“I wish I could help,” I tell her, “but I don’t have the strength, either.”
Actually, it’s the last thing I’d want to do, even if I did have full strength. Gardening isn’t my idea of fun at all.
“Of course you don’t, my dear, but it’s a kind thought.”
She seems so sad as I struggle for something positive to say. “I guess it’s good for wildlife?”
“True,” she says, but I sense this is little consolation. I fill the feeder and find I can easily hang it on a branch. Mrs. G.’s house is on the corner, and it’s the only one in our row that has a decent-sized yard. I’ve never been very interested in gardens, but I do vaguely remember it being much neater in the past. I used to be jealous as a young child, because we only have a small cement back patio with no lawn or plants at all.
“Thank you so much!” she says. “That’s wonderful. I’d have to stand on a stool to do that, and I knew it wasn’t a good idea.”
“No, you shouldn’t go doing things like that,” I agree. “It’s nice to be able to do something helpful for a change. It’s usually me who needs the help.”
“Well, I’m very grateful,” she says.
“I’d better go now,” I tell her. I suddenly feel so tired—and she is looking tired, too. She doesn’t protest, and I wonder if I have already outstayed my welcome.
“I hope you will come again,” she says. “It’s been so nice to have some company.”
I’m relieved. I was worried I’d upset her asking about tragedies, and that she wouldn’t want me back. I’m glad I came, though—Mrs. G. did seem genuinely happy to see me, and I even learned something about the girl across the street. At least, I may have done. I learned there was a tragedy, and it involved a girl who died. Does that mean the girl I see really is a ghost? I wish I knew the whole story.
7
“A gummy bear factory! My son is making gummy bears?”
Dad has somehow seen Mom’s latest message from Marek, who has moved from sprinkling cheese on pizzas to making gummy bears. Dad is reeling off a torrent of Polish insults.
“Why my son? Why me? We bring him here for a good life, he has a good education, and he throws it all away to make teddy bear sweets! What did I do to deserve this useless child?”
“Don’t say that, Dad,” I protest. Dad has a tendency to be overly dramatic, but to me this seems unfair.
“Sorry, moje kochanie, I don’t want to upset you.” Dad gently strokes my hair. “But gummy bears! Pah!”
A few days later I get a package from Germany. Marek has written a card saying how much he misses me and enclosed five packets of gummy bears. I wish he’d come home.
I have a bad day for no apparent reason. That’s what it’s like. I spend the morning in bed eating gummy bears and then the afternoon sitting up, looking out of the window. I’ve been looking out every day, but I haven’t seen the girl again.
Mom is worrying that I’m seeing things—as in imagining them. I overheard her telling Dad. I get brain fog sometimes. I can’t think straight and I struggle with the schoolwork my tutor leaves for me, but hallucinations are not a symptom of ME. I know that because I looked it up online. Even so, the more I watch from the window and don’t see the girl, the more I doubt my own memory. I’m wondering if I really saw her at all or if it was a trick of the light. It’s easier to think of her as a ghost than as a real person—but if she was real, maybe she was staying there and now she’s gone. I hope so, but either way, I can’t stop thinking about her. I wish I could.
It’s almost a relief when my home tutor, Judy, gets here and I can think of something else. She sits on the wicker chair in my room, runs her hand through her thick dark hair, and adjusts her big glasses as she checks my attempts at some math problems. I’m panicking that I’m getting so far behind at school.
“I want you to give me more work, Judy,” I tell her. “I’m not doing enough. How am I ever going to catch up?”
“You can only do what you can do,” she says. “I don’t want to give you too much. It will stress you out, and that’ll set you back further. But you’re doing okay, and you are getting better. You couldn’t have done math like this a few weeks ago.”
“My head is less fuzzy,” I agree, “but, Judy, I’m so far behind! Even if I get back to school, how will I get caught up?”
“Maybe you could cut down on the number of classes?” she suggests.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to give any up.”
