The door opens, and Mrs. Gayatri peers out nervously. She seems more shrunken and wrinkled than I remember, but her eyes are soft and kind.
She smiles. “Hello, dear. I haven’t seen you for a long time. I wondered if you’d gone away to college.”
“No. I’m fifteen.”
People often think I’m older because I’m tall for my age. I have Dad to thank for that. Mrs. G. is short—shorter than me.
“I’ve been sick—I am sick. It’s ME—Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,” I tell her. “I get exhausted after I do anything.”
“How awful for you,” she says.
“This is the first time I’ve been outside for months,” I tell her.
“Goodness, is it really? You poor girl! So, what can I do for you?”
“I’ve just come to bring you this.” I hold out the package. “The deliveryman left it with us. I’m sorry—I can’t stand for very long, and I have to get back now.”
“Thank you, dear,” she says. “It’s nice to see you. And if you ever feel like a change of scene—or company—you are welcome to pop in. And I mean that.”
I nod and smile. I always thought she liked keeping herself to herself. She doesn’t seem to have many visitors. But there’s a look of longing in her eyes as she says, “I mean that,” and I think she is genuinely lonely.
“Everything okay?” asks Mom as I come back into the house. She’s standing by the door, and she gives a big sigh of relief. She’s clearly been waiting for me, worrying. I made it. I went next door to deliver a package and came back again.
“Don’t make a big deal of it, Mom,” I beg.
“It’s progress, Kasia—progress,” Mom says softly.
I nod. I am mega happy with myself, though I’d never admit it to Mom.
Back upstairs, I rest in bed for a while and then go and sit by the window. A few people are walking down the sidewalk, each in their own separate world, though they are only a few feet apart. A man on his phone, a woman with fashionable high-heeled boots, a teenage girl with a bobble hat. A silver car appears and slows down near the girl. There’s something weirdly familiar about the scene, and my heart skips a beat as I remember the abduction. Is this the same car I saw? Is it going to happen again—to this girl? I am frozen to the spot.
The car pulls over and parks, and a man gets out. He glances toward the girl. I hold my breath. She’s still walking. She hasn’t noticed the car. Fear rises in my throat—but the man is walking the other way.
He’s heading for the barbershop on the corner. He goes inside.
I look again at the silver car and realize it isn’t the same kind. It’s a two-door and a completely different design.
My eyes turn to the upstairs window at the house across the street. The curtains are closed, and there’s no one there—but then I see one curtain move. A hand—a face—dark eyes, looking out. Then nothing. Again, I didn’t see clearly, but I’m sure it’s the same face I saw before, and I’m even more certain now that it wasn’t the face of the woman who lives there. This face is narrower, younger. A girl. Who is she? She disappeared so quickly.
The couple have a baby, but I’ve never seen a girl go into or come out of that house. If she’s the one who was looking out of the window, then why did the woman lie about anyone else living there?
5
“Mom, did you know there’s a girl living over at number forty-eight?” I ask. “As well as that couple and their baby. I’ve never seen her go out. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“A girl? I haven’t seen a girl,” Mom says as she picks up an empty mug from my bedside shelf. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
I start watching the girl’s window more closely. I’m certain she’s real. A couple of days later, I see her again, just as I hear Mom coming up the stairs. I call her urgently. I want her to see the girl—to prove that she exists. Mom comes running, thinking something’s wrong.
“Mom—look! She’s there now! The girl!”
I only turned away for a second, but as Mom reaches the window and I turn back, the girl has gone. Mom peers across the street. “I don’t see her, mój kotku. What’s so interesting about this girl?”
“I think it was her,” I tell Mom. “I think she was the one who saw what I saw, when that woman was dragged into the car. And the police didn’t speak to her, did they? Should I call the police again and tell them?”
“But the police went and talked to the people in the house, and nobody saw anything. You know that,” says Mom. “If a woman was abducted, I’m sure someone would have missed her by now and reported it. They found no one missing, did they? Maybe you were mistaken?”
I shake my head. “I know what I saw—and there is a girl across the street. I’ve seen her, too. And I never see her go out.”
“Someone could say the same about you,” Mom comments.
“Yes. Maybe that’s it!” I exclaim. “She could be sick like me—and that’s why she doesn’t go out. Maybe the people across the street didn’t want her stressed with questions, and that’s why they didn’t mention her to the police?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” says Mom. “If unlikely.”
“I want to go across the street and ask them,” I tell Mom. “Maybe we could even be friends?”
“Oh, Kasia. I don’t want you going around there annoying them. If you really think this girl exists and she might be stuck inside, sick like you, then maybe I could go over and ask for you.”
“Would you, Mom? Thanks! That’d be great.”
Mom goes downstairs and I sit at the window and watch her cross the street to number 48. It’s the man who opens the door. I can see Mom talking, but she isn’t there long.
I wait eagerly for her to come in and back upstairs. “So?” I ask. “What did he say?”
“Well, I asked—you saw me. And the man had no idea what I was talking about,” she tells me. “I felt embarrassed, Kasia.”
“What did he say?”
Mom gives me a quizzical look. “He said there’s no girl there.”
“What? Did he speak English? Maybe he didn’t understand,” I say, bewildered.
“He had an accent, but his English was clear enough,” says Mom. “Perhaps you imagined her. Or maybe a girl was there and now she’s gone, I don’t know. But she isn’t there now, and I think you should focus on other things.”