“Put your coat on,” Mom fusses. “And your scarf.”
“It’s only next door!” I say, but I do it anyway.
I take the small package and step out of the house so happy to actually be outside. I wonder what Mrs. Gayatri has ordered. It’s rectangular but not heavy. We don’t see our neighbors very often. There’s a young couple on the other side, at number 43. We only know their names because they sometimes have packages delivered while they’re at work, and Mom takes them in. I don’t remember Mrs. G. ever having a delivery before, though.
We don’t see her much, either, though I used to sometimes see her weeding her front garden. She’s the only person around here who has pots and flowers and bushes in the front. She’s not very chatty, but she always has a smile and says hello if we pass her. Of course, since I’ve been sick I’ve only seen her from my window, on her rare walks up the street to the store.
The cool breeze makes my cheeks tingle as I stand on Mrs. G.’s front step and ring her bell. I feel a buzz of excitement and breathe in deeply. It’s one step closer to normal life. There’s no answer, and I wonder if the bell is working. I wait a few moments, try again, and then resort to the old-fashioned lion’s-head knocker. I listen but can hear no sound from inside. The lion’s face is snarling at me, and I’m about to turn around and go back home because my legs are beginning to throb, which sometimes happens when I’m standing still. Then I hear a small sound—a definite movement from inside. “Mrs. Gayatri?” I call. “It’s me—Kasia from next door. I have a package for you.”
The door opens, and Mrs. Gayatri peers out nervously. She seems more shrunken and wrinkled than I remember, but her eyes are soft and kind.
She smiles. “Hello, dear. I haven’t seen you for a long time. I wondered if you’d gone away to college.”
“No. I’m fifteen.”
People often think I’m older because I’m tall for my age. I have Dad to thank for that. Mrs. G. is short—shorter than me.
“I’ve been sick—I am sick. It’s ME—Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,” I tell her. “I get exhausted after I do anything.”
“How awful for you,” she says.
“This is the first time I’ve been outside for months,” I tell her.
“Goodness, is it really? You poor girl! So, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve just come to bring you this.” I hold out the package. “The deliveryman left it with us. I’m sorry—I can’t stand for very long, and I have to get back now.”
“Thank you, dear,” she says. “It’s nice to see you. And if you ever feel like a change of scene—or company—you are welcome to pop in. And I mean that.”
I nod and smile. I always thought she liked keeping herself to herself. She doesn’t seem to have many visitors. But there’s a look of longing in her eyes as she says, “I mean that,” and I think she is genuinely lonely.
“Everything okay?” asks Mom as I come back into the house. She’s standing by the door, and she gives a big sigh of relief. She’s clearly been waiting for me, worrying. I made it. I went next door to deliver a package and came back again.
“Don’t make a big deal of it, Mom,” I beg.
“It’s progress, Kasia—progress,” Mom says softly.
I nod. I am mega happy with myself, though I’d never admit it to Mom.
Back upstairs, I rest in bed for a while and then go and sit by the window. A few people are walking down the sidewalk, each in their own separate world, though they are only a few feet apart. A man on his phone, a woman with fashionable high-heeled boots, a teenage girl with a bobble hat. A silver car appears and slows down near the girl. There’s something weirdly familiar about the scene, and my heart skips a beat as I remember the abduction. Is this the same car I saw? Is it going to happen again—to this girl? I am frozen to the spot.
The car pulls over and parks, and a man gets out. He glances toward the girl. I hold my breath. She’s still walking. She hasn’t noticed the car. Fear rises in my throat—but the man is walking the other way.
He’s heading for the barbershop on the corner. He goes inside.
I look again at the silver car and realize it isn’t the same kind. It’s a two-door and a completely different design.
My eyes turn to the upstairs window at the house across the street. The curtains are closed, and there’s no one there—but then I see one curtain move. A hand—a face—dark eyes, looking out. Then nothing. Again, I didn’t see clearly, but I’m sure it’s the same face I saw before, and I’m even more certain now that it wasn’t the face of the woman who lives there. This face is narrower, younger. A girl. Who is she? She disappeared so quickly.
The couple have a baby, but I’ve never seen a girl go into or come out of that house. If she’s the one who was looking out of the window, then why did the woman lie about anyone else living there?
5
“Mom, did you know there’s a girl living over at number forty-eight?” I ask. “As well as that couple and their baby. I’ve never seen her go out. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“A girl? I haven’t seen a girl,” Mom says as she picks up an empty mug from my bedside shelf. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
I start watching the girl’s window more closely. I’m certain she’s real. A couple of days later, I see her again, just as I hear Mom coming up the stairs. I call her urgently. I want her to see the girl—to prove that she exists. Mom comes running, thinking something’s wrong.
“Mom—look! She’s there now! The girl!”
I only turned away for a second, but as Mom reaches the window and I turn back, the girl has gone. Mom peers across the street. “I don’t see her, mój kotku. What’s so interesting about this girl?”
“I think it was her,” I tell Mom. “I think she was the one who saw what I saw, when that woman was dragged into the car. And the police didn’t speak to her, did they? Should I call the police again and tell them?”
