The Girl Who Wasn't There

by Penny Joelson

  “We need to try it sometime,” says Mom—but she doesn’t mention it again until a few days later, when she says, “Do you feel up to coming with me to visit Mrs. Gayatri? I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you.” Then she adds tentatively, “I thought it would be a chance to try out the wheelchair.”

  I am still not happy about the wheelchair idea, but I’d rather try it out in a hospital than along our street, and I would like to visit Mrs. G.

  “Just make sure you can push it without tipping me out facedown,” I tease Mom. “Although, at least there’d be doctors on hand if that happened!”

  She laughs.

  I haven’t been in a car for months. The seat belt is uncomfortable, and I feel giddy as the car pulls away. I look out of the window and try to pretend I’m okay.

  When we reach the hospital, Mom struggles to lift the wheelchair out of the car and get it open. I wait patiently in the passenger seat, wishing I could help. At last, I’m in the chair, and she wheels me up the ramp into the building and down a series of long corridors. Mom’s having no trouble pushing me and no one gives us a second glance. It feels strange but okay and I am relieved not to have to walk all this way.

  Mrs. Gayatri smiles a slightly lopsided but clearly happy smile as we arrive.

  “Good idea,” she comments, “using a wheelchair until you get your strength back. It’s so nice of you to come and see me. And your mother was telling me you have your writing award ceremony soon!” she says. “I will look forward to hearing all about it.”

  I nod. “I can’t wait!”

  Mom pulls up a chair, and I stand up and go sit on it while she parks the wheelchair in the corner.

  “How are you?” I ask Mrs. G. “Are you going home soon?”

  “In two or three days’ time, they tell me,” she says. “And I have some wonderful news!”

  “Your daughter?” I ask, eagerly. “Have they found her?”

  “Yes! Oh, Kasia, I didn’t think she would want to see me. She hasn’t been in touch in all these years. But they contacted her, and she is coming! I wish it hadn’t taken something like this, but still, I cannot wait to see her—and I have a grandson, too! They are coming to visit tomorrow.”

  “Wow!” I say.

  She reaches out a hand and I offer mine, which she squeezes gently. “And it is thanks to you,” she says more quietly. “It is thanks to you that I am alive and also that I will see Devi again, and meet my grandson. That photo… I couldn’t understand where it had come from, but your mother explained about the broken frame.”

  “Can I ask…” I begin, eager to know more, but I see Mom shaking her head sternly and I stop.

  “Ask what, my dear?” says Mrs. G.

  “Oh…just…er… How are you going to manage back at home on your own?”

  “The staff at the hospital have told me they will send in people to help me every day. Oh, I will be so glad to be back in my own home.”

  “And I’ll come in to visit more often,” I tell her.

  “That will be lovely,” she says, nodding.

  “And if you need anything, you must ask us,” adds Mom.

  11

  Next time Ellie comes to visit, she brings Lia again. They are sitting cross-legged next to each other on my bed, while I sit on the wicker chair.

  “I’ve brought you some homework, like you asked,” Ellie says, handing me a pile of papers. “But I have no idea why you want this stuff when you don’t have to do it.”

  “I’ve got to do it, or I’ll never catch up,” I tell her.

  “Well, if there’s anything you don’t understand, just ask me,” says Ellie. “But don’t knock yourself out trying to do too much.”

  “You sound like my mom—and Judy,” I say, smiling. Ellie shrugs. “I just want you to get better, so you can get back to school—oh—and so you can come to parties like Dimitri’s and Tilly’s party last week, too!”

  “How was it?” I ask.

  “Actually, it wasn’t that great,” says Ellie.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Anyone there you liked?”

  “It’s all about pairing off with someone,” she moans. “That’s all anyone seems to care about—and if you’re not interested, they just think you’re playing hard to get. I had two boys almost fighting over me at one point, when I’d already told them both to get lost. Erin ended up with Kai, though.”

