Then there’s Ariana, who’s been confined to bed for two years, yet is able to look at a screen for short bursts. She uses a phone—she doesn’t have the strength to hold a tablet—and only uses it for the support group. She is desperate for help, and her mom keeps phoning hospitals and doctors and organizations, but there’s no simple cure.
Some people have been offered cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and physiotherapy, and something called the Lightning Process. Others have tried alternative therapies, like acupuncture and healing. With all these things, there are some people saying they helped—but also some who feel worse after trying them.
A girl called Mimi has posted a poem she’s written about having ME. It’s sad but also funny and makes me laugh. I “like” it and comment that I enjoy writing, too, but mostly stories and I’m not well enough to write anything at the moment.
Later I see she’s replied, asking me if I’m new to the group and encouraging me to try poetry since it’s shorter. She asks me if I like reading, too, and recommends a book.
Although it’s depressing to read about people like Ariana, I am happy to have found people who understand exactly what it’s like—especially Mimi.
* * *
A few days later I am a little better. On my way back from the bathroom, I go to the window and briefly glance out. I see Nav walking back from the store with a bag of groceries. The good grandson, shopping for his Nani. Bitterness fills my mouth, sour as lemons. I am so full of anger still, and somehow it is all directed at Nav. He doesn’t even glance up as he goes back inside.
I lie half listening to a local music station online. The news comes on—and I’m not really paying attention until the words “attempted abduction” catch my ear. Then I start listening closely because the case they’re speaking about happened near here. A man started talking to a sixteen-year-old girl who was walking home from school. He asked her the time and then started talking, asking if she knew where he could buy cigarettes. As they turned the corner the man got out a key and opened a parked car and tried to push the girl into it. She struggled and luckily managed to poke him in the eye and run off.
I think back to the night when I saw what looked like a woman being abducted. Could there be a connection? The car described was a different color, and this attack happened in broad daylight, but is it too much of a coincidence? I wish the police had reported back on whether they’d found out anything.
I get up and look out of the window. The girl across the street isn’t there. I haven’t been looking as much but I haven’t seen her for a long time. Nav said he saw her, so she’s still in the house. I wonder again if she is being kept prisoner. But she can’t really be Farah, can she—that girl from the missing persons website?
19
It’s a few more days before I feel well enough to get out of bed and move around regularly. One day I hear the sound of the lawn mower, and I walk to the back bedroom and look out. The yard next door is looking so much better now. Nav has dug up a lot of the old half-dead shrubs and planted new ones, and more are beginning to flower. He definitely has an eye for color. He is mowing in straight lines today, and I feel strangely disappointed. Is it because I upset him? I feel a plum-sized bulge of guilt in my throat. He didn’t deserve the way I spoke to him. I text him:
So sorry about what I said.
I look out and see him pull his phone from his pants pocket. I wait expectantly for him to text back or even to look up in the window, but he puts the phone back in his pocket and continues mowing. I realize I should apologize in person, but I’m not in the mood today. Also, deep down, I think I’m scared he may not accept my apology. He’d have every right not to—after what I said. I miss him.
* * *
On the first day of the new semester, I hear Mrs. G.’s front door open and close, and Devi’s voice calling, “Good luck!” I get out of bed and pull the curtain aside to see Nav in school uniform walking down the road. His walk is bouncy, as if he’s really looking forward to it. I wish so much that I was going, too. Right now, I can’t imagine that will ever happen.
That afternoon, the doorbell rings, and a part of me almost hopes it’s Nav—but it’s Ellie who runs up the stairs and into my room. It’s great to see her, and though I’m still really down, I feel my spirits lift slightly.
“Hi, chick,” she says, bouncing down on to my bed and sending me jerking up as if I’m on a trampoline. “I’ve got news for you.”
“What news?” I ask half-heartedly.
She leans forward and smiles. “You’re not going to believe this, Kasia!”
“Spit it out then.”
“Josh—he came up to me today. He asked me about you!”
“What?” I sit up. Now this really is news. “When? How come? What did he say?”
“He asked how you are, whether I still see you, when you’re coming back to school. He was happy when I said you were getting better. I didn’t tell him you got worse after the concert.”
“It’s weird that he’s asking now, after all this time!” I say. “I thought he’d forgotten I exist. Maybe he saw me there.”
“You still like him, right?” Ellie asks. “Do you want me to tell him you’re interested?”
I reel back in horror. “Don’t you dare!”
“Okay—calm down. I was only offering!”
I feel myself blush. “I like him, Ellie. Okay? But I saw him with a girl at the concert. I thought they were together.”
“Who? Was it Chloe? Nah, they’re just friends,” says Ellie.
New motivation tingles inside me like fizzy lemonade. “I’m going to pace myself. I’ll set targets for myself and build up gradually, and be extra careful about not overdoing it. I’m going to get better and I’m going to tell him exactly how I feel—I won’t be shy this time. And I’m going to get back to school, too.”
Ellie smiles again. “Good for you.”
