Separated

by Shane Peacock

  But I didn’t hesitate. I leapt over the turnstile and kept moving! I heard him shout something in Swedish, and then his footsteps were coming rapidly after me. I turned a corner and hit the stairs up to the street, breathing hard, taking as many as I could manage at a time, and in an instant, it seemed, was back out on the street with the smells of the city wafting over me. The sky was pitch black and all the street lights had come on. Back at the same intersection, I turned up the street I’d been on and kept running, in and out of the scattered groups of pedestrians, barely missing people, heading in the direction of Gamla Stan and the hotel.

  Or at least I thought I was.

  I ran for another five minutes, and no one seemed to follow me. But nothing familiar came into view. So I kept running, at least five minutes more, and it was only then, when I was nearly exhausted, that I saw it, the most welcome sight I’d witnessed since I left America: an old bridge, and across it the ancient buildings of the Gamla Stan! I was getting closer to home, maybe just another ten minutes away! Huffing and puffing, I slowed down.

  But it was dark now, and those small streets that wound through the Old Town like little alleys through a maze were still between me and home.

  It wasn’t so bad at first. There was a wide avenue that turned to my left—northwest, it seemed to me—and went along the water as if it were going to wind around the entire little island that made up the Old Town. The old buildings on the other side of the street formed an outer wall for the island about four- or five-stories high, and most seemed to have either restaurants or little stores at street level. People were walking around, looking much more casual than in the commercial area I’d just come from, more relaxed. That was a good thing, and it helped me calm down a little—I kept telling myself, almost arguing with myself, that I was getting closer and closer to the hotel.

  Where was Grandpa?

  I kept moving along this curving road, just walking now, though at a brisk pace and not making eye contact with anyone, my chest still heaving. A big cathedral appeared on my left and then the road turned away from it and the water a little, and something came charging toward me from behind, rumbling like some sort of monster. I swung around and saw a subway train coming up from underground and moving through a kind of cement corridor behind a cage, like a big snake emerging out of the underworld. I froze for a second and let it sprint past me.

  I’m not sensitive.

  I kept moving. But then I started getting worried again. And I made another bad decision.

  It seemed to me that the road I was on was moving farther and farther to the left, away from where I needed to go, and there was no guarantee that it was going to turn the right way at any point. Maybe it didn’t go around the Gamla Stan island and end up on the north side where I had to be. But I was scared to go into the narrow alleyways of the Old Town.

  I hadn’t seen any police for a long time, nor had I seen Greta, but ever since I’d left the subway—in fact, since I’d left Globe City—it had seemed to me that I was being followed. It was a creepy feeling. I put it out of my mind—it was just me making things up.

  It was getting really dark now, and up ahead it seemed even darker. There was more light, and more people and tourists, in the area closer to the buildings. It seemed safer over there. So I crossed the street and walked along the other side, right beside the narrow streets of the Old Town. At each corner I peered into the cobblestoned alleyways. It seemed to me they went directly across the island as the crow flies, right toward central Stockholm and the Grand Hôtel. The little streets seemed better lit than I’d imagined, and there were crowds of people on them. What if I took a chance and went into the maze and moved straight across the island, a shortcut to the hotel? Surely as long as I kept going in the same direction, I’d come out on the other side near the palace, just minutes from home. It really seemed to me that if I stayed on this bigger street, I’d keep going in the wrong direction, farther away from home as it got later and later. I started panicking and ground to a halt.

  I turned down one of those narrow streets.

  It was like being in a tunnel, but as I walked along the two-foot-wide cobblestone sidewalk it seemed okay at first. I was passing harmless-looking people, many walking in the middle of the street, who barely even noticed me. There were all kinds of cafés and even little stores that were still open and lots of sounds too—people’s voices and music. But one thing was missing: children, kids. I was alone with thousands of adults in the alleyways of the Old Town late at night.

