Cecelia Ahern - There’s No Place Like Here

It turned out that I was one of the last to see her. When Grandma and Granddad arrived at noon that day, I opened the door to welcome them in and Jenny-May cycled past. She turned to look at me and gave me a look. One of her looks that I hated so much. A look that could wither you instantly. A look that said “I’m better than you and you are going to lose today at King/Queen and then Stephen Spencer will know what an incompetent lanky idiot you are.” I looked over my grandmother’s shoulder as I hugged her and watched Jenny-May cycling down the road with her head held high, her chin back and nose in the air, and her blond hair falling to the small of her back. I did what anyone in my situation would have done. I wished she would disappear.

That day my dad won £500 in the lotto scratch cards. He was so delighted, I could tell. He sat down in the kitchen with me and tried not to smile, but I could see the corners of his lips curling. We could hear Mrs. Butler crying in the next room with my mother. He placed his hand over mine and I knew he was thinking right then that he was so lucky, what a lucky father to win money in the lotto and still have his daughter when people like Mr. and Mrs. Butler were suffering so much. I, in turn, was glad that I hadn’t gone missing and due to Jenny-May’s no-show I was now the undisputed champion of King/Queen. I’d also made some new friends now that Jenny-May wasn’t around to tell them not to. Things were going great for my family and life couldn’t possibly be any worse for Mr. and Mrs. Butler. My parents stayed up late those nights talking and thanking God how they had been blessed.

But something inside me felt different. Jenny-May’s last stolen glance had taken a part of me with it. That day, Mr. and Mrs. Butler weren’t the only parents to lose a child.

Like I said, there’s always balance.

Despite Dr. Burton’s threats and protestations, Jack had decided to continue with his mission and make the journey to Leitrim after all. Another night spent in young Bobby’s room had awoken the drive within him to find Donal, not that it had needed much of an awakening. It was the part of him that was constantly wide-eyed and alert, searching around for answers, clues, and meaning with every beat of his heart. He was still clinging to the idea that finding Sandy was his way out. She was the medicine his overworked mind needed in order to rest. Why exactly, he didn’t know, but he had rarely felt such instincts for something in his life. It was as though the part of him that had been lost along with Donal had been replaced by a strengthened sense. He was like a blind man being led by his heightened sense of smell; by touch he could orient himself; by sound he could listen to his heart. When Jack had lost Donal, he had lost his vision but he’d gained a new sense of direction in his life.

He didn’t know what he was going to say to Sandy’s parents when he saw them, if indeed they were home or if they would even give him the time of day. He just kept on following the invisible internal compass that had replaced Donal. At noon he found himself sitting in his car around the corner from the housing estate where they lived, taking deep breaths. It was a Saturday but the small cul-de-sac was quiet. He got out of the car and strolled down the small street, trying to look inconspicuous but feeling and knowing he was completely out of place on the tranquil road, the only moving piece on a chessboard.

He stopped outside number four, where there was a small two-door silver car in the drive that glistened to within an inch of its life. The front garden was immaculate and was a hive of activity for bees and birds. All the summer flowers were out in their glory, colors of every shade, sweet honey scents, jasmines and lavenders. The grass was an even inch in height all around, the border where it met the soil a razor-sharp line that looked like it could cut any petal that dared to fall. A hanging basket overflowing with petunias and geraniums hung from outside the porch door. An umbrella stand sat inside, Wellington boots and fishing gear beside that. By the entrance a gnome hid under a willow tree holding a sign saying WELCOME. Jack relaxed slightly. Here were the boarded-up windows, barking dogs, and burned-out car from his worst-case scenario fears.

He opened the lemon-colored gate, which matched the front door and window frames, like a perfectly edible candy house. There was no creak; just as he suspected. He walked up the even flagstones, not a weed peeking up between the stones. He cleared his throat and pressed the doorbell, its tinkling sound also nonthreatening. He heard footsteps, saw a shadow through the obscured glass get closer to the door. Despite the friendly appearance of the woman he assumed to be Sandy’s mother, the arrival of a strange man on her doorway demanded the porch’s sliding door remain closed.

“Mrs. Shortt?” He smiled and gave her the least threatening face he could.

She seemed to relax a bit more and stepped into the porch area, the sliding door still a barrier. “Yes?”

“My name is Jack Ruttle. I’m very sorry to disturb you at home but I was wondering if Sandy was here?”

Her eyes moved fleetingly over him, quickly surveying the man who looked for her daughter and then she slid the porch door open. “You’re a friend of Sandy’s?”

He doubted saying no would get him any further, but would probably result in the closing of the door once again. “Yes,” he said, smiling. “Is she here?”

She smiled back. “I’m sorry Mr… what did you say your name was?”

“It’s Jack Ruttle, but just call me Jack.”

“Jack,” she said pleasantly, “she’s not here. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me where she is?” He kept smiling, knowing it had the potential to be far more of an awkward moment, a perfect stranger interrogating a mother on the whereabouts of her child.

“Where is she?” she repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Jack. Would she want me to tell you where she is?”

They both laughed and Jack shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I’m not sure how I could possibly convince you of that.” He held his hands out, admitting defeat. “Look, I don’t know what I was expecting when I got here but I just thought I’d take a chance. I’m very sorry for bothering you. Could I leave a message for her? Could you tell her that I’m looking for her and that…” He paused and tried to think of something that could convince Sandy to crawl out of her hiding place if she was in that house listening to him right now. “Could you tell her that I can’t do this without her. She’ll know what I’m talking about.”

She nodded, studying him all the while. “I’ll pass the message on.”

“Thank you.” There was a pause and Jack prepared to wrap it up.

“You’re not a Leitrim boy, by the sounds of it.”

He smiled. “Limerick.”

She mulled that over. “She was going to visit you last week?”

“Yes.”

“The one thing I do know about my daughter, she rang me on her way to Glin, was it?” She smiled and it faded quickly. “She was looking for someone of yours?”

Jack nodded, feeling like a teenager faced by a nightclub bouncer and hoping by his silence he would be allowed in.

Mrs. Shortt was quiet while she pondered what to do. She looked up and down the road. A neighbor across the road raised a garden glove to her and she waved back. Perhaps feeling less threatened, she made her decision. “Come inside,” she said, and motioned to him, moving away from the door, heading back down the hall.

Jack looked up and down the road. The neighbor watched him reluctantly step into the house. He smiled awkwardly. He could hear Mrs. Shortt in the kitchen clattering cups and plates. He heard the kettle go on. The inside of the house was as immaculate as the outside. The front door led directly into the living room. It smelled of furniture polish and fresh air, as though all the windows had been left open for the scents of the garden to rush inside. There was no clutter. The carpet was vacuumed, silver and brasses gleamed, wood shone.