When I’ve refilled the feeder, we sit on armchairs opposite each other.
“Mrs. Gayatri, you know you told me about the girl who died across the street? I don’t want to upset you, but I’d really like to know more about what happened.”
She frowns. “To lose your only child—it’s such a sad thing,” she says quietly. “She was a sweet girl. Meningitis, it was. There’s nothing more to tell really.”
“Meningitis?” I repeat. “So, she was sick?”
I was expecting something more dramatic—something that would give a reason for her to be appearing as a ghost.
Mrs. G. nods. “Nasty illness that—can still be a killer, even now. Her parents moved away in the end. I think it was hard for them to see…” She pauses, her eyes glassy for a moment. “To see other children growing up on the street when their child was no longer there. It was empty for over a year after they moved, number forty-six. I think people viewing the house could still sense the sadness.”
“You mean forty-eight?” I ask.
“Forty-eight? No.” Mrs. G. frowns. “What makes you say that? It was forty-six.”
“Forty-six?” I stare at her in surprise. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She nods firmly. “Poor Shari, she was only five, you know.”
I am speechless, silent, as I try to take this in. This isn’t about my girl at all—it’s the wrong house, and the girl is the wrong age. So now I’m back to knowing nothing at all!
Mrs. G. looks so sad. I know it was a tragic thing, but I’m surprised that she is this upset.
“I’m so sorry I asked you about it,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Never mind,” she says. “Let’s say no more about it.”
8
It’s Christmas Eve. We were supposed to be in Poland having a big family celebration, like last year. My cousin Aleksandra and I had such a great time together, walking around the Christmas markets, so pretty in the crisp, white snow, and then back to my aunt and uncle’s for delicious hot chocolate. Christmas in Lodz is like the pictures you get in England on Christmas cards, but I’ve never actually seen snow in England at Christmas. I like living here, but I love spending Christmas in Poland, and I especially love the buzz of being part of a much larger family—that’s something I never feel here in England.
But we’re not there because I’m not strong enough for the long journey, and I feel so bad about it. Mom is trying to put on a brave face. Dad is taking a chance to do some DIY—fixing a cupboard door that never shuts and putting up a new shelf in the kitchen. The banging is giving me a headache, and I’m relieved when it stops.
Then it’s too quiet—especially without Marek.
I’ve been hoping desperately that he might come home for Christmas, that he’ll just turn up and surprise us. We’ve never had a Christmas without the four of us being together. He hasn’t been in touch. Even as the fish is cooking for our traditional Christmas Eve meal, there’s a sound outside, and Mom rushes to the front door, but it was only someone leaving a flyer.
We eat our Christmas Eve meal—twelve different dishes including fried fish and potatoes—and Mom goes to church for midnight Mass and then again on Christmas morning. Dad stays with me. He’s never been too interested in church. He finds YouTube clips of funny kittens attacking Christmas trees to show me, trying to cheer us both up.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I tell him.
“What you have to be sorry for?” he asks gently.
“I know you love Christmas in Poland with Uncle Andrzej and Auntie Maria as much as Mom does. It’s all my fault.”
“My lovely girl, we’ll soon have you well. We will be in Poland again—maybe in the summer.”
“I hope so, Dad.”
Mom is trying so hard. She’s made her special Christmas cake. We have an amazing tree. But where’s Marek? We still haven’t heard from him. He hasn’t even responded to my messages.
The radio and TV give the impression of fun, but there are no cousins chattering and laughing, no aunt and uncle bickering, which makes me think of Mrs. Gayatri. It must be like this for her all the time.
“I’m feeling bad that Mrs. Gayatri is on her own,” I say to Mom. “Maybe we could ask her over for Christmas dinner later?”
We had our main meal last night, but we like to adopt some English traditions, too, and are having turkey for Christmas day.
Mom hesitates. “I’m not sure, love. She’s a Hindu. I don’t think she’ll want to celebrate Christmas.”
“But she’s all alone,” I say, frowning.
Mom meets my eyes, smiling softly. “There’s no harm in asking her, if you want to.”
I go next door, knock and wait.
“Happy Christmas!” Mrs. G. says as she opens it. “I didn’t expect to see you today. Aren’t you busy celebrating?”
“We usually go to Poland,” I tell her, “but I’m not well enough to travel. We wondered if you’d like to join us for dinner. Unless it’s against your religion?”
“How kind! I don’t celebrate Christmas, but I would be glad of company today—if you’re sure. Oh, but I am vegetarian. Is that a problem? I could always eat before I come…”
“It won’t be a problem,” I say, hoping that’s true.
“That is very kind—please tell your parents not to go to any trouble. What time would you like me?”
“Three p.m.”
“I will see you then.” Mrs. G. smiles warmly. “Thank you for thinking of me, Kasia.”
I feel good as I go back home and tell Mom that Mrs. G. has said yes. “Mom, she seemed really happy to be asked.”
“Well, there’s plenty of food!” Mom smiles.
“Actually, she’s vegetarian,” I announce.
“Oh.” Mom frowns. “What should I do? She can’t just eat potatoes and Brussels sprouts!”
I shrug. “I’m sure she doesn’t mind what she eats, as long as it isn’t meat. She was just happy to be invited.”
“Maybe if I add something spicy,” says Mom, tutting. She opens the cupboard where she keeps herbs and spices and starts rummaging. “I don’t have many spices, but I’ll see what I can do. Oh, Kasia—I feel awful. I know you’re trying to be kind, but it will be so embarrassing.”