  Then the little street I was on came to end—a T. I had to choose which way to turn. Or should I go back? I paused for a while and then went to my left, choosing the alleyway that appeared to have the most people and the most light and went in kind of the right direction. But then it ended too, and I had to make another choice. It was making me dizzy. The streets seemed to be getting even narrower.

  My situation reminded me of video games where you went into tunnels or caves or a jungle or through the streets of some sort of futuristic or apocalyptic city in pursuit of bad guys, or when you were being chased, unarmed, twisting and turning for your very life.

  I was beginning to worry about my very life for real. The last street I’d chosen was the narrowest yet and had the fewest people. There weren’t many restaurants or stores and there were lots of locked doors, some with big steel padlocks.

  “Should I turn around?” I asked myself out loud. “Try to find my way back, start all over?”

  I was sweating, and my stomach was burning. Greta had long since vanished. The sense that someone was following me had gone. There were a few people half a block in front of me, but there was no one behind me at all.

  I stopped and looked straight up into the night sky. I could barely see it in the tight opening between the roofs of the buildings, so I couldn’t locate any stars to guide me, to tell me which direction I might go.

  I realized I not only had absolutely no idea which way was north—or south or east or west—but also had no sense of which way I had come from. I was utterly and totally lost.

  I lowered my head and looked up and down the alleyway. Now I was completely alone. But only for a moment. Someone was approaching, a dark figure, large and male, wearing a hood.

  THIRTEEN

  I turned and ran, back the way I’d come and then down another alleyway and then another and another, frantically searching and listening for people, for any other living thing. Soon I encountered a few tourists and then a few more. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted the safety of a crowd. Going around another corner I ran into someone carrying a drink, and it spilled all over my I Love Stockholm T-shirt. He said something that sounded like a Swedish swearword and then started yelling at me. I apologized without looking him in the eye, keeping enough distance between us so he couldn’t grab me, and got away.

  But just around the next corner I slipped as I tried to make a quick turn and fell face first onto the cobblestones. There was something gross on the ground. I didn’t know what it was, but I figured it was what had made me fall. It smelled awful, so maybe it was dog poop—there were lots of dogs in Stockholm. I picked myself up and noticed that my shirt was torn and so were my pants, the hole that had ripped open exposing my knee and some blood. I wiped myself off, rubbed my hand across my eyes to stop the tears and again raced on, down one alleyway after another, out of my mind with panic.

  Finally, I stopped near a group of restaurants and a crowd of people. I leaned against a wall and took in great gulps of air, trying to stop the fear that had been fueling my flight, pressing my head against the cool stone surface, telling myself that I was safe now.

  When I had calmed down a little, I lifted myself off the wall and stood up straight. I opened my eyes and looked along the street I was on, way along it, and I thought I saw a girl on a bicycle in the distance. I couldn’t tell if it had a horse’s head, but it seemed that she was looking back down the street toward me. Then she moved on. And when she did, I saw someth
ing heavenly behind her—open space and beyond it the purple-brown walls of the royal palace!

  I started running again, this time exhilarated rather than afraid, and before I knew it emerged on the wide street at the south end of the palace and into freedom. There was the harbor to my right! There were lots of lights and scores of people and boats easing along nearby and, across the water, the outline of the one and only Grand Hôtel!

  “YES!!” I cried out, not caring who heard me. I started at a quick pace for my destination, turning at the front of the palace and walking along the water, then over the bridge and then right along the north side of the river toward the front doors of the hotel.

  By the time I got close, I was much more relaxed, moving slowly and feeling very grown up. It was like Grandpa had said to me: I was getting older, capable of more things, and it wasn’t so bad to have your capabilities tested. I’d passed. Man, would I have lots to tell him. I had the feeling that though he’d be freaked-out by all of this, he’d be pretty proud of me too.

  But the doorman gave me a funny look as I approached the door, and when I put my hands out for it, he reached for me and said something in Swedish. I didn’t think it was a swearword, but it wasn’t very pleasant either.

