Since You've Been Gone (11 page)

J
ermaine
's mom emerges from her bedroom and slowly makes her way, with the help of an ornately carved wooden walking stick, into the living room where I sit, chewing my fingernails nervously.

She looks much older than I expected. Although her movements are slow and deliberate, her eyes dance brightly and she smiles the entire time she's walking toward us. A silk kimono the colour of raspberries clings to her thin frame and long silver earrings dangle from her ears.

Now that I'm actually sitting in Jermaine's home, I begin to doubt the decision to stay. Mom will completely freak out about it when she finds out. I'll be grounded until I'm twenty.

With some difficulty, Jermaine's mom takes a seat on the armchair opposite me, carefully tucking her kimono under her. With her high cheekbones and delicate features, she must've been very beautiful when she was younger.

“My son tells me you haven't seen your mother in days,” she says. Her voice is gentle but firm.

I look over at Jermaine. Finding out he's told his mother about my secret doesn't sit well with me, though she does seem genuinely concerned.

I nod. “She didn't come home after her first night of work. We only just moved to London and she doesn't really know anyone here. Neither do I.”

His mom continues to study me carefully. Her gaze isn't interrogative, though, and I feel strangely safe with her. It's a good feeling after the events of the last few days.

“You'll stay here, then. Jermaine tells me the two of you want to see if you can find her tomorrow. If you can't, I will go with you to the police in the evening.” She wraps her slender fingers around the head of a leaping gazelle on the walking stick.

I try to swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “Thank you,” I say, even though the idea of going to the police still makes me sick with fear.

She smiles at me, but the smile doesn't touch the sadness in her eyes. “Just remember, Edie, we are never given a hardship greater than we can bear, but Lord knows sometimes we are handed challenges so great that we feel crushed by the weight of them.” Then, using her cane for support, she slowly lifts herself out of the chair.

“Jermaine, go and get some bedding out of the wardrobe in my room and fix yourself a space on the sofa. Edie will stay in your room, so make sure it isn't a tip. Good night.” She walks back down the hall and to her room, closing the door behind her.

“Be right back,” Jermaine says, following his mom.

I relax into the softness of the sofa's cushions and think about what Jermaine's mom said about challenges. Since the night we left Dad, Mom and I have been a team that couldn't be divided; I've always believed if we weren't together, it would be impossible to go on. But these last few days made me realize I need to be able make it on my own. I don't want to, but may not have a choice.

Jermaine comes back out and unceremoniously drops a pillow and blanket onto the opposite end of the couch from where I'm sitting. Then he plunks himself down beside me, draping his arm casually across the back of the sofa so that it rests just behind my head.

“I told you she wouldn't mind you being here,” he says, leaning forward to grab the remote control from the coffee table in front of us. In doing so, his arm brushes against my stomach.

“She's great,” I say. A siren wails outside the window, its high-pitched squeal momentarily drowning out our conversation and the sound of the BBC news reporter on the television. Scenes of families wading their way through waist-high waters, carrying all their worldly possessions on their backs, flash across the screen, making me feel guilty about the charity money again.

“Too bad you didn't meet her before she got sick,” Jermaine replies. “She was so strong and wouldn't take anything from anyone and let them know it.”

I shrug. “Being strong isn't always about being up in someone's face,” I say. “Your mom seems pretty strong to me. Look at people like Precious. She's always in my face, but I don't think she'd be all that without her friends backing her every move. Not that running away works either.” I pause, not really sure where I'm going with this. “I just wish Mom hadn't run that night. I think we should've tried to fight what Dad was doing.”

“Running was probably the safest thing for your mum to do at the time.”

“I guess,” I say. “But for some reason, he just won't let Mom go. Or me. It's stupid — other people's parents get divorced, remarry, and sometimes even spend holidays together. Why can't he just let us get on with our lives?”

I look over at Jermaine. He's staring intently at me. For a moment, we remain like that, our faces only inches apart. Then he slowly leans in and I feel his breath on my cheek. Then we're kissing. Kissing Jermaine makes me feel both nervous and excited all at once. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking. Does he think I kiss okay or that it's horrible? I wish I'd had the chance to brush my teeth or at least chew gum before this.

