“It smells wonderful,” says Mom, smiling.
Mrs. G.’s dish is full of flavor, but it isn’t spicy-hot at all. Even Dad tries some of it and declares it delicious. “Complements the turkey perfectly,” he tells Mrs. G., who beams back at him, delighted.
We talk about the snowy Christmases in Poland, and Mrs. G. tells us about her first experience of snow when she came to this country in 1974. Mom then tells her about when we moved to the UK.
“We came in 2005—the economy was so bad in Poland. Stefan realized that he could earn as much here in one week, no—one day, as he could earn in a month in Lodz.”
“That’s why you came?” Mrs. G. asks.
“Yes—we thought we were coming to paradise, you know? We found an amazing house on the internet, and the price looked so good. It was near Manor House and Seven Sisters. Then we arrived and discovered we were paying for one room only. There were twenty other people sharing the house! It was such a shock. Later, we met kinder people, though—people who helped us.”
Mom and Dad ask Mrs. G. about her life and family, but she gives short answers and quickly turns the conversation back to us. Dad starts telling us jokes, and some even make Mrs. G. laugh out loud. She surprises us by telling a few good ones herself. Then Dad does his party trick of making his ears waggle. His face goes bright red when he does it, and his eyes look like they’re popping out.
“Well, in all my years, I have never met anyone who can do that!” Mrs. G. chuckles. “I am having the loveliest time. Thank you so much.”
“And now please join us in our special after-dinner ceremony!” Dad announces.
Mrs. G. looks slightly worried.
“What ceremony?” I demand.
“The ‘let’s sit in the family room and watch TV’ ceremony,” Dad says, waving his arms in a triumphant gesture.
Mrs. G. smiles with relief.
“Are you up to watching a little, my kotku?” Dad asks me.
I’ve been having a good day, but now I realize I need a rest. The glands in my neck have started throbbing, and my legs feel achy. I can’t cope with watching TV, but I lie on the sofa with my eyes shut while the others all watch a movie. I am so happy we invited Mrs. G.—they are all getting along so well.
Afterward we play charades. I’m not up to performing but guess some of the answers. I laugh so hard at Dad’s James Bond impression that my throat hurts. I’m feeling happy, though, when I excuse myself and go upstairs to bed.
9
I’m sitting in the kitchen with Mom, eating freshly baked orange and almond cake. It’s one of my grandmother’s recipes that Mom is trying to re-create from memory. She’s always wishing she had the old family recipe book, but that got left behind in Poland. I’m lucky that I don’t gain weight easily, even though I’m not exercising much—but still, I am trying not to eat too much cake.
“It’s not like my mother’s. What do you think, Kasia?”
“It’s so good!” I moan.
“It’s a big one—I’ll have to freeze most of it,” Mom tells me.
“Can I take some to Mrs. Gayatri?” I ask.
“What a nice idea,” says Mom. “I think she enjoyed Christmas with us, didn’t she?”
She cuts a large slice of cake and wraps it in foil, while I put my coat on. It’s the middle of January and getting colder every day and dark so early, too. I knock on the door. I wait, knowing that as usual she may take some time. Maybe it’s just the cold, but I feel as if I’ve been waiting longer than usual. I knock again. There’s still no answer. Maybe Mrs. G. is out on one of her rare trips to the stores. I turn to go back home but something stops me. What if she is there, but she’s sick or something? I knock harder. Then I lift the mail slot flap and call through.
“Mrs. Gayatri! It’s Kasia.”
No answer. I try to look through the mail slot in the door. It isn’t easy to see through, but I’m sure there’s a dark shape on the floor at the end of the hallway by the kitchen.
“Mrs. Gayatri! It’s Kasia. Are you okay?”
As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I make out a shoe shape. A shoe and part of a leg. I gasp. It’s her! She’s lying there on the floor, not moving…not moving at all.