  I turned my shoulder like I’d often done in baseball when running down the third base line trying to avoid a catcher’s tag while heading for home. I guess this doorman hadn’t played much baseball, because he totally missed me. But I wasn’t going to wait around for him to catch up. I bolted up the steps and into the lobby and made for the golden elevators across the room. But a bellman, or maybe the concierge, saw me coming and tried to block my way.

  What was going on? But I’d forgotten what I looked like. I was filthy, my shirt covered in some alcoholic drink and caked with grime, my pant leg was ripped open at the knee, where I was bleeding, my face was dirty, and of course… I smelled like dog poop.

  I turned and made for the reception desk. These guys would recognize me, wouldn’t they? They’d surely seen me before.

  But the guy on duty didn’t look familiar, and as I ran up to him he barked something in Swedish at me. I wasn’t sure if it was a swearword too, but it definitely could have been.

  “I’m staying here,” I stuttered, “with…with my grandfather…David McLean!”

  “Take him out of here!” cried the man behind the desk in English, glancing up and down the lobby, looking embarrassed. In an instant, two bellmen had me in a grip and were ushering me toward the main doors.

  “You can’t do this! I AM STAYING HERE WITH MY GRANDFATHER!” I shouted.

  “Not anymore,” said one of the big blond bellmen with a grin as they shoved me out onto the street.

  Now I was lost and homeless.

  FOURTEEN

  That was when I broke down. I couldn’t take it anymore. I staggered across the broad street in front of the hotel and over the wide sidewalk to the steel-tube fence that ran along the edge of the water, where people stood to take in the spectacular view of the palace and the older town. And I started to cry.

  I buried my face in my hands and didn’t look up for a long time. But after a few minutes I felt my grandfather’s hand on my shoulder…not his real hand. I imagined it.

  I thought about what he would say if he were here beside me. He’d tell me to get ahold of myself, to get off my butt and find a way to locate him, no matter how impossible the situation might seem. I straightened up. I had passed a number of policemen since I’d crossed the last bridge, and there were several within sight right now. I should go into a restaurant, a fast-food place, there were American ones here, and go to the washroom and clean myself up and then find a cop and speak to him in a clear, mature voice and convince him that I wasn’t a street kid and that I needed help. Wouldn’t he help someone like that? But the terror I’d been feeling started invading me again. What if he wouldn’t listen? I was in deep trouble in this foreign city. I dropped my head again and fought myself, trying not to collapse. This is stupid, I told myself. Just talk to someone, anyone—they’ll help you. Then I felt a real hand on my shoulder. It was smaller than Grandpa’s and gentler.

  “Mr. Adam?”

  I looked up and saw Greta, the weird girl, peering at me. I pretended to notice something across the water and turned my face toward it, running my hand quickly across my eyes and wiping them as best I could.

  “Were you crying?”

  “No.”

  “You’re awfully sensitive.”

  “Stop saying that!”

  “I only said it twice!”

  “I’m not crying. It’s windy out here. The wind is in my eyes.”

  “Sure,” she said, popping up the stand on her bike and then leaning against the railing with me, looking out across the water as if we were together or something. The monkey stared out with us, one of the gang. None of us uttered a word for a while. All we could hear were the sounds of Stockholm…and maybe my pounding heart.

  “I’m not a crier,” she said suddenly. “Haven’t cried once, ever.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Well, maybe once or twice, but not very often. I bet you don’t believe that.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I bet you think all girls are criers. If I went around crying all the time, I’d be in deep trouble. In fact, I’d be dead.” She smiled. It was a pretty goofy smile, wide and genuine, framed by that red hair and ponytails, and it almost made me smile back. I looked away quickly.

  “I really don’t care,” I said.

  “You should never judge a book by its cover or a girl by her appearance.” She paused for a few seconds and smiled again. “Hey, that’s pretty good.”