His hands wander to my breasts and I push him away.

“Your mom,” I whisper. “What if she comes out?”

Jermaine smiles at me lopsidedly. To my relief, he looks as flustered and nervous as I feel.

“My room is next to the toilet. Let me know if there is anything you need,” he says, pointing toward the first closed door down the hallway.

“I'm not having sex with you,” I say. “Not with your Mom being home.” I don't want to tell him I'm a virgin, that being at thirteen different schools has left me with hardly any sexual experience.

“I actually thought we should get some sleep 'cos of tomorrow,” he says.

“Oh,” I mumble, feeling ridiculous. I get up and subconsciously smooth the front of my jeans. “See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Edie,” he says.

Mom's back! I'm standing on the cement platform near the
Cutty Sark
when I spot her. Even though her back is to me and the sun is so bright and warm that it makes me squint, I can tell straight away that it's her. She's wearing her favourite red dress, the one with tiny black, embroidered flowers edging the hem, her hair hanging loose down her back.

“Mom!” I shout. My heart hammers inside my rib cage. Everything's going to be okay now. I hold my hand above my eyes to shield them from the sun's rays. This is by far the warmest it's been since we arrived in London.

She turns and smiles at me. The crazy thing is, when she turns toward me, I can smell her perfume even though she's standing at least twenty feet away from me. Since I was little, she's always worn this scent that is a mix of vanilla and hibiscus flowers. The smell wraps itself around me like a blanket.

I start to walk, then run to her. But instead of coming toward me, she turns and walks toward a little dome-topped brick building leading to the foot tunnel that connects Greenwich to the Isle of Dogs and the Docklands on the other side of the murky river.

“Mom! Wait for me!” I yell, propelling myself forward.

The thing is, the harder and faster I run, the farther away from Mom I seem to be. She walks through the doorway of the building. In a moment I won't be able to see her anymore. I'm trying so hard to reach her that it's becoming difficult to breathe.

Why is she walking away?

“Mom!” I scream, the effort making the muscles in my throat scream with pain.

But she doesn't turn or even acknowledge me. I throw myself forward, tears streaming down my face.

“Don't leave me! Wait! Don't leave me again!”

A final flash of red and she's gone. I collapse into a heap on the pavement, burying my head in my hands. Great heaving sobs wrack my body. I'm in the exact same spot I was when I first saw Mom. I haven't moved.

I bolt up. Darkness surrounds me like a glove. As my eyes slowly adjust, I make out the shadowy shape of a small dresser against the opposite wall that's illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from a solitary window. A poster of a soccer player named Rooney is tacked above it. Then I remember: I'm at Jermaine's place.

I lie back on the damp pillow and gaze out the window. A sliver of moon peeks through the haze of the sky. All I can do is hope that somewhere out there, Mom is looking up at the same moon.

“Y
ou
look tired,” Jermaine says between bites of buttered toast and jam.

“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, not looking up from my toast. My stomach rumbles hungrily, but just the thought of using energy to chew the bread makes me feel even more exhausted. I put my face in my hands, trying to block out the bright sunshine streaming in through the kitchen windows.

“You mad at me?” Jermaine asks.

I lift my head. “No. Why would I be?”

The silence between us is suddenly electric. My face tingles as I remember last night. “I just had some bad dreams about Mom and didn't sleep that good.”

“Well, we're searching today, right?” Jermaine says. “Still have that photo?”

I nod. “But it didn't help much yesterday.”

“That's 'cos we're looking in the wrong places! We should go to the hospitals. If your mum hasn't contacted you, it might be because she's got amnesia or is unconscious or something.”

I desperately want to believe Jermaine's theory about Mom, but it's too Hollywood. Real life doesn't hand out zany happy endings like that. On the other hand, Mom wouldn't have ID on her with our current address, so there is the tiniest possibility …

“That's a great idea,” I say. “Maybe she's been in an accident or fallen and bumped her head. Or something.”

