The Girl Who Wasn't There

by Penny Joelson

  “It’s just our luck,” I tell Nav, “I bet she’ll stay indoors all day.”

  But then the door opens and she finally leaves, taking the baby with her. She locks the door behind her. The girl is alone.

  “I think she’s locked her in,” says Nav. “If she can’t open the door, what can we do?”

  We go anyway. I ring the bell. No one comes. I lift the mailbox flap and call through. “Is anyone there?”

  We wait. I call again.

  “She’s not coming,” I tell Nav.

  But then suddenly my view of the empty hallway is blocked, and two frightened eyes meet mine from the other side of the mailbox slot—so suddenly and so close that I jump back in alarm. The mailbox snaps shut.

  It’s the girl. She’s really there. I lift the mailbox flap tentatively again.

  “We’ve come to help you,” I tell her. “Can you open the door?”

  “You are alive!” she whispers, sounding surprised.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “We’re okay. Thank you, thank you for your note—for trying to help me. Can you open the door?”

  “No. Door locked.” Her whisper sounds so far away, even though I know she’s only on the other side of the wood.

  “What about the back door?” I ask. “Is there any way you can get out?”

  “Window,” she says, so softly I have to strain to hear. Then she speaks more. “I find key for window.”

  “You’ll have to be quick,” I say, hoping it won’t take too long.

  “I can find—I get it,” she tells me. “I get key now.”

  She disappears and we watch the windows in the living room.

  When she doesn’t appear instantly I wonder if she’s changed her mind and isn’t going to come—but then she’s there, her face appearing behind the net curtain, her hand reaching out to the window lock, the tiny key between her fingers.

  “Quickly, come on. We’ll help you out,” Nav tells her.

  I look around, anxiously. There’s no one in sight. She’s opened the window, but she isn’t moving. I see tears prick her eyes. She is too scared.

  “It’ll be okay,” I tell her, though I have no idea if it will.

  “You have to be quick. Someone might come back.”

  “Come on!” I say. “Hurry!”

  Nav holds out his arm and the girl hesitates, but then she clambers out. She leans on Nav, and I see that her hands are shaking violently.

  He takes her hand, tries to lead her toward the road, but she’s not moving.

  “This is no good,” she says. “They will find me. They will hurt me. I must stay. I must go back.”

  “No—come with us. We will help you, I promise,” I say. “Come across the street to my house. It is only a few steps.”

  The girl’s eyes widen with fear. “Not safe,” she says. “They will look near here for me. They know you. I must go far.”

  “Look—there’s a bus coming,” says Nav. “Let’s just get on that. At least we’ll be away from here.”

  On the bus I sit by the window, and the girl sits, head down, beside me. She flinches as the bus moves off, and so do I, but I know her pain is different from mine. I glance at her, sitting next to me. We’ve rescued her. We got her out.

  “I want to thank you,” I tell her. She looks at me wide-eyed.

  “Your note—you told Nav I was in danger. He saved me. That car would have hit me if it wasn’t for you.”

  “I hear what they plan for you—‘no-good girl’ they call you. I think you are good girl. I know you try help. I want help you.”

  “Well, you did,” I say, nodding.

  “What’s your name?” Nav asks gently.

  “Reema.”

  “How old are you?” I try next.

  “Fourteen. Fourteen. Is truth.”

  “We believe you,” I tell her.

  “And what about your aunt and uncle?”

  “They not real aunt, uncle. Not my family. They tell you lies.”

  “What do you mean? Who are they then?”

  “The man is friend of my uncle—my real uncle. He tell my uncle they bring me here for a good life and good school. They say I will help a little with baby and house, but when I come they lock me in there—I cannot go out. No school. No money. I work all day, clean house, look after baby, cook all food for them. Before I come, they say no cost to bring me here, but now they say I must work to pay for my journey.”

  “That’s terrible!” Nav exclaims. “We must get you to the police. They will help you and lock up those people.”

  “No police!” the girl shouts, and other people on the bus turn to stare. “Take me back,” she demands. “I must go back.” She stands up as the bus pulls to a halt, and Nav has to hold on to her arm to stop her getting off.

  “Are you all right, dear?” an elderly woman asks gently. “Is that boy hurting you?”

  The girl doesn’t answer, but she shakes her head. The bus doors close, and she sits back down, hiding her head in her hands.

  “I must go back,” she whispers. “The baby—he needs me. And the police—they will lock me up, too, or they send me back, and my uncle—he not want me.”

  The bus stops again, and suddenly she’s up and running out of the doors.

  “No—wait!” I call, and Nav and I jump off, too, following as fast as we can.

  31

  I can’t run—the pain is intense, and my legs give way after a few steps. I’m not sure Nav should be running, either, with his injuries, but he does. We can’t lose her now. I stop and stand, panting, watching Nav. He is shorter than the girl, but she runs awkwardly, and he is faster. He runs past her, turns to face her, and blocks her from passing.

