Читать книгу Girl in the Window - Penny Joelson - Страница 10

3

My words to Ellie may have sounded brave and determined but I know it’s not going to be that easy. I am not in Year 10 with all my friends but, back in September, I did try to be. Nobody knew I was going to be so ill for so long.

I remember Ellie waiting for me at the school gate, a beaming smile spreading across her face when she spotted me.

‘I’m so glad you made it!’ she told me. ‘I didn’t want to start the new school year without you!’

‘Same here,’ I said, waving Mum off in the car. I meant it too. I’d always been determined to be well by the end of the summer holidays. I knew that I wasn’t OK, though. I was achy, weak and in pain. I’m sure Mum knew it too but we both wanted to believe that once I got to school I’d feel better and everything would somehow, magically, go back to normal.

‘Come on, let’s get in,’ said Ellie. ‘Don’t want to be late on the first day!’

We walked to the main entrance. I felt so weird and wobbly, as if the ground underneath me was moving. I tried to ignore the dull ache in my legs and the swollen glands making my neck stiff and uncomfortable.

Inside, everything seemed different. The corridor looked so much longer. Erin and Tilly rushed up to say hi, and Tilly tried to hug me. It hurt, but I didn’t like to say so. They were clearly pleased to see me back, chattering and asking me questions.

‘I thought it was just tonsillitis,’ said Erin. ‘How come it took you so long to get better?’

‘The doctor said I had post-viral fatigue,’ I explained. ‘I still felt ill even though the infection had gone. No idea why. It just happens sometimes. Did you have a good summer?’

‘We went camping in France,’ she told me. ‘The first week was amazing but then it rained the rest of the time! I never want to go camping again.’

She kept talking, telling me about all the other things she’d been doing. I zoned out. People were talking all around me too. I couldn’t take the noise. Surely school never used to be this loud? As we reached the stairs to our form room I looked up and was overcome by panic. It was a flight of stairs – a flight I’d climbed every day for years but now it looked like a mountain. How would I ever get up there? And the crowds – I couldn’t bear all the people swarming around me. I suddenly felt so fragile, as if I was a delicate flower about to be trodden into the ground.

‘You are OK, aren’t you?’ Ellie asked.

‘Not really,’ I told her.

‘You can use the lift if you need to.’

I did, but I felt weird, embarrassed, standing waiting for it. The lift is for disabled students. I’m not disabled. When I got out on the first floor, I was sure everyone was staring at me.

I sat down with relief in my form room, listening to more holiday stories, with people coming up to say they were so happy I was better and how I looked fine. I didn’t feel fine, even sitting down. When I looked at my Year 10 timetable, I had a sinking feeling. I even asked Ellie, ‘Have they put more lessons in this year?’ and she looked at me like I was mad.

‘French first!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Look, we’ve got Madame Dupont! She’s the best.’

I like Madame Dupont and I like French, but I didn’t smile back because the room was on the other side of the school. The thought of having to stand up and walk down more corridors, packed with students, already felt too much.

I made it to French but within minutes I felt so ill I couldn’t sit any more – I had to lie down. Ellie took me to the medical room. The nurse called my Mum straight away.

I’d lasted thirty-seven minutes in Year 10.

Now, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down. I imagine I’m an Olympic skier at the peak of a challenging slope. The previous contender has been taken off in an ambulance. I don’t know the extent of her injuries but, after checks, the organisers have declared the course safe. I am not so sure.

I cling to the banister, aware that I am holding my breath as I put one foot tentatively forward. Then the other. I’m getting into a rhythm, but halfway down I feel light-headed and my legs feel like they’re going to give way. I haven’t been downstairs since that day – the first day of term, 2 September, when I tried to go back to school. But I am starting to improve.

When I didn’t get better after tonsillitis, Mum and Dad were constantly trying to get me to do more and I had to make them understand that I couldn’t. Dad actually thought I’d got lazy from being ill in bed. Mum thought it must be depression or anxiety, especially when she took me to the doctor who did blood tests that all came back clear. The doctor said it was possible I had post-viral fatigue, and mentioned chronic fatigue syndrome or CFS, though it’s more often known as ME. It stands for Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. That was probably the reason I was taking so long to recover. But I don’t think Mum and Dad realised exactly what that meant, or how long it might take. I didn’t either. I know now, though.

I. Know. Now.

People can be ill for years with this. Some people never get better. I’m not going to be one of them. I can’t.

I’ve been thinking about trying to come downstairs for a couple of weeks – but I’ve been so scared of getting stuck halfway, or not feeling well enough to go back up again, that I’ve been too frightened to even try. I know I have to get over this fear, but it’s based on real experience. I only have to do the smallest thing and it wipes me out completely. Already I need to sit down, but that’s OK. Now it is as far to go back up as it is to keep going, and down is definitely easier.

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.