Jermaine looks relieved. “Let's go then,” he says.

After eating, we quickly get ready. Having not changed for twenty-four hours, I tell Jermaine I want to stop by the apartment and put on some fresh clothes. Now that I know he might actually like me, the last thing I want is to mess it up by stinking like a garbage can. Our new plan has renewed my optimism, and, as we walk along in the bright morning sunshine, I find myself wondering if the dream last night might've been some sort of sign that Mom was alive and well. I can barely contain my excitement. Why didn't we think to check the hospitals yesterday?

“I reckon we should go to London Bridge first and check out Guy's Hospital,” Jermaine says. “It's huge. And it's where I was born, so it's gotta be lucky.”

“You wish,” I say with a laugh. I look up at the sky. Already the sun is surrendering to an army of grey clouds.

We're nearly at the entrance to the car park in front of our block of flats when Jermaine grabs my hand and yanks me down to the ground.

“What the —” I splutter.

“Shhh,” Jermaine says, holding a finger to his lips like I have no clue what the word means. I glare at him.

Ignoring me, he scurries onto a nearby front garden, moving low to the ground with his legs bent like a crab. He waves me over to where he's squatting behind an overgrown hedge.

Something's wrong. I have no idea what Jermaine saw or if what he's doing, but I run over as quickly as I can and crouch down beside him.

“They're there again,” he says, keeping his voice low. He straightens a bit and pulls apart a section of the hedge. “Look.”

I peer through the bushes, trying to not to poke out my eyes on any of the random branches. The area outside our apartment is empty.

“Second-row walkway,” Jermaine says. “Looks like they're knocking on doors and asking the neighbours something.”

I look again and there they are: yellow-vested, talking to the neighbours who live directly below us. It looks like it could be the man and woman from last time, but from this distance I can't be one hundred percent sure.

“Maybe they're here for some other reason,” I say.

Jermaine looks at me. “You want to take that chance?”

I shake my head. Clearly I'm not going to get a change of underwear and the chance to use deodorant today.

We board a train at New Cross Gate Station. I take the window seat, still nervous that the community officers will find us. I might be slightly paranoid, but considering the life I've led with Dad hunting us down all the time, it isn't surprising.

Within five minutes an announcement informing us that the train is approaching London Bridge breaks the silence of our ride. Butterflies of anticipation dance inside my stomach.

“This is us then,” Jermaine says, getting up from his seat.

I follow him into the aisle. Maybe it's because it was a Sunday, but the train seems less crowded, with only a smattering of young families and tourists making their way into the city.

The platform outside the train is more chaotic. Jermaine punches the open button as soon as it lights up and we jump out onto the concrete, nearly falling over a harried-looking mother who's simultaneously battling her young, teary son and hyperactive dog. Both the boy and the dog appear to have decided they aren't going to enter the train without a fight.

The dog, whose wiry grey hair makes it look a lot like a barking toilet brush, wraps its leash around the woman's ankles as the young boy chases it. As the woman bends down in a desperate attempt to try and untangle herself, I catch a glimpse of something directly behind the commotion that makes my heart stop.

My dad is standing there.

Even though it's been a few years, there's no doubt it's him: same spiky black hair (though now receding slightly), same prominent nose that I luckily didn't inherit, and the same strong, sharp jawline.

He's looking at the arrivals and departures screen.

“We need to get out of here,” I say to Jermaine. I turn back toward the train, hoping to hop back on before the doors slide shut, but it's too late.

“Wait!” the woman shouts. She runs over to the train door, dog and child dragging behind her, and begins hammering her fist against the glass. Loads of people turn to see what the commotion is about, including my father.

And then, just like in the movies, our eyes meet. I'm sure the look of absolute disbelief and shock that washes across his face is mirrored on my own. He begins to move toward me.

“Run!” I scream at Jermaine. I throw myself in the opposite direction of my father, dashing toward one of the staircases further along the platform.

I reach the stairs and leap up them two at a time, praying I won't trip. Jermaine's beside me within moments.