I try the side gate, but it’s locked, so I come back to the front. I put the cake down on the doorstep and keep calling her through the mail slot, at the same time reaching into my coat pocket for my phone. My hand is shaking, and I can hardly get a grip on it. I call 911.
“Ambulance please!” My voice comes out squeaky, not like my normal voice at all. “It’s my neighbor. She’s lying on the floor in her hallway, and she’s not moving. I can see her through her mail slot. It’s forty-seven New Weald Road.”
They ask me questions that I wish I could answer with “yes.” Can I get in? Do I know where she keeps a spare key? Do I have a phone number for a family member?
I check under the doormat and in the flowerpots by the front door, but I can’t find a key. There’s a small, inauspicious pile of rocks on the other side of the door, and half-heartedly I lift those, too, and reveal two keys. I look down the road, hoping the ambulance will appear and I’ll be able to hand the keys over without going in myself. Should I call Mom? No, I have to go in. I fiddle with the keys, my hands still shaking, and the door clicks open.
I hesitate—scared, scared to go closer. Maybe Mrs. G. is dead. I don’t want to see her close up if she is. I can imagine her eyes—glassy and scary like in the movies. If she is dead, should I close them? I’ve seen that in movies, too, but I don’t want to touch a dead person.
Mrs. Gayatri is lying crumpled, her feet sticking out at an awkward angle through the doorway to the kitchen. I can’t see her head. I edge nearer, on tiptoes for some reason, as if any sound might wake her—but I want her to wake up. I want it more than anything.
“Mrs. Gayatri?” I call.
I bend over her. She seems to jerk slightly. Her head is on one side. There’s blood, a gash on the side of her head and a pool of blood underneath. I gulp. Nausea rises in my throat. It looks as if someone has hit her hard on the head. Did someone attack her? Something is sparkling on the floor beside her. Fragments of glass. Did someone hit her over the head with a bottle or a vase? Then I see a dark wooden photo frame on the floor. Someone must have hit her and she fell against the wall, knocking the picture off its hook.
My heart is pounding. Taking care not to step on the glass, I crouch and put my hand under Mrs. G.’s nose. To my relief I feel air moving. She is definitely breathing.
“Mrs. Gayatri! Mrs. Gayatri!” I call. “It’s Kasia from next door. Don’t worry—an ambulance is coming.”
A small sound comes from her, but it isn’t words. I wait. It feels like forever. I feel so alone, with such a huge responsibility—someone’s life and there’s nothing I can do except crouch here and hold her hand.
I wonder what Mom would do, and then I call her. She says she’ll come right away. I’ve got this weird, floaty feeling in my stomach, like the inside of a lava lamp. I glance down at the frame. The picture, which I think is of Mrs. G.’s husband when he was young, has slipped out, and there is another photo behind it. I see it is a picture of Mr. and Mrs. G. with a girl around my age standing between them, smiling straight into the camera.
Before I have time to wonder about this girl, Mom arrives and has her arms around my shoulder, and the ambulance is here, too, with two paramedics.
“You’re her neighbor? Maybe you can give us a few details,” one of the paramedics asks Mom. “What is her full name, date of birth? Do you know her next of kin?”
Mom can only give Mrs. G.’s last name. She never told us her first name or her birthday, and she has no family that we knew of.
The paramedic turns to me. “Kasia, is it? You’re the one who called us? You did the right thing.”
“You should call the polic
e,” I tell her. “I think she was attacked—see that gash on her head?”
“You saw someone attack her?” she asks, looking alarmed.
“No, no.” I shake my head. This is so awful.
“Looks like a stroke to me,” I hear her say. “She must have hit her head on the wall as she fell. That’s why it’s bleeding. There’s no sign of an attack, is there?” she asks the other paramedic who is examining Mrs. G.
“No,” comes the answer.
“But…the gash…” I say. “I thought…the blood…” I can feel my cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.
“She has a big imagination,” I hear Mom say quietly, embarrassing me even more.
“Mom…”
“You did a good thing,” Mom says to me now, squeezing my shoulders. “My Kasia, you’re a good, brave girl.”