We talk for a little longer, and then Ellie gets up to go. She turns to me before she leaves. “Oh, Kasia, have you seen anything of that unusual girl at the window you told me about? I keep forgetting to ask you.”
“I haven’t been well enough to look out much, so no,” I tell her. “But what I said about her being that girl on the website—it’s strange, isn’t it? The woman was probably telling the truth—the girl’s eighteen, but looks young for her age and is there helping with the baby.”
“Really?” Ellie asks. “You were so suspicious before.”
I shrug. “To be honest, I don’t know what to think.”
After Ellie’s gone, I sit by the window, trying to figure out how long it has been since I saw the girl. Then suddenly—as if she’s reading my thoughts—she’s there. I stare at her. She has the same sad, staring expression as before. I want to take a photo, but my phone’s on the bed and I don’t want to take my eyes off her. So, I lift my hand and wave. She is watching me—I’m sure. Her hand appears, pressed flat against the window and then released. Then she waves at me. It’s the briefest movement, but it’s definitely a wave.
So many days I have not dared to look out and, when I have had the courage, there is nothing to see. But today, when I have so little hope, I look and I find what I think is only in my dreams—I find the girl, the girl in the window across the street. Kasia. She is looking back at me. She sees me—and all at once I exist. If she can see me, then I am real. She waves at me, and I am the bravest I have been—I wave back.
I do not dare to stay. The baby cries, and I have to go. Now I think, why did I not do more? Why didn’t I try to communicate somehow? Maybe she wouldn’t have understood—but maybe she would.
Who knows when I will see her again? Why did I not mouth, Help me?
20
True to my word, I start trying to build up my stamina again. I’ve been pacing myself, restricting my activities and building up very gradually. I’ve been using Nav
’s book, which has given me lots of ideas. I rest it on the bed when I’m reading it, like he suggested—though I would never tell him that! I don’t know if it’s because of the book, or if I was just ready to start again, but I am definitely making progress.
One of the things I’ve been doing is walking up and down the street, increasing by just a few steps a day. Now I’m actually sitting in the café down the street, five minutes away from home, telling Ellie all about it.
It was Ellie’s idea to meet at the café, and it feels amazing—I haven’t done anything like this for so long! Ellie stirs her milkshake with a straw and then looks me right in the eye. “Don’t kill me, Kasia,” she says.
“Why would I kill you?”
“I did something.” She hesitates.
“Something?”
“I talked to Josh again.”
“What? He spoke to you again, about me?”
“No—this time I spoke to him. He was on his own, standing near the lockers. It seemed like a good opportunity. I couldn’t resist!”
“And what happened?” Her sheepish expression is making me nervous. “Are you going to tell me he’s asked you out?”
“No, no—of course not! I just… I told him about you—how you like him.”
“You didn’t!” I am stunned and I feel hot all over.
How could she?
“He likes you,” says Ellie. “I could tell when he asked about you before. He gave this sweet little smile when I said your name. I mean it, Kas—I’m not making it up.”
“What did you say?” I ask. “What did he say?”
“I told him you were well on the road to recovery and that you could walk as far as this café.”
“And?”
“It was a good hint, you see—because then he said, ‘Do you think she’d like to meet me there?’”
“What?” I exclaim. “He really said that? This had better not be a joke!”
“I mean it, Kasia. I said you’d meet him here tomorrow at four.”
“OMG!” I don’t know whether to be angry with Ellie or not. I told her not to say anything to Josh, though I’m kind of glad she did. Only—tomorrow, that’s so soon. I’m not sure if I’m ready. What if I wake up tomorrow and don’t feel up to it? What if he’s put off when he finds out how little I can do? Will I have the energy to wash my hair? And what on earth am I going to wear?
Well, Ellie can help with that one. “What am I going to wear?” I ask her.
She smiles, looking relieved—I think she was scared I might hit her.
“So you don’t mind? You’re not angry?”
“I’ll take a rain check on that,” I tell her.
“Let’s go back to your place and have a look in your closet, see what we can find,” she suggests.
I nod.
Back in my bedroom I lie on the bed while Ellie stands in front of my open closet.
“My jeans press on my legs,” I tell her. “I wore them for the concert, but they really weren’t comfy.”
“Maybe leggings then? How about these? And this top’s nice? You can wear a pretty scarf. Hey—I remember when you bought this!”
She pulls out a shimmery pink scarf. I remember, too. We were at the local market and Ellie spotted it. I loved it right away. It feels like a lifetime ago. I want to be that me again.
“Great idea!” I tell her. “I can’t believe I’m going on a date with Josh! Are you sure you’re not making this all up, Ellie?”
“You’re the storyteller, not me,” Ellie says, laughing. “But try not to think of it as a date—just meeting up in a café. Take it a little slowly, see how things go.”
