Penny Joelson - Girl in the Window

I start going again, before I panic. And then I’ve made it! I’m down! I’m a little giddy, but I’m here.

I wait for a few moments to get steady, then I take a deep breath and stroll casually into the kitchen. I’m almost surprised that it looks exactly the same. I feel like so much time has passed that Mum might have a new tablecloth or kettle or something. She’s busy at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The smell is like a life force to me. I feel stronger just being close to it.

‘Hi, Mum! That stew smells delish.’

She nearly drops the spoon in the pan.

‘Kasia!’ She rests the spoon on a plate and flings her arms around me. She knows to be gentle. She lets go of me and rubs her eyes.

‘Don’t cry, Mum!’ I tease.

‘It’s onions, just the onions,’ she says with a smile. ‘You should have told me you wanted to try coming down. I would have helped you, mój aniele! Do you feel OK? Are you sure it wasn’t too much? Come – sit. After all those stairs you must sit. Let me get you a drink.’

She brings me a cushion for the hard, plastic chair. My whole body is so sensitive these days. I’m already starting to feel weak, but I don’t say anything about it. I hope Dad gets home soon. I’m not sure how long I’m going to last.

I glance at the photos on the fridge. Me and Dad making silly faces, Mum posing on a bridge, a picture of my aunt and uncle in Poland. There’s one missing – the one of me and my brother Marek. I’m sad, but not surprised. Dad and Marek haven’t spoken since he dropped out of uni and went off around Europe.

Dad is home early to my relief – and the expression of delight on his face as his large frame and bald head fill the kitchen doorway makes it all worthwhile.

He’s still in his work clothes, dirty from his day at the building site, but he does his funny version of a traditional Polish celebration dance round the small kitchen. Mum hastily moves crockery and pans out of the way so nothing goes flying and I am laughing so much it actually hurts.

‘ Moje kochanie ,’ he says, gently stroking my hair. ‘It’s so lovely to have you down here and not exiled upstairs. I hope this is a sign of good things to come.’

‘I only wish Marek was here to see you too,’ Mum says, sighing.

‘So do I,’ I tell her, getting a pang as I imagine my brother here too, grinning and high-fiving me.

Dad tuts scornfully.

‘Dad!’ I protest.

‘Let’s not spoil the evening talking about him ,’ Dad says firmly. ‘Give me two ticks to get changed and when I come down, we’ll talk about something else, something happier.’

Mum winks at me when he’s gone and picks up her phone from the worktop. ‘I’ll take a photo of you at the table and we’ll WhatsApp it to him,’ she says quietly. ‘Marek will be so pleased.’

Dad comes back down and Mum serves up.

‘Well, what’s new?’ Dad asks.

‘We had a visit from a policeman,’ Mum says. ‘Very handsome he was!’

‘I hope he didn’t stay long then,’ Dad teases. ‘This about what you saw the night before, Kasia?’

I nod and Mum tells Dad what he said.

‘I hope they find the woman,’ I say. ‘I just want to know she’s OK.’

‘Well, you did the right thing reporting it,’ Dad says to me. ‘The rest is up to them.’

I know Dad’s right. There’s nothing else I can do.

‘I thought we were going to talk about happy things,’ says Mum.

‘Hey, yes! How about this for a happy thing?’ I say, smiling.

I tell them about winning the writing competition and they are both thrilled. Dad gets up to do another celebration dance but Mum tells him to stop or he’ll get indigestion.

‘I want to get well enough to go the award ceremony,’ I tell them. ‘And I want you both to come with me.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ says Dad, ‘but you know how things are. It isn’t always easy for me to get time off. It’s a big project, this sheltered housing, and we’re a month behind already. Hopefully by then we will be back on track.’

Although I want Dad to be there, I’m mainly pleased that he’s not even questioning the idea that I’ll be able to go myself.

‘It’s exciting Kasia, but you need to be careful,’ says Mum. ‘We’ll have to see how you are nearer the time.’

Mum may be more realistic, but I prefer Dad’s optimism. Although as she speaks I realise that the room is starting to spin. I don’t want Mum to be right, but in the end I have to tell her. ‘I need to lie down.’

‘Let me help you back up to bed,’ she says. ‘You’ve done really well, but that’s enough for now. I can bring you up dessert if you’d like some.’

As I stand up, panic rises in my chest. ‘Mum – I don’t think I can do it – I don’t think I can get back upstairs. I need to lie down now!’

‘Lie on the sofa for a minute,’ Dad suggests. ‘Here – take my arm.’

He helps me into the front room where I collapse on to the sofa. I still feel like I’m on a boat in a storm and the panic is overtaking me. I want my bed – I want to be in my room.

After twenty minutes, I don’t feel any better. Dad sits down beside me.

‘I want to go to bed,’ I tell him.

‘I’ll help you, kotku .’ He holds out his arm.

I shake my head. ‘I can’t stand up, Dad.’

‘Lucky you have a strong father then,’ he says. He’s standing now, smiling and holding out both arms.

‘Dad!’ I exclaim. He hasn’t carried me anywhere since I was about five years old.

‘I’ve carried heavier weights around the site today,’ he assures me. ‘Look at these muscles.’

Before I can protest he has me in his arms and is lifting me. Much as I hate being treated like a child, I enjoy feeling safe and warm and held and I am more grateful than anything when he lowers me gently on to my bed.

4

I can’t get up the next day or the next and, apart from crawling to the bathroom next door, I don’t try to do much else. The only other thing I stand to do is draw the curtains – open in the morning and closed at night. I know Mum would do it, but I want to look out – remind myself that there is a world out there.

This evening I look across the road and I can see a light on upstairs in the room opposite mine at number forty-eight. Someone is drawing the curtains there too. I briefly catch a glimpse of the figure but it doesn’t look like the man or woman who live there. It’s someone skinnier – a girl, I think. Was it her I saw in the window the other night, when the woman was abducted?

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 wardrobe 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 lounge 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 uni. 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 in the long holidays, and even when he’d finished uni. I’m still glad his room is as he left it, waiting for him to come back.