“But the police went and talked to the people in the house, and nobody saw anything. You know that,” says Mom. “If a woman was abducted, I’m sure someone would have missed her by now and reported it. They found no one missing, did they? Maybe you were mistaken?”
I shake my head. “I know what I saw—and there is a girl across the street. I’ve seen her, too. And I never see her go out.”
“Someone could say the same about you,” Mom comments.
“Yes. Maybe that’s it!” I exclaim. “She could be sick like me—and that’s why she doesn’t go out. Maybe the people across the street didn’t want her stressed with questions, and that’s why they didn’t mention her to the police?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” says Mom. “If unlikely.”
“I want to go across the street and ask them,” I tell Mom. “Maybe we could even be friends?”
“Oh, Kasia. I don’t want you going around there annoying them. If you really think this girl exists and she might be stuck inside, sick like you, then maybe I could go over and ask for you.”
“Would you, Mom? Thanks! That’d be great.”
Mom goes downstairs and I sit at the window and watch her cross the street to number 48. It’s the man who opens the door. I can see Mom talking, but she isn’t there long.
I wait eagerly for her to come in and back upstairs. “So?” I ask. “What did he say?”
“Well, I asked—you saw me. And the man had no idea what I was talking about,” she tells me. “I felt embarrassed, Kasia.”
“What did he say?”
Mom gives me a quizzical look. “He said there’s no girl there.”
“What? Did he speak English? Maybe he didn’t understand,” I say, bewildered.
“He had an accent, but his English was clear enough,” says Mom. “Perhaps you imagined her. Or maybe a girl was there and now she’s gone, I don’t kno
w. But she isn’t there now, and I think you should focus on other things.”
I go and lie down on the bed—but I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t understand what’s going on. The man must be lying—but why would he? I’m sure I saw her! Only glimpses I know, but why would I imagine it? If only she wouldn’t always vanish so quickly…
As I think more, prickles start running up my spine. And then I start having, what some people would consider, truly crazy thoughts, like, what if the reason she vanishes so quickly and that no one else has seen her, not even the people who live there—what if that’s because she’s…a ghost?
Today I looked out of the window—even though I know that I should not—and I was shocked. I saw the ghost of myself—looking back at me. A girl in the window opposite. She peered out, just as I did, her shadowy shape a mirror image of mine, though her hair was light, her face pale. Is she a ghost, just as I am? Is the whole street maybe full of ghosts like me, and we know nothing of each other’s plight, or why we can neither live nor our souls rest in peace?
6
I look out of the window as often as I can that evening and the next day, but she doesn’t reappear. Then, in the evening, I see the woman coming out of the house. She’s on her phone. She walks up past the bus stop toward the store, barely glancing left or right as she crosses the street.
She’s deep in conversation with someone, and I can’t help wondering what they’re talking about. Maybe she’s telling a friend how the house gives her the creeps—especially that small front bedroom. She gets a chill every time she’s in there, and it makes her shudder. She wants to move.
I know this is just my imagination running wild, but as I watch, the woman turns and walks back to the house, still speaking in an animated way into the phone. She isn’t going anywhere—she just came out to talk privately. Maybe she was nervous about speaking in the awkward atmosphere in that room. She can’t tell her husband. He’d think she was lying. And she can’t explain it, but she feels as if she’s being watched. She looks like she’s shouting into the phone now.
She’s so loud I can hear a little of it, but I can’t make out the words, and, anyway, I don’t think it’s English.
The woman is back at her front door now. She glances up in my direction as she takes a key from her pocket, and she sees me. I pull back from the window, embarrassed, partly about being seen and partly because of the story I’ve been making up. I wait a minute and then cautiously look out again. She must have gone inside.
The ghost theory keeps going around and around in my head even though I try to ignore it. I don’t think I believe in ghosts, but right now I can’t think of another reason why I keep seeing a girl who nobody else sees, not even the people who live there.
When I feel up to it, I ask Mom to bring me my tablet so I can do some research. I can’t spend too long on it or I get headaches.
I start by looking up the address, 48 New Weald Road. Maybe I can find out who lives there, or even if anyone has ever died there. I don’t expect to find anything, but at least I’m doing something.
The first Google entries are real estate pages, house prices and homes for rent and for sale. Then there are the stores, the hairdressers. There’s a report on a burglary at number 249. A bus route being diverted. I keep scrolling through pages. It’s very boring, and my head soon starts to hurt, so I stop.
I lie down and decide to try meditating, which a doctor said might help me. Mom wasn’t impressed with the suggestion, but I found I really like it. I have an app on my phone, and it is definitely relaxing and something I can do without effort. Mom is baking downstairs. The smell wafts up, and I start by visualizing a piece of cake in my mind, focusing on that and nothing else.
Thoughts keep drifting back, though, even as I try to let them go. Maybe I need to think of another way to research, like asking someone who knows the area. I wonder if Mrs. Gayatri could help—she’s lived here a long time.
* * *
“I was thinking I might go next door and visit Mrs. Gayatri,” I tell Mom next time I’m well enough to be downstairs.
