“Mom—don’t you think it looks like Mrs. G. had a daughter? The way she’s standing between them?”
“Maybe,” says Mom, nodding.
“Why would she hide the picture away and say she has no family?” I ask.
“I don’t know, Kasia, I really don’t.”
“Maybe you should take the picture with you to the hospital,” I tell her. “They wanted to know her next of kin, didn’t they? Maybe show them.”
“Yes,” says Mom, though she looks a little hesitant. “I don’t want to interfere, but I guess it doesn’t do any harm to take it.”
When Mom’s gone, I struggle out of bed and sit by the window. I look at the house across from mine and I think about the face I saw—the girl. I wish she’d appear now, but she doesn’t.
I’m lying down again when Mom comes back. I hear her feet hurrying up the stairs, faster than usual for Mom.
“Is Mrs. G. okay?” I ask, suddenly worried.
“Yes, she’s improving,” Mom says, sitting on the edge of my bed. “She’s able to talk, though her words are a little slurred. She was really glad to see me. The nurses were happy she had a visitor, too, since no one else has been to see her, and they said there’s no next of kin to call on. So, then I got out the photo.”
“Really? What happened?” I ask eagerly. I pull myself into a partial sitting position and Mom plumps up my pillow.
“We showed her the photo,” Mom tells me. “I felt very awkward—I thought Mrs. G. was going to get angry, but she had tears in her eyes. She admitted that the girl is her daughter. Can you believe it?”
“Why has she kept her secret?” I ask. “Why did she hide the photo?”
“Apparently they haven’t spoken for eighteen years,” says Mom. “Mrs. G. said she has no idea where she is now.”
“So, they might not be able to find her?” I ask.
“They’re going to try,” Mom tells me. “Mrs. G. gave them her daughter’s full name and date of birth, so we’ll have to wait and see. If they find her, I only hope the daughter wants to see her mom. It’s going to be very upsetting for Mrs. G. if not.”
“It’s so sad that they had a falling-out,” I say. “Did she say why?”
“No,” Mom tells me.
“You should have asked,” I say.
“It’s none of our business, Kasia,” says Mom. “She’ll tell us if she wants us to know.”
I know what Mom’s saying, but I’m frustrated. For a mother and daughter not to speak for eighteen years, it must have been something big.
Later I get up again and sit at the window looking out. There’s no sign of the girl across the street. There’s an old woman at the bus stop. Her shopping bag is bulging, and she leans it against the bench. She’s looking at the timetable now, but the bag is unbalanced, and, as I’m watching, it tips. A lemon falls out, followed by a box of crackers.
There’s a boy walking past, and he sees what’s happened and stops. I gasp a little when I realize it’s Josh. I haven’t seen him for so long—he looks taller, and his hair is longer. He crouches down and helps to gather the things. What a nice thing to do. The woman thanks him profusely. I’ve seen her there before, and it’s clear from her expression that she doesn’t have time for teenagers, thinking they are trouble with their rowdy music and phones, so Josh has taken her by surprise with his kindness. The old woman sits on the bench and tries once more to balance the bag, this time against one leg as she sits, with the other leg supporting it, too. Hopefully it won’t fall now. She watches Josh walk away—and so do I, longingly.
I wish I could call him. I wish he’d look up at the window and see me, but he doesn’t. I watch him walk away until I can’t see him anymore.
10
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drinking an herbal tea mix called “Energy” while Mom’s cooking chicken soup. This January weather is still so cold and gloomy, we need it to warm us up. Steam rises from the stove. “It’s only two weeks until the award ceremony,” I remind Mom. “I’m so excited about it.”
“Yes—I want to talk to you about that,” Mom says.
I look up to meet her eyes. Her serious expression makes me anxious.
“Is it Dad—can’t he come?” I ask.
“He won’t know until the last minute, Kasia. It isn’t that.”
“What, then?”
Mom sighs as she breaks noodles into the soup. “I’m so glad you’re doing much better—coming downstairs, going next door,” she says, “but it will be a long day, and I’m worried it’ll be too exhausting for you.”
I look at her in horror. “I have to go, Mom. I just have to! It’s the only thing I’ve been looking forward to.”
“I do want you to go,” Mom tells me. “I just don’t want you to undo all the progress you’ve made. There’s so much to think about—there might be a lot of standing, and we might not be able stop the car near the theater, so there will be walking, too.”
“But Mom!” I glare at her fiercely.
“Let me finish, Kasia.” Mom holds up a hand to stop me. “I’ve been making calls, and I’ve found out we can get a wheelchair on loan. What do you think about that?”
“A wheelchair?”
This isn’t what I was expecting. I feel all mixed up: relief that this isn’t a fight about not going, but also sadness and bitterness. Also, am I really so sick that I need a wheelchair? It feels like a backward step.
“It will be less tiring for you,” Mom says.
“I hope you’re not saying I should start using one all the time?” I ask.
“No, of course not. Just for this one occasion—and maybe other times to do things that would otherwise be too much. Let’s just try it—that’s all I’m saying.”
The idea of not having to walk, not having to stand, definitely makes the whole outing feel more doable. “Okay,” I tell her. “Just this once.”
When the wheelchair arrives, Mom wants me to sit in it and try it right away.
“I will be a learner driver, I need to practice!” she says.
I wish I could push myself, but my arms aren’t strong enough, and this wheelchair is the kind with small wheels that’s made to be pushed.
“I don’t feel like it right now,” I say, though, really, I don’t want to see the looks I’ll get from people we pass on the street—pitying looks.