  Her shoulders are shaking as she sobs. I drag my legs, walking as fast as I can, determined to catch up. Nav is trying to calm her down.

  “Please—don’t cry,” I tell her. “We want to help you. What do you want us to do?”

  “Take me back—you must. Take me back. Now. Now. Now.”

  “Okay,” says Nav. “If that’s really what you want.”

  I open my mouth to protest. After all this—we’ve got her out, and now we’re going to take her back? But we can’t force her to come. And if we don’t take her back, she’s going to run off, and maybe we’ll never find her. Who knows what would happen to her then?

  “Come on,” says Nav. “We can cross the street and take the bus back. If that’s what you want.”

  She nods, and I see her shoulders sink down with relief. I hold out my hand, and she grips it as we cross the street. She continues to grip my hand as we wait for the bus. She keeps looking down the road, waiting to see the bus, and she’s clearly getting anxious.

  “Ten minutes,” I say. “It should be here in ten minutes.”

  We wait in silence. I can’t believe we’re doing this.

  There must be another way.

  “We want to help you,” I tell her. “Why do you want to go back? Isn’t there something we can do?”

  “You are kind, very kind,” she says. “I know you are kind. I see you at window—I think, kind girl. But no one can help me. It is not possible.”

  I meet Nav’s eyes, hoping he will have an idea—something to suggest that will reassure her.

  A man walks past eating a burger, and the girl’s eyes follow him intently. I hadn’t noticed how thin she was until this moment.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “I am hungry always,” she says. “Not much food—only, how you say? What is left.”

  “Their leftovers?” I ask, horrified. She nods.

  “Very small,” she says.

  “I’ll get you something,” Nav tells her. “Look—we can go into McDonald’s, over there. I’ll get you a burger, like that man?”

  Her eyes are wide.
“I…” She is almost salivating. “I eat and then you take me back—yes?”

  “Yes,” says Nav, though he gives me a meaningful look. He’s hoping, like I am, that we’ll manage to persuade her to do no such thing. He turns to me. “You want anything?”

  “No, I’m all right. Maybe get her a drink, too?”

  We find a table at the back of the room. She’s breathing fast and every time someone comes in through the door, she looks around anxiously. They couldn’t find us here, could they? I want to say something calming, but I’m not sure what.

  “I remember when I first saw you in the window,” I tell her. “It’s so long ago.”

  “I remember I see you,” she replies. “I think you work like me—I never see you come out.”

  “The first time I saw you, I don’t know if you noticed me at all,” I say. “Something happened—out on the street. Do you remember? Did you see it? A woman was dragged into a car.”

  Reema’s face seems to freeze. There’s new fear in her eyes. “You see that?”

  I nod. “I called the police—I told them to talk to you, too, but those people you were living with, they said there was no one else in the house, like you didn’t exist. I think the police thought I was making it up.”

  Reema frowns. I’ve been speaking too fast, and I don’t think she’s following.

  “The police didn’t believe me,” I tell her, slowing down my speech. “And no woman was reported missing or anything.”

  “She one of his girls,” Reema says, covering her eyes momentarily with her hand.

  “What do you mean? Whose girls? Are you saying you know her?”

  “She run away from him, from the place—how you say? The no-good place where girls wait for men. They took her back.”

  “What? She’s a…prostitute? Is that what you mean?” I ask.

  Reema looks unsure. “He make them do it. They not choose this. He bring girls to this country. They think go to school or jobs, but he bring them here, to place not far where you live—and he lock them. It is a trick. I lucky one. She wants me—for house and baby. If not, maybe I go there, too, for men.”

  “But Reema—how can you think of going back when you know all this?” I demand, in horror. “When you are out and free and you could help those girls?”

  “You not understand. These people—they are strong, clever, so much power, you know? No one listen to me. I speak to police—they kill me. They will find a way.”

  “But what about those girls who are being forced against their will, like the one the man dragged into the car?”

  Reema closes her eyes tight and then opens them again. “I cannot help them. I must help myself. Maybe I tell police and they get sent back to their countries. Maybe they angry—they safer, better life here.”

  “Doing that though?” I say, in horror. “How can their lives be worse?”

  “You know nothing,” she says, shaking her head.

  “You have to tell the police,” I tell her.

  Reema begins to cry.

  I’m scared for a moment that she’s going to run off again, and I won’t be able to stop her, but Nav appears with a burger and a Coke.

  While Reema is eating ravenously, I tell Nav what she’s just told me. “It must have been the same car—the one that got that girl and the one that tried to hit me. We have to do something!”

  He looks horrified. “I think she’s talking about trafficking—people, kids and adults, being brought from other countries to be used like slaves. I heard something about it on the news. Let’s try online,” he suggests. “There must be an organization or something that can help.”

  We both get out our phones. I explain to Reema that we are looking for someone to help her.

  My search for “trafficked children” brings up the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. I click the link.

  “Here—look, it actually says NCMEC helps people who have been victims of trafficking,” I say, showing Nav. “There a lot of information about it. I wish I’d seen it before.”