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “I hope you don’t grow up to be one of those guys who judges girls by their looks. A lot of guys turn out that way, and it sucks. It’s what’s inside that matters, you know. Character…that sort of thing.”

  “Aren’t you the philosopher.”

  “No, I’m not a philosopher, I’m a kid, and I plan to grow up to be the prime minister of Sweden, or maybe the secretary-general of the United Nations. I don’t think being a philosopher would pay well.”

  “I didn’t mean that you actually were.”

  “Well, you said it.”

  Wow, what a fruitcake.

  “So are you going to spend the rest of the night here, leaning against the fence crying?”

  “I wasn’t crying!”

  “Man, you really are sensitive.”

  I started walking away, but she kicked up the stand on her bike and followed me, her monkey shrieking and pointing at me as if to say, He’s getting away! Follow him!

  “I’ve got a dare for you,” she said.

  “Go away.”

  “I bet you are going to stay around here somewhere and eyeball the hotel until whomever it was you were with, some adult, comes back and saves you. Failing that, you’ll give up and with a trembling heart ask some other adult, some stranger, to solve everything for you. Who are you with? Who is your knight in shining armor?”

  “It’s my grandfather, David McLean, and what if I am waiting for him?”

  “It’s boring, and what if he never comes back? What if he has abandoned you?”

  A bolt of terror shot through me. I wished she would just shut up.

  “He’ll be back. He has to come back.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he cares about me and because he came here with me and will, you know, kind of notice that something seems to be missing. I’m sure he’s frantic and out there somewhere”—I looked at the city—“desperately searching for me.”

  “People who are close to you and loving you sometimes just disappear,” she said in a lower voice, almost as if she were saying it to herself.

  I tried not to look petrified. What if Grandpa had really done that? Why had he brought me to Sweden in the first place? I thought about all the meetings he’d had, visiting mysterious “friends.”
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br />   “It’s absurd to wait around here,” said Greta. “You’re only doing it because you are afraid. You could never live on your own like I do.”

  “Yes, I could.”

  “Then prove it. Here, I’ll give you a few kronor,” she said, and she reached into her pocket and brought out some colorful Swedish money. “See if you have the courage to go off on your own into Stockholm for a while, just a while, and buy a meal, and survive, like I do… like a girl.”

  I looked down at the money and then up at her face, which was set in a hard expression, her lips held tightly together, her eyes narrowed.

  “You can’t do it, can you?”

  I paused for a second and then swiped the money out of her hand and walked in the direction of downtown Stockholm, away from the hotel and the Gamla Stan and everything that provided me with even a touch of comfort, including Greta Longrinen.

  FIFTEEN

  At first I didn’t even look behind me. I just kept walking away from the hotel, along the wide street that curved around the water in front of the spectacular old buildings that seemed to be guarding modern downtown Stockholm. But I knew she was following me. I could feel it. And when I got to a square (well, really more of a round) with a statue of some guy, probably a king, on a horse, I glanced back and saw her advancing behind me like she was James Bond or someone, keeping an eye on me. Maybe I should have picked up my pace and lost her at that point, but something inside me didn’t want to—she was my only lifeline now.

  I had some idea where I was going, since Grandpa and I had gone this way in the early afternoon when we were looking for gifts and souvenirs in the trendy shopping area not far from here. So I turned up one of those streets, a kind of walking promenade, though it was wide enough for cars, with gray blocks for the road surface. There were lots of people around, which was a relief to me. Even though it was nearly ten o’clock, quite a few of the little stores were open as well as all of the restaurants and pubs, and there was still lots of noise spilling out onto the street. People went casually past on bicycles. I couldn’t believe how many bikes there were in Sweden—they were everywhere. I pulled up against a wall between two cafés and looked back. I couldn’t see Greta in the crowd behind me now, though that didn’t mean she wasn’t there. I walked on, feeling like I was being followed—not necessarily by Greta, just by someone, by something—but every time I turned around, there didn’t appear to be anyone in pursuit.