As Mrs. Gayatri is carried out on a stretcher, I realize I still have the photo in my hand. Who is the girl standing in the middle, and why was this picture hidden behind another? I stare at it for a moment, then tuck the photo under my coat.
I turn toward the ambulance. “Do you think she’ll be okay?” I ask the paramedic.
“She’s in the best hands now,” she replies.
The doors slam and the ambulance disappears down the road.
Mom squeezes my hand. “So sad,” she says, “to see her like that.”
“You don’t think she’s going to die, do you?” I ask.
“I hope not,” says Mom. “I offered to go with her in the ambulance, but they said no.”
“I think I need to lie down,” I tell her, as exhaustion suddenly overtakes me.
“I’m not surprised—what a shocking thing!” says Mom. “Thank goodness you found her, that’s all I can say, or who knows how much longer she could have been lying there. I’ll call the hospital later, and maybe go and visit her tomorrow.”
When Dad comes home, we tell him all about it. “I do feel sorry for the woman, not having family around her,” says Dad. “But try not to get too involved, okay?” He gives Mom a hug.
Later, I lay in bed looking at the photo. Mrs. G. looks much younger, but the girl couldn’t be her daughter, could she? Mrs. G. would have mentioned her when I asked if she had any children. I think back, trying to remember her exact words. “It’s sad when everyone you love has gone.” It was something like that.
The way the girl is standing between Mr. and Mrs. Gayatri—it definitely looks like a daughter with her parents. Unless she was a visitor—a niece or something. Maybe Mrs. G. did have a daughter and she died—like the girl at number 46. But then why would she cover her photo? I’m sure she’d want to remember her.
I put the photo in my bottom drawer with the daffodil card that Josh signed, planning to give it back when Mrs. G. is home.
Mom calls the hospital to find out how Mrs. G. is, but since she’s not family they are reluctant to tell her anything. Eventually they tell her that Mrs. G. definitely had a stroke but that she’s doing okay.
* * *
The next day Mom says she’s going to visit her. I wish I could go, too, but I am not well enough. I feel wiped out.
“Mom, before you go, take a look at this,” I say. I get the photo out of the drawer and tell her how I found it behind the picture in the smashed frame.
“Why did you take it?” Mom asks, frowning as she looks at it closely. “You should have left it where you found it.”
“Mom—don’t you think it looks like Mrs. G. had a daughter? The way she’s standing between them?”
“Maybe,” says Mom, nodding.
“Why would she hide the picture away and say she has no family?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Kasia, I really don’t.”
“Maybe you should take the picture with you to the hospital,” I tell her. “They wanted to know her next of kin, didn’t they? Maybe show them.”
“Yes,” says Mom, though she looks a little hesitant. “I don’t want to interfere, but I guess it doesn’t do any harm to take it.”
When Mom’s gone, I struggle out of bed and sit by the window. I look at the house across from mine and I think about the face I saw—the girl. I wish she’d appear now, but she doesn’t.
I’m lying down again when Mom comes back. I hear her feet hurrying up the stairs, faster than usual for Mom.
“Is Mrs. G. okay?” I ask, suddenly worried.
“Yes, she’s improving,” Mom says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “She’s able to talk, though her words are a little slurred. She was really glad to see me. The nurses were happy she had a visitor, too, since no one else has been to see her, and they said there’s no next of kin to call on. So, then I got out the photo.”
“Really? What happened?” I ask eagerly. I pull myself into a partial sitting position and Mom plumps up my pillow.
“We showed her the photo,” Mom tells me. “I felt very awkward—I thought Mrs. G. was going to get angry, but she had tears in her eyes. She admitted that the girl is her daughter. Can you believe it?”
“Why has she kept her secret?” I ask. “Why did she hide the photo?”
“Apparently they haven’t spoken for eighteen years,” says Mom. “Mrs. G. said she has no idea where she is now.”
“So, they might not be able to find her?” I ask.