  “Why don’t you call them now?” he says, “and let Reema talk to them?”

  I nod. I turn to Reema and explain about NCMEC. “They’re not the police,” I tell her.

  She looks very unsure, but she doesn’t say no. As I begin to tap the number into my phone, she doesn’t protest. I pray that I will get through quickly, and I do.

  I explain the situation, and I’m put through to a woman called Megan who listens carefully, encouraging me to talk and speaking back with a gentle, soothing voice.

  “Would Reema like to speak to me herself?” she asks.

  I hand the phone to Reema, and she takes it. I can see her hand shaking as she presses it to her ear. Reema answers questions with one word initially, but then begins to say more. Finally, she hands the phone back to me.

  “Kasia, can you tell me where you are?” Megan asks.

  I tell her.

  “Wait there,” she tells me, “and I’ll speak to social services and arrange for a social worker to come and meet you and Reema. She has agreed that I can tell the police, too.”

  32

  When the social worker, Amanda, and a police officer arrive, we are all taken to the police station. Mom and Devi have been called and are on their way. Reema asks for me to stay with her while she is questioned, but Amanda explains that isn’t allowed. She gently convinces Reema that she will be there to support her, and the interpreter speaks to Reema and seems to reassure her. She goes off with them while I wait with Nav in another room. The officer asks us questions, and we tell her everything.

  “To be tricked and brought to this country as a slave,” I say to the officer. “I still can’t believe it could happen—on my street, where I live.”

  “What will happen to her?” Nav asks.

  “If she wants to go home, we will arrange that. But if she wants to stay here, we will help her to apply for asylum. In the meantime, social services will try to find a foster family to look after her.”

  “Maybe she could stay with us?” I suggest. “I can ask my parents.”

  “That’s sweet of you, but I think she’ll need to go somewhere far from here, in a protected placement. Otherwise associates of the people who took her might threaten her and make her go back with them. And people have to go through all kinds of checks and training to become foster parents.”

  “Can we stay in touch—will you let us know what happens to her?” I ask.

  “I can’t make promises about that, but I will try,” she says. “If you want to write to Reema, I’ll make sure your letters are passed on.”

  We are left to wait for what feels like hours, but probably isn’t. Nav plays on his phone.

  At last, the officer brings Reema to say goodbye.

  Reema still looks frightened. She doesn’t speak. “I hope you’ll be okay,” I tell her.

  She nods.

  “Don’t worry—you’re safe now,” Amanda tells her. Standing there, Reema looks thinner than ever, even more like the ghost I once thought her to be.

  “I’ll write to you,” I say.

  She doesn’t seem able to speak. She says goodbye only with her eyes and then she follows the social worker out through the doors.

  * * *

  Devi brought Mom to the police station, and she drives us all back home as Nav and I tell the whole story over again. I am suddenly overcome by weakness and exhaustion. “I need to lie down,” I tell Mom, as the car pulls up outside our house.

  “I’ll leave you to rest,” says Nav, and he disappears quickly inside Mrs. G.’s house. He seems so eager to leave that I feel a surge of disappointment. I thought we’d become friends again, but maybe I was wrong. The front door closes, and I wish I’d said something—said I was sorry for the way I treated him. But the moment has passed.

  I
let Mom hold my arm as I struggle up the stairs and sink down on to my bed. It’s been an extraordinary day, though I know that something good has happened because of it and that Reema is now safe. But I can’t help feeling sad about Nav.

  * * *

  The next day I lie in bed, reading about child trafficking. The stories are appalling. Children brought to this country and sold for sex or enslaved for domestic work. I read accounts about different children who’ve been trafficked. There’s even someone like Reema—a girl trafficked for domestic service and just locked in the house all the time.

  Ellie comes over. We’ve been texting, of course, but she is bursting with questions. I show her the stuff online about trafficking.

  “That’s horrifying,” she tells me. “I’d never have imagined something like that. You were so right to be suspicious! And you’re talking to Nav again?”

  I nod. “He saved my life.”

  “I’m glad you’ve made up,” she says.

  “I’m not sure we’ve actually made up,” I admit. “I need to apologize properly. I was awful to him after the concert. I don’t think he’s forgiven me. And I really like him, Ellie.”

  She looks at me. “You mean—you like like him?”

  I nod, suddenly realizing it’s true. I can feel my cheeks going hot.

  “He’s a good guy,” she says. “You’ll have to speak to him.”

  I nod again.

  Ellie glances at her watch. “I’ve got to go,” she tells me.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” I ask.

  It’s Ellie’s turn to blush.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” I ask eagerly. “Here I am telling you about Nav! What aren’t you telling me, Els?”

  “I have got a date, as it happens,” Ellie says, but there’s something weird about the way she’s saying it.

  “Who with? Come on, spill!”

  But Ellie is quiet, not meeting my eyes, picking anxiously at her cuticles.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, and it’s difficult,” she says.

  I can’t think what she’s getting at. I joke, “It’s not Josh, is it?”