The Girl Who Wasn't There

by Penny Joelson

  Mimi says, “Thank you for cheering me up, Kasia! I’ve been having such a bad day, and you wrote this in such a funny way, it made me laugh and laugh. I can see what a good writer you are!”

  I am cheered by these replies, but still sad, too. I messed up my one chance, and I can’t stand it. Josh hasn’t texted me at all, and I’m not sure whether I should text him after what happened.

  Ellie texts me a few times. I tell her not to come over since I really can’t face anyone—but she turns up anyway.

  “Are you angry with me?” she asks, flopping down in the chair by my bed. “I never meant for this to happen. I was only trying to help.”

  “I know, Ells,” I assure her. “Of course I don’t blame you. I should have been honest with Josh about the movie. We could have done something else instead.”

  “So when do you think you’ll see him again?”

  I shake my head. “I won’t. He hasn’t texted or anything.”

  “No way!” says Ellie. “He seems so nice!”

  “I can’t really blame him,” I say, sighing. “I know it’s hard for people to understand because I look okay—they can’t tell how sick I feel.”

  “You still want to see him?” Ellie asks.

  I shrug. “It doesn’t matter, does it? He clearly doesn’t want to see me. I think it’s over, Els.” Tears start to roll down my cheeks, and I can’t stop them. “I want to feel special and close to someone and loved, you know? And I want to go to school. I want a normal life.”

  “Yes, I know,” says Ellie, giving me a gentle hug. “But maybe forget about him for a while. Let’s just try and get you better first.”

  22

  Even though nothing has really changed, Ellie’s words have cheered me up, and so have the responses on the Facebook group. Today I feel like sitting and looking out of the window for the first time in days. There is nothing to see at the house across the street. The curtains upstairs are closed. I turn to the bus stop and watch the people for a while. I think about the woman from 48 sitting next to me there and wonder what she’s doing today.

  I walk to my parents’ bedroom so I can look out the back. I am kind of hoping Nav will be there, in the garden next door—and he is. He’s planting something in a flower bed. The garden is looking beautiful now, in the sunshine. It’s full of flowers.

  Maybe today I’ll try to go downstairs. I’d love to sit outside with Nav, watch him gardening, and have us talk like we used to. Why am I so stupid? Why was I so mean to him? I wonder whether I should try texting him again.

  Then I see that Mrs. Gayatri is sitting out there—on the chair that I used to use. I’m happy for her, glad she feels well enough—but I’m disappointed, too. Nav has company already.

  I go back to bed instead. I will forget about boys and concentrate on my studying. I open a file and try to write answers to some history questions. I have to do enough work so that they will let me stay with my classmates.

  When Judy comes, she is impressed with the work I’ve done.

  “I want to get back to school in September—even part-time or something,” I tell her.

  I see the immediate doubt in Judy’s frown. “Kasia, I think you have to be realistic about it. I also hope you’ll get back to school part-time in September, but I still believe you’ll have to repeat tenth grade and cut the number of classes you’re taking, too.”

  I can’t answer. I can’t speak. This is not what I want to hear.

  “Kasia?”

  I have to prove her wrong. I must.

  I am getting better and better, and I’m feeling more positive, too. I begin to go downstairs and move around the house again, and it’s not too long before I decide to go out for my first walk in a long time. I stand on the front doorstep and let the sunshine warm my face. I breathe in the fresh air. I look across the street at number 48. I wonder about ringing the bell again. It’s such a beautiful day—warm and sunny but not too hot—even if she’s a few years old than me, maybe I could convince the shy girl to come out for a short walk—to the café perhaps. It’s so long since I’ve seen her—but she did wave to me that once.

  I decide to take the risk. I ring the bell. The woman comes to the door. She looks at me suspiciously.

  “I’ve just come to ask after your niece,” I tell her. “It’s such a nice day—I wondered if she’d like to come to the café with me. She could bring the baby, too.”

  “My niece is fine. She is busy and not in need of company, as I told you before,” the woman says. Then, as if worried she has spoken too sharply, she adds, “It is kind of you to ask, though.”

  “Doesn’t she ever want to come outside?” I press.

  “Of course she does. But not today.” And she closes the door abruptly.

  There’s nothing more I can do.

  Over the next few weeks I focus on increasing my walking and studying, determined to go back to school in September. The first time I manage a fifteen-minute walk, I feel amazing! It’s the most I’ve walked in nearly a year—a whole year. I am managing more studying, too.

  One day I see Mrs. G., who is taking out a bag for recycling. We are very happy to see each other.

  “Off anywhere nice?” she asks.

  “Just up and down the street. I’m trying to build up my steps,” I tell her.

  “Why don’t you go to the park?” Mrs. Gayatri suggests. “You know—the one on Alwyn Road? Wouldn’t that be nicer than walking up and down the street?”

  “That’s a good idea,” I say, nodding. “I couldn’t get that far before, but I think I could now. It would be a change of scene. I haven’t been there for years.”

  “I haven’t been there for many years, either,” says Mrs. G. “I used to push Devi there in her stroller.”