  “How about you?” I ask Lia. She blushes and just shakes her head.

  “So, it wasn’t much fun?” I ask.

  Lia and Ellie exchange a quick glance as if sharing a private joke. I feel left out—they are becoming best friends I can see it.

  “Dimitri’s party was better,” says Lia, turning back to me. “He was so funny—he was acting totally wasted, like he could hardly stand up, but it turned out he was only pretending, and he hadn’t had a drop.”

  “Why would he do that?” I laugh.

  “I think he wanted to stay sober to make sure no one wrecked his parents’ place.” She laughs, too, and Ellie joins in.

  They don’t seem to have anything else to tell me, so I tell them about Mrs. G.’s stroke.

  “You probably saved her life,” Lia says, clearly impressed. “It must have been so scary. It makes me think I should do a first aid class.”

  “I went to see her in the hospital,” I tell them.

  “And you managed that okay?” says Ellie. “Does that mean you’re well enough to go the awards ceremony? It’s next week, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “I hope so. Mom’s rented a wheelchair for me.”

  They both look a little shocked at this, and I wish I hadn’t said it.

  “Miss Giles is coming, too.”

  “Really? That’s nice. Did you know that she’s helping with the end-of-term show? She’s been great,” Ellie says. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t seen you more. We’re rehearsing, and my mom’s stressing out, because she thinks I should be spending more time studying. She didn’t want me to do the show in the first place, but I convinced her I could do it and study. Now I’m not so sure. I didn’t realize there would be quite so many rehearsals. Lia is so good in it! I hope you can come and see it, Kasia.”

  “I’ll see how I do at the awards,” I tell her. “If I manage that okay, maybe I can come to the show.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” says Ellie. “I’d love for you to be there.”

  Last year I was there—not in the audience but in the orchestra for the first time. Our school has really good music and drama departments, and they put on a show every Easter. Although I was nervous, it was amazing being part of it. I was looking forward to doing it again this year, but now I will be lucky if I am well enough to watch.

  Dad still doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get time off for the award ceremony, but Miss Giles has offered to take us since Mom is worried about driving in central London. I am so excited, but also scared that I won’t feel well enough on the day. I stay upstairs for a few days before the event, hoping to conserve my energy, but I can’t help being anxious, and I know that makes me worse.

  * * *

  On the day, I am relieved to find I don’t feel too bad. Miss Giles also seems really excited when she comes to pick us up.

  “I’ve entered students before for this award,” she tells me, “but I’ve never had anyone win! They get thousands of entries from all over the country, you know. Most people will have traveled much farther than us. There are categories for different age-groups and genres, so with family members included, I think there will be over a hundred people there.”

  When we arrive, Miss Giles drops us off as near to the theater as she can and goes to park the car. She says she’ll catch up with us inside. Mom pushes me the rest of the way in the wheelchair. It feels weird being pushed by Mom along the street—much weirder than in the hospital. I feel
like a toddler in a stroller, as if I’ve grown down instead of up. We reach a street we need to cross, and the wheelchair jerks on the big curb, tipping me so I nearly fall out.

  “Mom!” I yell.

  “I’m so sorry—I’m not used to this,” she says. “We should have practiced more outside. The sidewalk isn’t flat and easy, like in the hospital.”

  I hate feeling so dependent and powerless. “I’m getting out,” I tell her, standing up. “Just to cross the street.”

  It must look very odd to anyone passing, to see me stand up, walk quickly across the street, and then sit down in the wheelchair again.

  At last we reach the theater, where I am welcomed like a celebrity. There’s even a long red carpet, and everyone makes me feel very special.

  “We have a ramp, so you’ll be able to get on to the stage,” a woman tells me.

  “It’s okay—I can walk, just not very far,” I explain. Again, I know it will look weird to all these people here who’ve seen me in this wheelchair. They’ll think I’m a fraud, but I don’t really care.