“What is it?” he asks breathlessly. I shake my head. I can't speak; I don't want to take the risk of slowing us down. My lungs feel like they're on fire.

“Edie!” my father shouts from behind us. He isn't that far behind.

Jermaine is outpacing me now; his long legs allow him to run much faster. We're on the upper platforms now, having to weave around suitcase-carrying tourists, elderly people, and hand-holding couples.

“Get out your Travelcard!” Jermaine shouts over his shoulder to me. He's reached the turnstiles and is sliding through.

My Travelcard! I frantically search my pockets.

“Edie! I just want to talk to you!”

Unable to help myself, I look back. My father is only a few feet away and closing in fast. My bladder loosens.

Where is my Travelcard? I check my back pockets. My fingers suddenly feel as large and awkward as sausages. The Travelcard is there. I slide it into the turnstile and run through. Jermaine is still ahead, running past a tiny newspaper stand and out the doors where several black cabs sit idling.

A rambling, double-decker Vauxhall-bound bus thunders past me, leaving a cloud of exhaust fumes in its wake as I exit the station. Jermaine is waiting for me by two bank machines. As soon as I'm within reach, he grabs my hand and begins to run again in earnest. We reach a crosswalk and he pulls me across just as a black cab is turning into the station, its front bumper missing my legs by inches. The driver leans heavily on his horn.

“Sorry, mate!” Jermaine shouts.

I glance back. Dad is behind us, his tie flapping behind his shoulder as he runs.

“He's still following us,” I say.

“Who is he?” Jermaine asks. We reach Borough High Street. Motorcycles and cars whizz by.

“My father.”

Without warning, Jermaine leaps into the intersection, taking me with him. A car slams on its brakes.

“What are you doing?” I scream. “Trying to get us killed?”

“No time to wait!” Jermaine says breathlessly.

We reach the other side of the road, bound down a set of stone stairs, and across the front courtyard of an ancient-looking church. Several people eating lunch while lounging on the grass turn and stare.

Jermaine heads down a narrow, cobblestone alleyway. It's packed with people. I don't want to turn around, but hope the crowds will make it harder for my father to continue his pursuit.

“In here,” Jermaine says, ducking into a dark doorway. Low, horror-movie-type organ music emanates from the building. A sign above the door reads
the clink prison museum
.

We make our way down a short flight of steps and press our bodies against one of the walls, trying to make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible.

“This place gives me the creeps,” I say, reading a sign on the wall near Jermaine's shoulder. “I can't believe they've made a museum for a prison that was used for torture in the twelfth century.” I shudder, wishing we'd found a different place to hide out.

“Back to the important stuff, Edie. That was your dad?” Jermaine asks. “Seriously?”

I nod. “ It's crazy. But I told you, he has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to Mom and me.”

“Do you think he followed us from New Cross?”

I shake my head. “No. He looked too surprised when he spotted me.”

A man dressed in a medieval costume made of red velvet with gold trim approaches us. He takes off his hat and scratches at an inflamed pimple near his glistening hairline.

“Are you two coming in or what? Five pound each.”

“Naw,” Jermaine says. “We just need to hang here for about five minutes. That okay?”

The man shrugs his shoulders. “I don't mind. It's not like I own the place.” He turns and trudges back up the stairs.

“You think maybe your dad is here on holiday?”

“No way,” I say.

“Think we've lost him?”

“Who knows,” I reply. I pause for a moment. Here I am, running away again because of Dad. When will it stop? Will I be running with my own children someday?

“Actually, I want to find him,” I say. “Mom is gone and I'm sure he's got something to do with it. I'm tired of letting him terrorize us and control my life. It's time for him to be the hunted.” I turn and head up the museum stairs.

Jermaine grabs my shoulders and turns me around. “Edie, are you sure you want to do this?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Of course I don't want to do this. But what choice do I have? I'm done running.”

He leans in and kisses me. “Then I'm right beside you. Let's give your dad some payback.”

We emerge back out into the narrow laneway.

“I think we should keep moving in the same direction,” Jermaine says. “He was pretty close behind us and likely passed us.”

We've only taken a few steps when the screaming starts.