  The park is a little more than ten minutes away, but I make it there—through the park gate and on to a bench. I hope I will be okay to walk back again. Sitting there, I feel a sense of calm as I look across the grass to the pond, watching the gently rippling water, the trees rustling. I can hear the road, but it is a gentle hum in the distance—the birdsong of the park fills the air. Two ducks glide across the water, hopeful for food. I feel a tiny thrill inside to have walked this far. Mrs. G. is right—it’s so much nicer than the street.

  I sit breathing calmly and enjoying just being here, watching the passersby. There’s a man pushing a stroller. Then a girl comes. She’s pushing a stroller, too. She approaches the pond and pulls out a bag of bread crusts. The ducks change direction, instantly heading toward her. The girl reaches into the bag of bread. There’s a sign up saying PLEASE DON’T FEED BREAD TO THE DUCKS, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed. I wonder if I ought to say something, but I don’t want to interfere.

  She has long dark hair swept back in an untidy ponytail. She’s wearing a thin top and a skirt that doesn’t seem to fit her correctly. There’s something familiar about her. My heart skips a beat as I catch sight of her face. It can’t be…can it? She’s the girl I’ve seen in the window—the girl from number 48. But how can it be her? The gray stroller is familiar—it’s like the one I’ve seen the woman from 48 pushing a couple of times. It must be her. I watch intently as she feeds the ducks, talking to the baby. It is so weird to see her outside—in the park, after all this time. She looks okay—perfectly normal. I’ve had all these crazy thoughts about her and now here she is, at the park, looking fine. I want to speak to her. I hope she might turn this way and see me. Maybe she’ll recognize me, too. But she’s looking only at the baby and the ducks. She gives the baby a crust, and I see his arm try to throw but the bread lands next to the stroller. The girl bends to pick it up and throws it herself.

  I stand up and meander toward her, trying to look as if I’m just wandering over to take a look at the pond. I stand a few feet away. Now that I’m up close, I can see that she’s definitely not Farah, the girl from the miss
ing persons website. Her face is a similar shape, but her eyes and mouth are different.

  The baby turns and looks at me with curious eyes. “Hi,” I say to the girl. “Cute baby.”

  The girl tenses. She keeps looking straight ahead at the pond, clutching the bag of bread crusts tightly as if she thinks I want to steal them. It was a friendly comment, but I feel like she is radiating fear. Something must be very wrong for her to react this way.

  The baby giggles at me. “Bababa,” he says, pointing at the ducks.

  “Ducks?” I say to him. “You like feeding the ducks?” He grins.

  The girl takes another crust from the bag and throws it. She’s still acting as if I’m not there.

  “Do you recognize me?” I ask gently. “I’ve seen you in the window. I live across the street. I’ve never seen you outside before. I wondered if you were okay? I’m not being nosy or anything. I just… Are you okay?”

  I’m babbling. She isn’t answering.

  “Do you speak English?” I ask, suddenly wondering if she’s understood a word I said.

  She grabs the handles of the stroller and walks quickly away toward the gate.

  “Sorry,” I call after her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was only…” But she’s through the gate and gone before I can finish my sentence.

  “See—I am kind. I will let you go out. Don’t speak to anyone.” That’s what she told me today. It is so long since I’ve been anywhere—I can barely believe what she says.

  She told me the way to the park, and to come right back. I am happy to be alone here with the baby and the birds—to enjoy the air that smells of pine cones and to feel the sun on my back. If I speak, bad things will happen.

  Then the girl approaches. What does she want? Who is she? Then I realize I know this girl. She is Kasia from across the street. Her voice is kind and gentle. I want to talk—to tell her—but I don’t have the words. And I am too scared. I want her to go, to leave me alone. But she keeps talking and I can’t understand much she says.

  I must leave before I find my words because they might come out—and that is dangerous, too dangerous. I walk quickly, the bag of bread still in my hand.

  Kasia can’t see me now. The hunger gnaws at my stomach. I stand by a tree. There is no one in sight. The motion of walking has sent the baby to sleep. I pull a crust from the bag, hard and rough,with a tinge of blue. It is repulsive, but I have not eaten since yesterday, and then just scraps. The bread still smells of bread. My stomach aches for it. I stuff it into my mouth. Then more, one crust after another until it’s gone. Then I go back to the house.

  23

  When I get home, I sit in my room by the window, wondering why the girl hurried off so quickly. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken to her. I think I frightened her with all my questions.

  I feel so tired now, but I’m glad I managed the walk to the park. I’ll go there tomorrow, as long as I feel up to it. Maybe the girl will be there again—or maybe she’ll look out of the window tonight.

  When Judy comes in the afternoon, she’s impressed by the amount of work I’ve done. But when she tries to teach me, I can’t concentrate at all.

  “Kasia, if you continue like this, I worry that you won’t take all your classes next year. I know how much you want to achieve that, but your health has to come first. You shouldn’t overstretch yourself.”

  I bite my lip. “Maybe you’re right and that’s not realistic.”

  Judy’s face lights up. “Finally!”

  “Maybe I could just do six—or seven.”

