing but slippers for months, and I’ve rarely been out of bed enough to even need them. My shoes feel hard and uncomfortable in contrast.
The Girl Who Wasn't There Page 2
