Since You've Been Gone

by Mary Jennifer Payne

Cristina sits back and regards me silently for a moment. “Really?” she asks flatly. “And just who might your mother be and why do you need to see me?”

  “Um, her name is Sydney Fraser. She’s Canadian. Well, she does have a bit of an English accent.” I’m rambling now. “And she only began working for you a couple of days ago.”

  Cristina nods, her face relaxing into a smile. “Sydney! Of course I know her. Not like my other girls. Very well-educated.” She pauses. “Is she not well? I only ask as she hasn’t shown up for the past two days.”

  “She’s fine,” Jermaine interrupts.

  Cristina turns toward him. “And you are?”

  “A family friend. A close family friend.”

  “Very well,” she replies dismissively. She turns back and stares hard at me. I feel like an insect under a microscope. “You do look so much like Sydney. It’s odd. She never told me she had any children here with her in London.”

  Jermaine tenses beside me. I know what he’s thinking. It doesn’t seem like just an innocent observation. The uneasy feeling I had when we first entered the flat is suddenly back. I need to word my questions about Mom carefully.

  “I was just wondering where my Mom’s last shift was,” I say. I try frantically to think of something to say that would make it seem logical that I’m here, asking her this question, rather than just asking Mom.

  “Why?”

  Good question. Now I have a few seconds to come up with a halfway decent answer that doesn’t make me sound insane.

  “Mom left her reading glasses there. I guess she’s embarrassed about being sick in bed and all … when she can’t even read the paper.”

  Cristina stares hard at me again and then her gaze wanders. Something behind me has caught her eye. I turn and see a slim, young boy leaning against the doorframe for the kitchen.

  “How impolite of me!” she says. “Would either of you like something to drink? Maybe an orange squash or a fizzy drink?”

  I shake my head.

  “So your mother has been ill, love,” Cristina says, waving her son away with her hand as if he is nothing more than an annoying insect. “Why did she not call in sick? Does she not want her job any longer? I would think it’s nearly impossible for a woman in her position to find other employment.”

  Dizziness sweeps over me like a tsunami. Mom must’ve said something to her about our situation. What does she know? Or is she just saying it to see how I’ll respond?

  “She told you why we’re in London?” I stammer. Jermaine shoots me a quick glance.

  Cristina leans forward, resting her chin on her hands. She smiles at me, with the kind of look people give stray puppies. I don’t want her sympathy and feel myself tensing up.

  “Yes, Edie, she did. I insist on knowing the women I’m hiring, especially when they ask to be paid under the table.”

  “My mom didn’t return home from work after her first shift,” I say. “Do you know where she was cleaning that night? I need to know.” My heart is beating so rapidly it feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest.

  Cristina’s eyes darken with concern. “She didn’t arrive home? That’s not good, is it? I know she finished her job that night without incident because she signed out after her shift that morning.”

  “But she didn’t make it home after that,” I say. “Would anyone else have seen her leave? Other cleaners, maybe?”

  Cristina nods. “Sylvia, a long-term employee of mine, was on shift with her at the Camden film office.” She stands up. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to see what Angel is up to. Boys can get into such mischief, you know.” She glances at Jermaine as she speaks.

  “Actually, I’ll take that orange squash after all. Please,” he says.

  “Of course. I’ll be just a minute. Please, make yourselves at home.”

  As soon as Cristina is out of sight, Jermaine grabs me by the fleshy part of my upper arm.

  “Ow! What are you doing?” I snap. “Playing lobster?”

  “Shhh,” Jermaine says, placing a finger to his lips. He leans in closer. “We gotta go. You told her way too much. This lady is already concerned that your mum needed to work under the table ’cos that’s illegal. And now she finds out your mum’s disappeared and you’ve turned up at her flat.”

  “So what?” I say, rubbing my biceps. I’m still angry about my arm and the news I’ve received from Cristina has only convinced me more that something terrible has happened to Mom.