  “I’ll tell you what: Taking fewer classes and doing them a year later will not hold you back in life.”

  “You might be right,” I grudgingly admit.

  “You need to listen to your body and pace yourself. You can study at any time in your life—you don’t have to stick to some government schedule. You have to do what’s right for you.”

  * * *

  It’s evening but still light when I glance out of the window and suddenly she’s there—the girl in the window opposite. She’s looking straight at me. Does she recognize me from the park? I hope so. Maybe she doesn’t understand English—maybe that’s why she seemed so scared earlier, she didn’t realize I was the girl who’d waved to her.

  She’s still staring at me. I’m sure she realizes it was me. How can I tell her I just want to know if she’s okay? If she needs help, I want to help her.

  I try to mouth the words “Are you okay?” But then she’s gone.

  * * *

  A few days later I make it back to the park. The sun is bright again, smiling down on me warmly, and I feel positive. I believe I will get better. One day my life will get back to normal, and this illness will be something I simply look back on as a bad memory.

  The park is busier today than when I came last. The warmer weather has brought more people out of the shadows. It is particularly popular with people who have babies. I look out hopefully for the girl with the stroller, but I don’t see her.

  My phone vibrates. There’s a message from Marek.

  I open it eagerly.

  “Guess where I am?” he asks.

  My heart thuds. Has he come back? Is he at home? “Where?”

  The next message is a photo. It’s a front door. It looks vaguely familiar, but it isn’t ours.

  Then another photo—a smiling face. This I do recognize. It’s my Aunt Maria in Poland.

  “Lodz!” I reply.

  “Yes—I’m home,” he tells me.

  “This is home—HERE,” I message. “Not Poland.”

  “It feels like home,” he responds. “At least I am with family who welcome me with open arms. It’s nice to see our cousins. I’m going to stay a while and work with Uncle Andrzej.”

  “Dad is not going to be happy,” I respond.

  “Dad is never happy,” Marek replies.

  And I’m right. Dad is mortified. He switches immediately into overdramatic mode.

  “It’s a complete humiliation,” he tells Mom, thumping the table so hard that a teaspoon jumps in the air. “I told them so many times how much better life is here—the opportunities there are for our children. Now my good-for-nothing son goes crawling back begging for work in your brother’s bakery—sweeping the floor! It’s a disgrace! How they’ll be laughing.”

  “He’s a little lost, our Marek,” says Mom, a wistful look in her eyes. “He will find his way in time.”

  “Lost! After all the guidance we have given him!”

  I cannot stand to hear them arguing, so I go to lie down on my bed.

  As I lie staring at the ceiling, a memory floats into my head. It’s a hot day, years ago. We are lying on the grass side by side in the park, the one on Alwyn Road.

  Mom is sitting on a bench somewhere near, talking with a friend.

  “What do you want to do when you grow up?” I ask Marek.

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “A soccer player?” I ask.

  “I love soccer, but I’m not good enough,” he tells me. “What about you, Kas? You’re clever. You could do anything.”

  “An author, or a musician, or a doctor, or a scientist, maybe,” I reply.

  “Wow! That’s a lot of ideas! Whatever you do, you must use that amazing brain of yours.”

  “You have a brain, too,” I say. “There are so many different jobs—I don’t know how anyone decides what to do.”

  “You don’t have to decide yet,” he tells me. “We don’t have to decide for years and years and years. There’s plenty of time.”

  I am watching TV with the baby. It is—which is very good for learning English. I feel like a normal person, sitting on sofa. I have never sat here before. Watching TV—this is my reward—because I work hard. She says it’s good for the baby to watch.

  She says, “See, you are
good and things are better for you. You take the baby to the park and now watch TV. You have a good life, we are kind to you. Yes?”

  I nod. I hope I am allowed to go the park again soon.

  My stomach rumbles. On TV, some teddy bears are eating cake.

  24

  Today in the park I am stunned to see the girl right away. There she is by the pond again, whispering affectionately to the baby in the stroller, who stares up at her with his big, round eyes. I stop still, staring, my heart beating fast. This feels so important. I don’t want to frighten her, but I am determined to speak to her again—and this time I don’t want her to run away.

  She hasn’t seen me yet. I walk slowly closer until I see her shoulders tense. She glances at me.

  “Please don’t run off,” I say to her. “I don’t want to scare you. I only want to talk. I want to know that you are okay.”

  She shuffles nervously, and I think she is going to leave.

  I need to keep talking to her. I need to make her stay.

  “I hardly ever see you outside the house,” I continue. “You’re always inside.”

  “You also,” she whispers, glancing up at me and then back toward the pond.

  My heart is racing. She’s speaking to me—she does understand, though she has a strong accent.

  “Yes, I’ve been sick,” I tell her. “And you? Is it the same for you? Are you sick?”

  “Sick?” she repeats as if unsure what it means.

  “Ill, not well, feeling bad,” I try.

  She shakes her head. “I not sick,” she says.

  “So why don’t you go outside?” I ask.

  “I am here—outside,” she says, still barely audible, a puzzled look on her face.