“Or you could perhaps stay in tenth grade, repeat the year.”
“Never,” I say emphatically. “Can you imagine how awful that would be? I want to be with my friends.”
“Don’t think about it now,” Judy tells me. “Keep working like you are and get plenty of rest, too. Just focus on one day at a time.”
It’s easy for her to say, but the thought of repeating tenth grade, while my friends move on without me, is more than I can take. I won’t let that happen. I have to get better and back to school as soon as possible. If Judy won’t give me more work, then I will get it from Ellie.
Once Judy’s gone, I work hard on more math, but I’m exhausted, and I don’t manage as much as I’d hoped. My eyes are drooping. I wish I had more energy and could concentrate better. But Judy has said that I’m improving. So that gives me hope.
* * *
The next day, Ellie is due to visit, and this time I’m determined to remember to tell her about the girl, since I’m positive she’ll be able to help me think it through. But when she arrives she’s with Lia, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Lia’s in our grade, but I don’t know her that well. We’ve never been friends.
“You were moaning that no one else comes to see you, so I brought Lia,” Ellie tells me. “We’ve been working together in drama. We’ve done this sketch—you really should see it. It’s hilarious! We might even do it in the show next semester!”
She exchanges glances with Lia, and they both start giggling. They’re clearly waiting for me to ask them to perform it for me. I feel a tingle of jealousy that they seem so close. I wonder if Lia’s trying to replace me as Ellie’s bestie—but I am also curious about this sketch.
“You going to show me then?” I ask.
“Okay—with any luck a laugh will do you good and not tire you out,” Ellie says, grinning.
The sketch has me in stitches—I laugh so much that I ache. It may hurt physically, but I do feel better inside.
“Do you think you’ll be back at school soon?” Lia asks, when we can finally speak again.
I shrug. “I hope so.”
“You must be so bored stuck in here,” she says. “Or have you been doing some writing? That story you wrote was so terrific—it’s fantastic that you’ve won that competition!”
She sounds genuinely happy for me, and my feelings toward her soften.
“I don’t really feel up to writing,” I tell her. “I’m sure I will get back to it soon, though.”
“Lia and I are going to Dimitri’s New Year’s Eve party!” Ellie says.
“Dimitri’s? But you can’t stand him!”
“Oh—he’s all right. Lots of people are going.”
“Could be fun, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll tell you how it goes,” Ellie says, laughing.
“Who throws up where and when, you mean?” Lia giggles.
Ellie turns to me. “Remember that time at Erin’s party, Kas?” She grins. “When you had to rescue me?”
“What happened?” asks Lia.
It takes a few seconds, but eventually the memory comes flooding back. “Oh, yeah! You got locked in the bathroom!” I laugh.
“There was someone in the downstairs bathroom, so I had to go upstairs,” Ellie tells Lia. “Then the door wouldn’t open and I was yelling and yelling—but the music was so loud no one heard me.�
��
“And I was dancing with Serene and Erin,” I say, “and waiting for you, and you took forever, so in the end I came up to look for you and heard you shouting!”
“So how did you get out?” Lia asks.
“Erin found a screwdriver and unlocked the door handle,” I tell her.
“I’d have been stuck there for hours otherwise,” says Ellie. “I thought I was going to have to climb out the tiny bathroom window and shinny down the drainpipe!”
Now it’s me and Ellie laughing together, and Lia’s turn to join in.
After they leave, I feel glad that Lia came. Ellie will always be my best friend, but it was nice to talk to someone else for a change.
I turn my chair back to the window and sit looking out. It’s weird, thinking back to Erin’s party dancing and laughing with my friends, having fun. It’s like that was another lifetime. But I will get better. I am determined to get back to those things. I see movement in the corner of my eye, but when I look there’s nothing. Did the curtain move? Was she there, and did she fade away instantly, as always? I wanted to wave—to let her know I’m here. Maybe she’d stay visible if she knew someone could see her.