  “So, this woman might already be in it up to her neck for employing illegals like your mum and then if the police find out she knew about you and didn’t do the right thing by telling them or social services, she’ll get it even worse.”

  “Mom isn’t an illegal immigrant. She’s got a British passport.”

  “Don’t be daft, Edie. Who cares about that? That woman is likely on the phone right now,” he says. “Let’s go!”

  Jermaine pulls me up from the sofa and this time I’m more than happy to follow. If he is even half right in his predictions, we’re in trouble. It was stupid of me to have said anything about Mom going missing.

  Cristina’s son appears in the doorway to the kitchen again. This time he’s clutching a glass of orange drink in his small hand.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, his voice filling with disappointment. “I made this for your friend.” He holds out the glass.

  “Sorry, just remembered that we’re supposed to be somewhere,” I say, over my shoulder. Jermaine is already at the stairs, descending them two at a time.

  “Mummy! They’re leaving!” Angel cries.

  I begin to leap down the stairs, keeping my eyes locked on Jermaine’s back, praying my feet don’t miss a step. Jermaine has already reached the front door and is fumbling with the latch, his fingers clumsy with panic.

  I hear commotion above us. Angel’s cries of dismay mix with his mother’s angry voice. Blood pounds in my ears.

  Suddenly the latch clicks and Jermaine twists the door open with his left hand while grabbing my wrist with his right.

  “Wait right there!” Cristina shouts from behind me. I can’t tell if she’s already on the stairs.

  Jermaine pulls me through the door then slams it shut with a single, backward kick. We immediately break into a frantic run, our trainer-clad feet slapping up and down on the sidewalk.

  A curtain of misty rain wraps itself around us as we continue running without saying a word for what seems like forever. My chest burns and I feel faint, but continue following Jermaine. We reach the high street and continue our mad dash: weaving in and around hand-holding couples, mothers pushing their newborns in strollers, and red-faced joggers. Jermaine leads us back past the Docklands station and down toward the water where we finally slow our pace.

  “Just to be safe, let’s hang here for a few minutes,” Jermaine says, making his way down a set of stone steps to the locks. Below the locks, the murky waters of the Thames wind their way toward the heart of London.

  The rain begins to fall harder, making the steps more slippery and treacherous than I would like. A sign posted on the black, wrought-iron rails warns pedestrians about the dangers of walking along the water’s edge. That makes me slow down even more.

  “You okay?” Jermaine asks from the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m just being careful,” I retort. “It’s not exactly the safest thing in the world that we’re doing, you know.” Hopefully he can’t tell I’m completely terrified.

  Jermaine shrugs his shoulders and watches me continue my snail-like descent, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  I join him a few seconds later, both of us leaning against the railings, me still breathing heavily from both the run and the sheer terror of navigating the stairs.

  I look down the river at the boats scurrying along and the tall wharf buildings that dot the waterfront and suddenly feel so tiny and insignificant standing there. A wave of sadness mixed with anger sweeps over me and I back away, tear
s threatening to race down my cheeks.

  “What’s up?”

  I shake my head. I can’t speak. It feels as though someone has sucked my voice away. If I open my mouth, tears will follow. And tears are the last thing I need at this time.

  “Hey, don’t worry. There’s no way that lady will be able to find us, even if she decides to try.”

  “It’s not that,” I say. My voice cracks and I pause for a moment. “It’s just … I’m positive something terrible has happened to Mom.”

  And that’s when Jermaine puts his arm around me. That’s right — his arm goes around my shoulders and for a split second I forget about everything else except the electrical feeling I’m getting from our bodies touching.

  “Naw, couldn’t be. If something really bad happened to her, we’d be seeing it on the front of the papers and on the telly and everything.”

  I appreciate his attempt to make me feel better, but every time I shut my eyes, all I see is my dad’s angry face the night we left and all I remember is the feeling of his fingers wrapped around my arm like a boa constrictor.