Mom glances up doubtfully. “Are you up to it? And I’m not sure you should go bothering her. I think she prefers her own company.”
“Maybe that’s because she doesn’t have any other option,” I suggest. “Anyway, she invited me—when I took that package to her. She sounded like she really wanted me to come.”
“Okay, if you want to.” Mom smiles. “Don’t stay too long, though—you don’t want to tire her, or yourself, either. Here—I’ll give you some apple cake to take with you.”
Like last time, Mrs. Gayatri takes forever to come to the door.
“Another package?” she asks, looking puzzled. “I don’t remember ordering anything.”
“No, this is some of Mom’s apple cake,” I tell her. “I’ve come to visit, if that’s okay? But say if you don’t feel like company. I won’t mind.”
“How lovely!” Mrs. G. smiles, her wrinkles briefly ironed out with pleasure. “Come on in, dear. Do you mind taking your shoes off?”
Even though we’ve lived next door to Mrs. Gayatri for ten years, I’ve never once stepped inside this house, and it feels strange following Mrs. G. into the hallway. I take my shoes off and put them on the mat.
“I don’t get many visitors,” she says, sighing as she leads me into a rather dark living room. She points to the red velvet armchair. “Sit yourself down. Can I get you a tea or coffee? Will you help me eat this cake?”
While she makes the tea, I sit looking around the room. There’s a slight smell of incense and a small statue in the corner that is part elephant, part man. There are photos—some very old sepia ones of people that look like they were taken in India. There’s one black-and-white wedding photo, and I wonder if it’s Mrs. Gayatri’s own wedding picture. I go closer to look.
Mrs. G. comes back in with flowery teacups and saucers on a tray. She sets the tray down on a small, dark, wooden table and then goes back for the cake slices on two matching china plates.
“I was just looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind,” I say.
“That was my wedding—so, so many years ago.” She smiles. “My darling husband Vijay. He died ten years ago, and I still miss him so much. These are my parents—they of course died many, many years ago—and my five big brothers, too.”
“Do you have no other family—no children of your own?” I ask.
Mrs. G.’s mouth turns down. Her eyes look suddenly glassy, and I wish I hadn’t asked.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.
“It’s fine,” she assures me. “Just hard when everyone I love has gone.” She sighs again. “Life must be hard for you, too, being stuck at home so much.”
“At least I have my mom,” I say. “She’s had to give up her job to look after me, though. And Dad’s working harder than ever.”
“Are you not going to school at all?”
“Not since last June,” I explain. “I have a tutor who comes once a week. I have constant pain in my arms and legs, and I just get so tired when I do anything. It’s really frustrating. But I think I am improving now.”
“What is the cause?” she asks. “Do they know why it started?”
I shake my head. “I had tonsillitis, and I just didn’t get better. No one knows why it happens.”
“And is there treatment for it?”
“There’s some research going on, but they know so little about it, there isn’t much to offer. I’m on a waiting list to see a consultant. The doctor just told me to try to pace myself.”
“But you will recover?”
“I hope so.”
There’s silence for a moment. I don’t want to think about my illness—about the possibility that I’ll be like this forever. I change the subject.
“Mrs. Gayatri, I wanted to ask you
something,” I say now. “I’m interested in the history of our street, and I know you’ve lived here a long time. I wondered if you have any memories to share of anything that has happened here?”
“What kind of thing?” she asks.
“Any memorable events, things that shocked you, tragedies?”
“That’s a strange question!” Mrs. G. shakes her head. “It would be better to focus your energies on happier things. Let me think… Now there’s Amir and Zainab, of course, across the street. Their daughter died. That was most certainly a tragedy. She was so young. Their only child. That must have been twenty-five years ago. But that’s probably not the sort of thing you mean. Now, what else…”
“The girl across the street—can you tell me more?” I ask, leaning forward. “What happened to her?”
Mrs. G. shakes her head. “Really, it is upsetting for me even to think about it. Let’s talk about happier things and leave the past behind. It will do your health no good to focus on such sadness. Should I show you what came in that package the other day?”
I nod. I’m frustrated. I am desperate to know more but I don’t want to push her if it’s upsetting her. She walks slowly back into the kitchen and returns with a bird feeder.
“I love my garden, but I’m not up to tending it like I used to,” she tells me. “I like to watch the birds, though. I wondered, since you’re here, whether you might do me a favor and hang it outside for me—on the silver birch. I have the seeds to fill it with. Then I can sit by the back window and watch for the birds. They’ll be grateful now the weather’s getting colder.” This sounds sad to me—having nothing more interesting to do than watching birds, though maybe it is no sadder than watching the street like I do. I nod again and follow her to the back door, which she unlocks. The garden, which looked overgrown when I last glimpsed it from my parents’ bedroom window, looks far wilder from down here. Neglect has turned it into a jungle.
“This garden was beautiful once,” Mrs. G. says wistfully. “My husband and I—we were both gardeners. But now I don’t have the strength for it, nor the money to pay someone.”
The Girl Who Wasn't There Page 3