I need to find out more. I don’t want to upset Mrs. G., but right now she’s the only one who can help. I need to talk to her again.
* * *
I’ve knocked on the door, and I’m waiting and waiting for Mrs. Gayatri to come and answer it.
She looks surprised. “How are you, dear?” she asks. “What can I do for you?”
“I thought I’d come for a chat, but only if it’s convenient,” I say.
She smiles and holds the door for me.
“I’m so glad you came again,” she says. “Those hungry birds have gone through all the food already. I’ve seen starlings there, and robins. If you could refill the bird feeder for me, I’d be so pleased.”
“Of course,” I tell her.
“You do that while I make some tea.”
When I’ve refilled the feeder, we sit on armchairs opposite each other.
“Mrs. Gayatri, you know you told me about the girl who died across the street? I don’t want to upset you, but I’d really like to know more about what happened.”
She frowns. “To lose your only child—it’s such a sad thing,” she says quietly. “She was a sweet girl. Meningitis, it was. There’s nothing more to tell really.”
“Meningitis?” I repeat. “So, she was sick?”
I was expecting something more dramatic—something that would give a reason for her to be appearing as a ghost.
Mrs. G. nods. “Nasty illness that—can still be a killer, even now. Her parents moved away in the end. I think it was hard for them to see…” She pauses, her eyes glassy for a moment. “To see other children growing up on the street when their child was no longer there. It was empty for over a year after they moved, number forty-six. I think people viewing the house could still sense the sadness.”
“You mean forty-eight?” I ask.
“Forty-eight? No.” Mrs. G. frowns. “What makes you say that? It was forty-six.”
“Forty-six?” I stare at her in surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She nods firmly. “Poor Shari, she was only five, you know.”
I am speechless, silent, as I try to take this in. This isn’t about my girl at all—it’s the wrong house, and the girl is the wrong age. So now I’m back to knowing nothing at all!
Mrs. G. looks so sad. I know it was a tragic thing, but I’m surprised that she is this upset.
“I’m so sorry I asked you about it,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Never mind,” she says. “Let’s say no more about it.”
8
It’s Christmas Eve. We were supposed to be in Poland having a big family celebration, like last year. My cousin Aleksandra and I had such a great time together, walking around the Christmas markets, so pretty in the crisp, white snow, and then back to my aunt and uncle’s for delicious hot chocolate. Christmas in Lodz is like the pictures you get in England on Christmas cards, but I’ve never actually seen snow in England at Christmas. I like living here, but I love spending Christmas in Poland, and I especially love the buzz of being part of a much larger family—that’s something I never feel here in England.
But we’re not there because I’m not strong enough for the long journey, and I feel so bad about it. Mom is trying to put on a brave face. Dad is taking a chance to do some DIY—fixing a cupboard door that never shuts and putting up a new shelf in the kitchen. The banging is giving me a headache, and I’m relieved when it stops.
Then it’s too quiet—especially without Marek.
I’ve been hoping desperately that he might come home for Christmas, that he’ll just turn up and surprise us. We’ve never had a Christmas without the four of us being together. He hasn’t been in touch. Even as the fish is cooking for our traditional Christmas Eve meal, there’s a sound outside, and Mom rushes to the front door, but it was only someone leaving a flyer.
We eat our Christmas Eve meal—twelve different dishes including fried fish and potatoes—and Mom goes to church for midnight Mass and then again on Christmas morning. Dad stays with me. He’s never been too interested in church. He finds YouTube clips of funny kittens attacking Christmas trees to show me, trying to cheer us both up.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I tell him.
“What you have to be sorry for?” he asks gently.
“I know you love Christmas in Poland with Uncle Andrzej and Auntie Maria as much as Mom does. It’s all my fault.”
“My lovely girl, we’ll soon have you well. We will be in Poland again—maybe in the summer.”
“I hope so, Dad.”