  “C’mon. We’re going to find her. You’ll see.” The concern in Jermaine’s voice pulls me back to the present, back to the seemingly constant rain of London and the pleasant heaviness of his arm around my shoulder.

  I nod. Tears are forming in my eyes, blurring my vision. I wipe at them with the sleeve of my coat, feeling like a little kid.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I guess the worry is getting to me. I haven’t been able to sleep well since she’s been gone.” My nose is running and I’m in need of a tissue badly. Mortifying. Now he’s going to see me with a drippy, snotty nose: definitely not my most attractive moment.

  “Look. We got decent information back there,” Jermaine says. “That bird said your mum was up in Camden, right? So that’s where we go with the photograph.”

  “Okay.”

  Jermaine looks at his watch. “It’s not even eleven. I’m starved. Why don’t we grab something to eat and then go to Camden?”

  I discreetly wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

  “Sounds brilliant,” I say, trying my London speak for the first time. I feel stronger all of a sudden; I know what I need to do.

  CHAPTER 18

  By the time we emerge from Cutty Sark Station, the rain has stopped and the sun is desperately trying to push its way through the grey meringue of clouds. The sun coming out might be a sign that something positive is going to happen. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  There’s a Subway restaurant directly across from the tube station, a reminder of life back in Canada. My stomach aches with longing.

  “Hungry?” Jermaine asks.

  “Famished,” I reply. And, for the first time in a while, I really do have an appetite.

  Once inside, we practically throw ourselves at the spotty girl standing behind the counter as the smell of roasted meat and baked bread overwhelms us.

  “All right?” she asks, her voice thick with boredom. She twists a lock of ginger hair that is crisp with styling products around her index finger as she watches us scan the plastic menu boards above her head.

  “Roast chicken sub on white with pickles, tomato, and mayo,” I say. “Loads of pickles. And a coffee,” I add, glancing sideways at Jermaine, who is still trying to decide.

  “Meatball with loads of hot peppers and pickles,” he says. “And extra cheese if you have it.”

  “Drink?” the girl with the ginger hair asks. She blows a pink gum bubble toward us, then crushes it between her thickly glossed lips with a loud pop.

  “A full-fat Coke, yeah?” Jermaine answers. He turns to me and smiles playfully. “Coffee? You going to get all hyper on me?”

  My face flushes warmly. “I’m just a bit cold. That’s all.”

  Great. He jokes with me and my response is as wooden as Pinocchio. I wish I could think of something funny or interesting to say. Instead, I stare at my shoes, mortified.

  “Ready?” the girl asks. She snaps her gum and holds out her hand. Another bored-looking employee finishes making our sandwiches.

  I reach into my knapsack, unzip the inside pocket, and feel around for some of the charity money.

  “How much?”

  “Eight-pound thirty,” she answers, blowing another bubble in my direction.

  I hand her the money reluctantly. It’s going to run out at some point and that reality is beginning to hit me.

  “It’s kind of nice to be getting Subway,” I say. “There’s so many unfamiliar things here. My best friend, Rume, and I used to get it at lunch whenever we had extra money.”

  “You have a computer and Internet at your flat?” Jermaine asks as he takes the tray from the girl.

  I shake my head. “Are you kidding? We don’t even have a home phone yet.”

  “Well, there’s an Internet café upstairs here,” he says, and, as though reading my mind, is already heading toward the stairs.

  The café turns out to be no more than ten or twelve computers that are dinosaur-age old. They’re separated from the main part of the restaurant by a cheap-looking plastic partition.

  We sit down at one of the tables and Jermaine unwraps his sub. Even though I’m starving, I find it hard to think about eating.

  Glancing at my watch, I do a quick mental calculation of the time difference between London and Toronto. It’s about ten to seven in the morning in Toronto. Rume always gets up early. She likes to check to see if she’s had overnight emails from her cousins in Bangladesh. I smile. It might just work; I might catch her on MSN.

  Butterflies of excitement tickle my stomach as I log into my Hotmail account.