* * *
When I wake next morning, I can feel my glands pressing on my neck, and my jaw aches, too. My legs aren’t too bad, though, and my head is clear, so I’m pretty certain it’s mostly anxiety. I’m going to do this
I’m actually going to meet Josh. I am tempted to skip my usual routine and stay in bed to preserve my energy for later, but I know that’s not smart. I will do everything apart from my walk, since I will walk to the café later.
The day feels so long. I listen to podcasts and an audiobook. I do some work for Judy.
“You look nice,” says Mom, when she sees me dressed after lunch.
I wish I’d saved the scarf for later, so it didn’t look so obvious that I was making an effort.
“Are you meeting Navin? You made up! I’m so glad…”
“Actually Mom,” I interrupt. “I’m just meeting a friend in the café. Someone I haven’t seen for a while.”
“Well, don’t…”
“Stay too long,” I finish. “Okay, Mom, I do know that. You don’t have to tell me.”
“There’s no need to be so angry, Kasia. I only want the best for you, that’s all.”
I didn’t mean to snap at Mom, and I feel terrible, seeing the hurt look on her face.
“Sorry, Mom, I just want to be treated like I’m normal for once—not some fragile piece of china. I won’t stay more than half an hour, I promise.”
As I walk down the sidewalk, I wonder whether it is better to be waiting there for him or if that might look too anxious. I don’t want to keep him waiting, though.
I am so nervous. In the end I arrive on the dot of four, but Josh isn’t here yet. Two minutes go by and I start to panic that he’s not coming. And then he walks through the door.
I’m breathing too fast. I try to slow it down. For so long now, I’ve been a girl who’s sick—that has become my identity. It’s like I can barely remember the person I used to be—a girl who might meet a boy in a café. Josh is in his school uniform. His long hair suits him, and his eyes are smiling at me even more than his mouth.
“Hiya,” he says, sitting down across from me. “Long time no see!”
“Hi,” I say. I smile back.
There’s an awkward pause. I’ve got to say something else but…what? I am so relieved when he speaks.
“How’s that woman you saved? She okay?”
“Yes.” The word comes out much quieter than I expect. I feel myself blushing. How does he know about Mrs. G.? Maybe Ellie told him.
“I had a great-aunt,” he tells me. “She died after a stroke. No one found her for three days. I wish she’d had a neighbor like you—to call an ambulance and that. Maybe she’d have been okay.”
“That’s sad,” I say.
I can’t think what else to say. I’ve said four words so far altogether. He’ll think I can’t talk clearly if I don’t manage a full sentence.
“Do you want a drink, a cake or something?” he asks.
“Thanks—a hot chocolate, please.”
He grins. “That’s what I want, too. Whipped cream on top?”
I nod and wait while he goes to order. I wonder if I should offer to pay.
There’s a couple in the corner, but apart from that the café’s empty. I’m glad it isn’t full of kids from school.
He sits down with the drinks. I sip mine and feel an instant moustache of cream above my lip. How embarrassing! The whipped cream was a mistake—I should have thought. I wipe my mouth quickly with a napkin.
“It’s delicious. Thank you,” I tell him.
He smiles, but he doesn’t say anything else. It’s up to me. I’m struggling to think of something to say.
“How’s orchestra?” I ask. “I thought the show was great!”
His eyebrows go up. “Were you there?”
Oh my God! He didn’t even notice me. I was sure he had! But then he was busy playing in the concert and talking to people afterward—like that Chloe.
“Yeah, I made a big effort to come,” I tell him. “I overdid it actually.”
I mentally kick myself—why did I bring that up?
“I hope you’ll be back in the orches
tra soon,” he says. “We’re playing Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 this term.”
“Oh, I love that!” I find myself humming it aloud and he grins.
“So you’re much better now?” he says. “I mean, you look fine—you look great. I like the scarf.”
I feel myself blushing as I nod. “I’m definitely on the mend.”
“Will you be back at school in September?”
“I hope so,” I say. “That’s what I want anyway.”
“A friend of my mom’s has ME,” he tells me. “She’s had it for years, so I know a little about it.”
“Really?” I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not. It might make him more understanding, but he could also think I might never get better. That’s what I worry about. I mean, I know I’m not his girlfriend, but who’d want to go out with someone who’s always sick?
“It’s good you’re getting over it,” he says. “It’s really a bummer getting something like that.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” I say.
“So what do you do all day at home?” he asks.
“I have a tutor who comes once a week, so I do some schoolwork,” I say. “I listen to music, podcasts, and audiobooks, and I sit and look out the window. Now that I’m getting better, I go for short walks, too.”
“God, that must be so dull! Are you up to going to see a movie?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. He is actually asking me out—on a date! So many things whirl through my head, but how can I say yes? I can’t even cope with TV right now, so how could I sit in the movies? The brightness of the screen, the flashing movements, loud soundtracks—I can already feel a headache coming on at the thought. But if I say no, he might never ask me again.
“What movie?” I ask, playing for time.
“I’ll have a look and see what’s showing,” he says, taking out his phone.
The Girl Who Wasn't There Page 10