Mom is trying so hard. She’s made her special Christmas cake. We have an amazing tree. But where’s Marek? We still haven’t heard from him. He hasn’t even responded to my messages.
The radio and TV give the impression of fun, but there are no cousins chattering and laughing, no aunt and uncle bickering, which makes me think of Mrs. Gayatri. It must be like this for her all the time.
“I’m feeling bad that Mrs. Gayatri is on her own,” I say to Mom. “Maybe we could ask her over for Christmas dinner later?”
We had our main meal last night, but we like to adopt some English traditions, too, and are having turkey for Christmas day.
Mom hesitates. “I’m not sure, love. She’s a Hindu. I don’t think she’ll want to celebrate Christmas.”
“But she’s all alone,” I say, frowning.
Mom meets my eyes, smiling softly. “There’s no harm in asking her, if you want to.”
I go next door, knock and wait.
“Happy Christmas!” Mrs. G. says as she opens it. “I didn’t expect to see you today. Aren’t you busy celebrating?”
“We usually go to Poland,” I tell her, “but I’m not well enough to travel. We wondered if you’d like to join us for dinner. Unless it’s against your religion?”
“How kind! I don’t celebrate Christmas, but I would be glad of company today—if you’re sure. Oh, but I am vegetarian. Is that a problem? I could always eat before I come…”
“It won’t be a problem,” I say, hoping that’s true.
“That is very kind—please tell your parents not to go to any trouble. What time would you like me?”
“Three p.m.”
“I will see you then.” Mrs. G. smiles warmly. “Thank you for thinking of me, Kasia.”
I feel good as I go back home and tell Mom that Mrs. G. has said yes. “Mom, she seemed really happy to be asked.”
“Well, there’s plenty of food!” Mom smiles.
“Actually, she’s vegetarian,” I announce.
“Oh.” Mom frowns. “What should I do? She can’t just eat potatoes and Brussels sprouts!”
I shrug. “I’m sure she doesn’t mind what she eats, as long as it isn’t meat. She was just happy to be invited.”
“Maybe if I add something spicy,” says Mom, tutting. She opens the cupboard where she keeps herbs and spices and starts rummaging. “I don’t have many spices, but I’ll see what I can do. Oh, Kasia—I feel awful. I know you’re trying to be kind, but it will be so embarrassing.”
“Please don’t worry, Mom,” I tell her, and now I feel guilty for stressing her out when I’m not even up to helping with the cooking.
Dad makes a face when I say Mrs. G. is coming. “I was going to have a nice nap in front of the TV. Now I’ll have to dress up?” he asks.
“Not dress up—just dress, Dad,” I tell him. He’s still in his pajamas.
It’s his turn to pout. “And what will we talk about? We have nothing in common.”
I’m beginning to feel a little stressed myself now, so I go and lie down on the sofa. To my surprise I go to sleep and when I wake up, Mom is poking something in my face.
“Here, Kasia—taste this,” Mom says, holding out a spoon of brownish mush. “It’s a curried lentil dish. I didn’t have all of the ingredients, so I don’t know if it’s all right or not.”
I taste the food, and I’m about to tell her it’s fine when suddenly it feels like my mouth is on fire! I rush for a glass of water, but it’s a long time before I can speak.
“Oh, Mom! How much chili did you put in that?” I ask, my eyes watering.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “So—no good then?” She takes a taste, too.
We look at each other—and then suddenly we’re both laughing. Mom’s usually so good at cooking, but this is really terrible.
Dad comes and looks at us, laughing and crying together, and backs off hastily, muttering in Polish.
“Oh dear,” Mom says when she can talk again. “I’m running out of time. I’ll make a salad, too—that will have to do.”
When Mrs. G. arrives, she brings a large plastic bowl with a lid. “I couldn’t expect you to cook specially for me,” she says, “so I’ve made a dish with chickpeas and vegetables that we can all share.”
The Girl Who Wasn't There Page 4
