I go and lie down on the bed—but I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t understand what’s going on. The man must be lying—but why would he? I’m sure I saw her! Only glimpses I know, but why would I imagine it? If only she wouldn’t always vanish so quickly…
As I think more, prickles start running up my spine. And then I start having, what some people would consider, truly crazy thoughts, like, what if the reason she vanishes so quickly and that no one else has seen her, not even the people who live there—what if that’s because she’s…a ghost?
Today I looked out of the window—even though I know that I should not—and I was shocked. I saw the ghost of myself—looking back at me. A girl in the window opposite. She peered out, just as I did, her shadowy shape a mirror image of mine, though her hair was light, her face pale. Is she a ghost, just as I am? Is the whole street maybe full of ghosts like me, and we know nothing of each other’s plight, or why we can neither live nor our souls rest in peace?
6
I look out of the window as often as I can that evening and the next day, but she doesn’t reappear. Then, in the evening, I see the woman coming out of the house. She’s on her phone. She walks up past the bus stop toward the store, barely glancing left or right as she crosses the street.
She’s deep in conversation with someone, and I can’t help wondering what they’re talking about. Maybe she’s telling a friend how the house gives her the creeps—especially that small front bedroom. She gets a chill every time she’s in there, and it makes her shudder. She wants to move.
I know this is just my imagination running wild, but as I watch, the woman turns and walks back to the house, still speaking in an animated way into the phone. She isn’t going anywhere—she just came out to talk privately. Maybe she was nervous about speaking in the awkward atmosphere in that room. She can’t tell her husband. He’d think she was lying. And she can’t explain it, but she feels as if she’s being watched. She looks like she’s shouting into the phone now.
She’s so loud I can hear a little of it, but I can’t make out the words, and, anyway, I don’t think it’s English.
The woman is back at her front door now. She glances up in my direction as she takes a key from her pocket, and she sees me. I pull back from the window, embarrassed, partly about being seen and partly because of the story I’ve been making up. I wait a minute and then cautiously look out again. She must have gone inside.
The ghost theory keeps going around and around in my head even though I try to ignore it. I don’t think I believe in ghosts, but right now I can’t think of another reason why I keep seeing a girl who nobody else sees, not even the people who live there.
When I feel up to it, I ask Mom to bring me my tablet so I can do some research. I can’t spend too long on it or I get headaches.
I start by looking up the address, 48 New Weald Road. Maybe I can find out who lives there, or even if anyone has ever died there. I don’t expect to find anything, but at least I’m doing something.
The first Google entries are real estate pages, house prices and homes for rent and for sale. Then there are the stores, the hairdressers. There’s a report on a burglary at number 249. A bus route being diverted. I keep scrolling through pages. It’s very boring, and my head soon starts to hurt, so I stop.
I lie down and decide to try meditating, which a doctor said might help me. Mom wasn’t impressed with the suggestion, but I found I really like it. I have an app on my phone, and it is definitely relaxing and something I can do without effort. Mom is baking downstairs. The smell wafts up, and I start by visualizing a piece of cake in my mind, focusing on that and nothing else.
Thoughts keep drifting back, though, even as I try to let them go. Maybe I need to think of another way to research, like asking someone who knows the area. I wonder if Mrs. Gayatri could help—she’s lived here a long time.
* * *
“I was thinking I might go next door and visit Mrs. Gayatri,” I tell Mom next time I’m well enough to be downstairs.
Mom glances up doubtfully. “Are you up to it? And I’m not sure you should go bothering her. I think she prefers her own company.”
“Maybe that’s because she doesn’t have any other option,” I suggest. “Anyway, she invited me—when I took that package to her. She sounded like she really wanted me to come.”
“Okay, if you want to.” Mom smiles. “Don’t stay too long, though—you don’t want to tire her, or yourself, either. Here—I’ll give you some apple cake to take with you.”
Like last time, Mrs. Gayatri takes forever to come to the door.
“Another package?” she asks, looking puzzled. “I don’t remember ordering anything.”
“No, this is some of Mom’s apple cake,” I tell her. “I’ve come to visit, if that’s okay? But say if you don’t feel like company. I won’t mind.”
“How lovely!” Mrs. G. smiles, her wrinkles briefly ironed out with pleasure. “Come on in, dear. Do you mind taking your shoes off?”
Even though we’ve lived next door to Mrs. Gayatri for ten years, I’ve never once stepped inside this house, and it feels strange following Mrs. G. into the hallway. I take my shoes off and put them on the mat.
“I don’t get many visitors,” she says, sighing as she leads me into a rather dark living room. She points to the red velvet armchair. “Sit yourself down. Can I get you a tea or coffee? Will you help me eat this cake?”
While she makes the tea, I sit looking around the room. There’s a slight smell of incense and a small statue in the corner that is part elephant, part man. There are photos—some very old sepia ones of people that look like they were taken in India. There’s one black-and-white wedding photo, and I wonder if it’s Mrs. Gayatri’s own wedding picture. I go closer to look.
Mrs. G. comes back in with flowery teacups and saucers on a tray. She sets the tray down on a small, dark, wooden table and then goes back for the cake slices on two matching china plates.
“I was just looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind,” I say.
“That was my wedding—so, so many years ago.” She smiles. “My darling husband Vijay. He died ten years ago, and I still miss him so much. These are my parents—they of course died many, many years ago—and my five big brothers, too.”
“Do you have no other family—no children of your own?” I ask.
Mrs. G.’s mouth turns down. Her eyes look suddenly glassy, and I wish I hadn’t asked.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.