  “Your password is Peaches2000?” Jermaine laughs through a mouthful of meatballs, bread, and tomato sauce.

  “Yeah, it is. Do you have a problem with it?” I ask, half-jokingly. The thought of what might have become of Peaches still causes an instant lump in my throat.

  “It just sounds like a stripper’s name or something.”

  I turn away from the computer and raise an eyebrow at him. “Takes one to know one,” I said.

  Clearly, I’m a complete failure in the witty, flirty comeback department.

  Jermaine stares at me. “Sometimes you’re kind of strange, Edie,” he says.

  “Yeah, I was aware of that. Thanks,” I hope some massive, science fiction–inspired rift opens up and takes me away to another dimension. Why am I such an awkward nerd around guys? Rume understood me. We understood each other. I turn back to the computer screen.

  R u there? It’s me, Edie.

  I wait, my fingers hovering over the grey plastic squares of the computer keyboard in anticipation.

  And, suddenly, there it is, appearing on the screen like a mirage: a response from Rume.

  Oh my god! Is it really u? Where have u gone? I miss u so much, girl!

  London. In England, not Ontario. Long story. I miss u too!

  I glance over at Jermaine. Though he’s pretending to be absorbed in eating his sandwich, it’s obvious he’s trying to read the computer screen whenever he thinks I’m not paying attention. As soon as he sees me looking, he quickly diverts his attention toward a couple arguing at a nearby table.

  When r u coming back? I have Peaches. Found her sitting on your front steps looking hungry. I guess she was waiting for you to come back too. She misses you.

  “Oh my god!” I say, grabbing Jermaine excitedly, which nearly results in a meatball and tomato disaster happening on his lap.

  “Blimey! I’d rather eat it than wear it, Edie.”

  “Sorry, sorry!” I say, breathlessly. “My cat. Peaches. That’s why I have the username. My best friend has her!”

  Jermaine laughs. “Your cat created your username?”

  I punch him playfully on the arm. “No, dummy! My cat’s name is Peaches. We couldn’t bring her when we came here and didn’t have time to find her a new home.” I pause for a moment, remembering the last time I saw Peaches curled up on my
bed. “But she’s safe. She’s with my best friend, Rume.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Jermaine says. “Why didn’t you find her a new home, though?”

  “Long story,” I say, turning back to the screen. Not even Rume knows everything about Mom and I. “I’ll log off soon and we can go.”

  Thankfully, Jermaine doesn’t push for any more information, and, instead, goes back to devouring his sandwich.

  I’ll write soon and tell u more. Give Peaches loads of kisses for me.

  I exit my email and grab my sandwich.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say.

  “What about eating?” Jermaine asks.

  “Not important,” I say. “We need to find my mom.”

  We stand up and make our way to the first floor of the restaurant. Outside, London waits. And somewhere in the city is the answer to Mom’s disappearance.

  CHAPTER 19

  Throngs of people fill the sidewalk outside the Camden Town tube station. The atmosphere reminds me of a circus. Like Toronto, the people are diverse: someone from every part of the globe seems to walk by in the few seconds I spend standing still on the sidewalk. A middle-aged Rasta man in a vibrant knit hat casually lights a joint while a young American couple talks loudly about the evils of drug use as they stroll by, cameras slung around their necks. And the air is heavy with smells: dried spices mingle with the odour of fried onions and meat from the street vendors, the sweet smokiness of marijuana mixes with the sweaty scent of thousands of bodies, and, as always, the smell of London itself, is there, underneath it all, a mixture of ancient damp and exhaust fumes.

  “We need to head in this direction,” Jermaine says, crooking his thumb to the right. “The street vendors will probably know where this place is and they may even have seen something. I bet loads of them set up really early. I reckon they’re the eyes and ears of this place.”

  “Do you really think they’d have been around when Mom was getting off work?”

  Jermaine shrugs. “Dunno, really. Thing is, if she was around for a bit that morning, they’re likely the ones who’d have seen her.”