  I am invited to sit on a chair on the stage while an actor reads the opening of my story. Listening to it, I feel an urge to start writing again. The applause is thrilling, and, as I look out into the audience, I see that Dad is now sitting beside Mom and Miss Giles with the biggest grin on his face. I’m so happy he made it! When I’m given a glass trophy with my name engraved on it, I can even believe I’ll be a real author one day.

  The buzz of excitement has kept me going, but when it’s all over and Dad wheels me back to our car, I feel suddenly exhausted.

  “Well done, Kasia!” says Miss Giles. “I hope you will be back at school soon.”

  “So do I,” I tell her.

  “I am so proud of you, moje kochanie!” Dad says. “We must go for a meal to celebrate. Maybe you will join us, Miss Giles?”

  “That’s kind of you to ask me, but I’ll be off now,” says Miss Giles. “I have lots of grading to do. And Kasia does look tired.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Takeout food at home,” she suggests. “Look at her.”

  I agree—there’s no way I could sit in a restaurant right now, and by the time we get home I am not up for takeout food, either. I just want to go to bed and am relieved to make it up the stairs. It was worth it, though—it has been one of the best days of my life.

  “Should I do your curtains?” Mom offers, but I’m already halfway there.

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “This is a day I will never forget,” she tells me, and I turn to meet her tired but smiling eyes. “Such an achievement!”

  “It was good to get out of here—to do something so special, Mom. And I will get better. I know I will.”

  “You will,” she tells me. “Sleep well, mój aniele.”

  I turn to pull the curtain closed as I listen to Mom’s footsteps on the stairs. And I stop. She’s there. The girl is there in the window. It’s as if she’s been waiting for me. She’s staring straight at me—she’s seen me, I’m sure. She looks solid—real—and she isn’t vanishing. She looks so sad I feel a pang of guilt for having been out, having had such a good day. Then the curtains close across the street, and she disappears from view.

  We are finally connected—the girl looking through her window and me through mine, even though we know nothing about each other. I lie in bed, sure now that she’s no ghost. She’s real. So what’s going on? Why did the man and woman who live in the house say there is no girl there? And why does she never come out?

  12

  When I wake up the next morning, I feel a tingle of excitement that’s not just left over from the awards. I’m still tired, but I am surprised and relieved that I don’t feel too bad at all. In fact, I’m almost energetic! I feel determined to find out about the girl, and this time I’m not asking Mom—I’m going to go over to number 48 myself.

  It’s colder than the day before, and the chilly wind hits me as I come out of the front door, almost as if it’s trying to warn me off. I pull my coat tight around me as I stand on the curb, checking for traffic before hurrying across. There’s something reassuringly normal about walking out of the house and across the street, rather than being in a wheelchair like yesterday. I pause nervously in front of the door, but my legs are starting to ache, so I ring the bell. I hold my breath as I wait, listening. I hear the sound of a baby crying and it’s coming nearer. I breathe out, trying to remember what I planned to say.

  The woman opens the door and stands in the doorway with a chubby, wailing baby, about six months old, in her arms.

  “Hi,” I say awkwardly. “I live across the street.”

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “Can I help you?” Her voice is not unfriendly, but there’s something cagey about her expression. She shivers. “I don’t want to stand here long—he’s not too happy as you can see—and I don’t want him catching cold.” Her accent is strong, but her English is clear. She squeezes the baby and he wiggles and cries louder, like he’s trying to escape.

  “I…I just wondered…” I have to speak loudly to be heard over the baby’s cries. “Is there a girl living here? Is she sick? I thought I saw her. I’ve been stuck at home—I’m not too well. I can’t go to school, and I don’t see many people. I just wondered if she’d maybe…like to meet up, maybe we could get to know each other? I’ve noticed she doesn’t seem to go out. I wondered if she might be sick, like me, and it would be weird if the two of us are stuck inside being sick but living across from each other, if you know what I mean?”