“They’re going to try,” Mom tells me. “Mrs. G. gave them her daughter’s full name and date of birth, so we’ll have to wait and see. If they find her, I only hope the daughter wants to see her mom. It’s going to be very upsetting for Mrs. G. if not.”
“It’s so sad that they had a falling-out,” I say. “Did she say why?”
“No,” Mom tells me.
“You should have asked,” I say.
“It’s none of our business, Kasia,” says Mom. “She’ll tell us if she wants us to know.”
I know what Mom’s saying, but I’m frustrated. For a mother and daughter not to speak for eighteen years, it must have been something big.
Later I get up again and sit at the window looking out. There’s no sign of the girl across the street. There’s an old woman at the bus stop. Her shopping bag is bulging, and she leans it against the bench. She’s looking at the timetable now, but the bag is unbalanced, and, as I’m watching, it tips. A lemon falls out, followed by a box of crackers.
There’s a boy walking past, and he sees what’s happened and stops. I gasp a little when I realize it’s Josh. I haven’t seen him for so long—he looks taller, and his hair is longer. He crouches down and helps to gather the things. What a nice thing to do. The woman thanks him profusely. I’ve seen her there before, and it’s clear from her expression that she doesn’t have time for teenagers, thinking they are trouble with their rowdy music and phones, so Josh has taken her by surprise with his kindness. The old woman sits on the bench and tries once more to balance the bag, this time against one leg as she sits, with the other leg supporting it, too. Hopefully it won’t fall now. She watches Josh walk away—and so do I, longingly.
I wish I could call him. I wish he’d look up at the window and see me, but he doesn’t. I watch him walk away until I can’t see him anymore.
10
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drinking an herbal tea mix called “Energy” while Mom’s cooking chicken soup. This January weather is still so cold and gloomy, we need it to warm us up. Steam rises from the stove. “It’s only two weeks until the award ceremony,” I remind Mom. “I’m so excited about it.”
“Yes—I want to talk to you about that,” Mom says.
I look up to meet her eyes. Her serious expression makes me anxious.
“Is it Dad—can’t he come?” I ask.
“He won’t know until the last minute, Kasia. It isn’t that.”
“What, then?”
Mom sighs as she breaks noodles into the soup. “I’m so gla
d you’re doing much better—coming downstairs, going next door,” she says, “but it will be a long day, and I’m worried it’ll be too exhausting for you.”
I look at her in horror. “I have to go, Mom. I just have to! It’s the only thing I’ve been looking forward to.”
“I do want you to go,” Mom tells me. “I just don’t want you to undo all the progress you’ve made. There’s so much to think about—there might be a lot of standing, and we might not be able stop the car near the theater, so there will be walking, too.”
“But Mom!” I glare at her fiercely.
“Let me finish, Kasia.” Mom holds up a hand to stop me. “I’ve been making calls, and I’ve found out we can get a wheelchair on loan. What do you think about that?”
“A wheelchair?”
This isn’t what I was expecting. I feel all mixed up: relief that this isn’t a fight about not going, but also sadness and bitterness. Also, am I really so sick that I need a wheelchair? It feels like a backward step.
“It will be less tiring for you,” Mom says.
“I hope you’re not saying I should start using one all the time?” I ask.
“No, of course not. Just for this one occasion—and maybe other times to do things that would otherwise be too much. Let’s just try it—that’s all I’m saying.”
The idea of not having to walk, not having to stand, definitely makes the whole outing feel more doable. “Okay,” I tell her. “Just this once.”
When the wheelchair arrives, Mom wants me to sit in it and try it right away.
“I will be a learner driver, I need to practice!” she says.
I wish I could push myself, but my arms aren’t strong enough, and this wheelchair is the kind with small wheels that’s made to be pushed.
“I don’t feel like it right now,” I say, though, really, I don’t want to see the looks I’ll get from people we pass on the street—pitying looks.
The Girl Who Wasn't There Page 5
