Now that I’ve been downstairs, my small bedroom is feeling even smaller than it did before. Lying in my bed, all I can see is the pale pink walls, painted when I was six, matching pale pink curtains, my wicker chair by the window, and a white desk and white bureau against the wall. On the wall is a small picture—a Polish village scene with a girl outside a church—that once belonged to my grandmother. And I have a tiny bedside shelf for my glass of water, phone and clock.
My duvet cover makes my room look more grown up—it’s silky pink with splashes of purple on it. There’s no room for my cello in here, and maybe that’s for the best. It’s downstairs in the corner of the family room, and I am glad not to have to look at it and be constantly reminded that I can’t even pick it up, let alone play it. Marek’s room is a little bigger than mine, and Dad asked if I wanted to swap when Marek went to college. But I didn’t—his room is painted black and orange, which would have taken many coats of paint to cover. And anyway, I didn’t want to think of Marek as having left home. I thought he’d be back for summer vacation, and even when he’d finished college. I’m glad his room is still as he left it, waiting for him to come back.
I lie in bed, sleeping, listening to podcasts and audiobooks on my phone, meditating, and thinking of ideas for stories. Then my mind turns to Josh. I like him so much. Only Ellie knows how I feel. I wish I’d had the courage to say something to him while I was healthy. I kept hoping he’d speak to me, but maybe he’s shy. He’s in the grade above me but we were both in the orchestra—I could have said something then, but I didn’t. He’s probably going out with someone else by now and I wouldn’t blame him. He has no idea how I feel about him, so it’s not as if he’d be waiting for me to get better.
I get a message from Marek. He’s seen Mom’s photo of me sitting downstairs, and his message is full of excited smiley emojis, along with a photo of a frozen pizza, with the caption “My job is cheese sprinkling!”
Dad had better not see that!
I reply, telling him about the writing competition, and get more excited smiley emojis back. I think about telling him about the abduction, but I’m too tired to text that much.
I lie back and think about the award ceremony again. I just have to get well enough to go. I must.
* * *
A few days later, I’m feeling a little bit better. I don’t feel like attempting the stairs again, but I’m mostly okay being out of bed. I sit on the floor and open my chest of drawers, just for something to do. There I find the get-well card with the cheerful yellow sunflowers on it. I open it and run my finger over Josh’s signature. I wonder if he ever thinks about me now. The card is also signed by the other twenty-four members of the orchestra, but his is the only name in there that really matters to me. He’s an amazing violin player, and when we’d finished orchestra practice, he used to meet my eyes sometimes and smile. I’m sure something would have happened between us one day.
I put the card back in the drawer. My legs are hurting from sitting on the floor, but I don’t feel too bad otherwise, so I stand stiffly and sit on my wicker chair by the window, looking out. I still feel like I’m on a boat—but it’s a gentle rowing boat now. I watch as the woman at number 48 comes out, bumping the gray stroller with a rain cover over it, down the steps to the street. She hurries off up the road, and I glance up to the window above. There’s no one there.
It’s raining heavily now—big drops streaking down my window like bars, reminding me of the prison my room has become. It’s hard to see through the rain, but I try. There’s no one looking out across the street. Cars splash past in the big puddle by the bus stop.
The haziness makes everything seem unreal. It’s like the rain is trying to wash away what I saw—washing it all away, wiping the slate clean, a fresh start.
I can’t remember it clearly now. Maybe none of it happened at all. But if it did, what happened to that woman? I can’t help wondering about her.
* * *
It’s a week later when I get up the courage—and have the energy—to go downstairs again. And it’s fine! I stay for a whole meal, and also get back upstairs by myself, too. I do it again, each day stretching it out a little longer, and I don’t have any ill effects.
I feel full of hope—I’m finally getting better—and I want to do more.
Mom comes into the living room, waving a package at me. “I’m just running next door,” she tells me. “The deliveryman left it here this morning, when he couldn’t get anyone to sign for it.”
“I could take it,” I offer.
Mom looks at me in surprise. “Are you sure you feel up to it?”
“It’s only next door. And it would be good to get outside. Let me, Mom. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” says Mom, but she’s looking very doubtful.
“Is it forty-three?” I ask her. “Won’t they be at work?”
“No—forty-seven,” says Mom. “Mrs. Gayatri.”
“How did she manage to miss a package?” I comment. “She never goes out.”
“She does sometimes,” Mom says with a shrug. “Maybe she was having a nap or just didn’t hear the door.”
“Okay. I won’t be long,” I tell Mom.
It’s weird putting on outdoor shoes when I’ve worn nothing but slippers for months, and I’ve rarely been out of bed enough to even need them. My shoes feel hard and uncomfortable in contrast.
“Put your coat on,” Mom fusses. “And your scarf.”
“It’s only next door!” I say, but I do it anyway.
I take the small package and step out of the house so happy to actually be outside. I wonder what Mrs. Gayatri has ordered. It’s rectangular but not heavy. We don’t see our neighbors very often. There’s a young couple on the other side, at number 43. We only know their names because they sometimes have packages delivered while they’re at work, and Mom takes them in. I don’t remember Mrs. G. ever having a delivery before, though.
We don’t see her much, either, though I used to sometimes see her weeding her front garden. She’s the only person around here who has pots and flowers and bushes in the front. She’s not very chatty, but she always has a smile and says hello if we pass her. Of course, since I’ve been sick I’ve only seen her from my window, on her rare walks up the street to the store.
The cool breeze makes my cheeks tingle as I stand on Mrs. G.’s front step and ring her bell. I feel a buzz of excitement and breathe in deeply. It’s one step closer to normal life. There’s no answer, and I wonder if the bell is working. I wait a few moments, try again, and then resort to the old-fashioned lion’s-head knocker. I listen but can hear no sound from inside. The lion’s face is snarling at me, and I’m about to turn around and go back home because my legs are beginning to throb, which sometimes happens when I’m standing still. Then I hear a small sound—a definite movement from inside. “Mrs. Gayatri?” I call. “It’s me—Kasia from next door. I have a package for you.”