  I know I’m babbling, and my legs are now throbbing.

  The woman’s eyebrows have gone up. “Girl? Oh, you mean our niece? She’s eighteen—not a girl like you. And she’s not sick. She’s staying with us and helping with the baby.”

  “But she doesn’t go out?” I query.

  The woman shrugs. “Not so often—she’s a shy girl, prefers to stay at home. That is her choice. She’s not in need of company. Is there anything else?”

  “No. Sorry to bother you,” I tell her. The front door quickly closes. I hurry back into the warmth of my own house and sit on the sofa. I don’t even have the strength to take off my coat.

  The girl exists. Finally, someone else has acknowledged her existence. Was she upstairs watching when I saw that young woman dragged into the car? I replay the scene in my mind, wondering what happened next, where they took her, where she is now—and whether she’s okay. That girl is the only one who could verify what I saw. If only I could talk to her.

  * * *

  Two days later, I have to stay in bed again. The delayed reaction is so hard to understand, and it’s like a kick in the teeth. It almost feels worse this time, because I used the wheelchair to help me on the day, but it hasn’t stopped this from happening. It isn’t fair.

  I lie in bed thinking about the girl. When I stood there, at the door of number 48, I believed the woman was telling me the truth, but now I am starting to feel suspicious again. I feel like something’s wrong in that house, though I can’t really say why.

  Why did the man tell Mom there was no girl? Was it because he thought of “girl” as “child” and this girl is eighteen, which might mean “woman” to him? She didn’t look eighteen to me. And why didn’t they mention her to the police?

  If she isn’t interested in making contact, if she’s happy and busy, then why was she looking out of the window with such an unhappy expression? I can’t help having the worst thoughts about why she’s there. What if she’s been kidnapped and is being held there against her will? What if she was abducted, like the woman I saw—and she’s being held in that house and no one knows? No one, except me. The thought of it nags at me—it won’t leave my head. I know it’s unlikely—but what if it’s true and I’ve known all this time but done nothing about it?

  When I feel up to it, I browse online in short spurts. I find a webs
ite called Missing People with a section on missing kids. I scroll down through the photos—so many children it scares me. Some are probably teenagers who’ve run away. Some look really young, though. What has happened to them? They must be somewhere. I glance for a few seconds at each face, as if I’ll be able to find out their secrets. I look at the boys as well as the girls. It feels wrong to miss anyone out—as if I’m saying that child is less important.

  I find pictures of two Asian girls who could be the girl in the window. I try to think back to when I first saw her. Is it three months ago? One has only been missing for a month, so it can’t be her. The other missing girl is named Farah Aziz. She is fifteen and has been missing for almost five months. She’s from London, too. She looks a little angry in this picture, whereas the girl I see looks sadder, but the shape of her face, the dark hair—it really could be her. I search for her name and find a Facebook page dedicated to her, begging her to come home. There’s a quote from her mother saying, “We can work it out.”

  My breath catches in my throat as I remember the reason I spotted the girl in the first place—the woman being dragged into the car. Maybe something like that happened to Farah?

  She might have been there all these months, and I’ve been watching out of the window and she’s been waiting—hoping I would rescue her and wondering why I keep looking out and looking out and yet doing nothing.

  There is a number on the website. Do I dare I call it?

  I decide I need to get a better look at her first—so I can be sure.

  When the doorbell rings, she pushes me into the back room. She takes the baby, rocking him in her arms, and she shuts the door on me.

  “Stay there,” she barks.

  The baby cries instantly. He cries for me, and I feel my heart wrench for him. I want his warmth, his comfort, as much as he wants mine.

  I hear her voice as she opens the front door, sounding so different from the voice she uses for me, or even for him. She is polite and calm. I strain to hear what she’s saying, what is being said to her, but I cannot grasp the words. The baby’s noise is loud, and my English is not so good. I wish I dared open the door, just a crack, to hear better. But I dare not.