Since You've Been Gone (8 page)

“Look. We got decent information back there,” Jermaine says. “That bird said your mum was up in Camden, right? So that's where we go with the photograph.”

“Okay.”

Jermaine looks at his watch. “It's not even eleven. I'm starved. Why don't we grab something to eat and then go to Camden?”

I discreetly wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

“Sounds brilliant,” I say, trying my London speak for the first time. I feel stronger all of a sudden; I know what I need to do.

B
y
the time we emerge from Cutty Sark Station, the rain has stopped and the sun is desperately trying to push its way through the grey meringue of clouds. The sun coming out might be a sign that something positive is going to happen. At least that's what I tell myself.

There's a Subway restaurant directly across from the tube station, a reminder of life back in Canada. My stomach aches with longing.

“Hungry?” Jermaine asks.

“Famished,” I reply. And, for the first time in a while, I really do have an appetite.

Once inside, we practically throw ourselves at the spotty girl standing behind the counter as the smell of roasted meat and baked bread overwhelms us.

“All right?” she asks, her voice thick with boredom. She twists a lock of ginger hair that is crisp with styling products around her index finger as she watches us scan the plastic menu boards above her head.

“Roast chicken sub on white with pickles, tomato, and mayo,” I say. “Loads of pickles. And a coffee,” I add, glancing sideways at Jermaine, who is still trying to decide.

“Meatball with loads of hot peppers and pickles,” he says. “And extra cheese if you have it.”

“Drink?” the girl with the ginger hair asks. She blows a pink gum bubble toward us, then crushes it between her thickly glossed lips with a loud pop.

“A full-fat Coke, yeah?” Jermaine answers. He turns to me and smiles playfully. “Coffee? You going to get all hyper on me?”

My face flushes warmly. “I'm just a bit cold. That's all.”

Great. He jokes with me and my response is as wooden as Pinocchio. I wish I could think of something funny or interesting to say. Instead, I stare at my shoes, mortified.

“Ready?” the girl asks. She snaps her gum and holds out her hand. Another bored-looking employee finishes making our sandwiches.

I reach into my knapsack, unzip the inside pocket, and feel around for some of the charity money.

“How much?”

“Eight-pound thirty,” she answers, blowing another bubble in my direction.

I hand her the money reluctantly. It's going to run out at some point and that reality is beginning to hit me.

“It's kind of nice to be getting Subway,” I say. “There's so many unfamiliar things here. My best friend, Rume, and I used to get it at lunch whenever we had extra money.”

“You have a computer and Internet at your flat?” Jermaine asks as he takes the tray from the girl.

I shake my head. “Are you kidding? We don't even have a home phone yet.”

“Well, there's an Internet café upstairs here,” he says, and, as though reading my mind, is already heading toward the stairs.

The café turns out to be no more than ten or twelve computers that are dinosaur-age old. They're separated from the main part of the restaurant by a cheap-looking plastic partition.

We sit down at one of the tables and Jermaine unwraps his sub. Even though I'm starving, I find it hard to think about eating.

Glancing at my watch, I do a quick mental calculation of the time difference between London and Toronto. It's about ten to seven in the morning in Toronto. Rume always gets up early. She likes to check to see if she's had overnight emails from her cousins in Bangladesh. I smile. It might just work; I might catch her on MSN.

Butterflies of excitement tickle my stomach as I log into my Hotmail account.

“Your password is Peaches2000?” Jermaine laughs through a mouthful of meatballs, bread, and tomato sauce.

“Yeah, it is. Do you have a problem with it?” I ask, half-jokingly. The thought of what might have become of Peaches still causes an instant lump in my throat.

“It just sounds like a stripper's name or something.”

I turn away from the computer and raise an eyebrow at him. “Takes one to know one,” I said.

Clearly, I'm a complete failure in the witty, flirty comeback department.

Jermaine stares at me. “Sometimes you're kind of strange, Edie,” he says.

“Yeah, I was aware of that. Thanks,” I hope some massive, science fiction–inspired rift opens up and takes me away to another dimension. Why am I such an awkward nerd around guys? Rume understood me. We understood each other. I turn back to the computer screen.

R u there? It's me, Edie.

I wait, my fingers hovering over the grey plastic squares of the computer keyboard in anticipation.

And, suddenly, there it is, appearing on the screen like a mirage: a response from Rume.

Oh my god! Is it really u? Where have u gone? I miss u so much, girl!

London. In England, not Ontario. Long story. I miss u too!

I glance over at Jermaine. Though he's pretending to be absorbed in eating his sandwich, it's obvious he's trying to read the computer screen whenever he thinks I'm not paying attention. As soon as he sees me looking, he quickly diverts his attention toward a couple arguing at a nearby table.

When r u coming back? I have Peaches. Found her sitting on your front steps looking hungry. I guess she was waiting for you to come back too. She misses you.

“Oh my god!” I say, grabbing Jermaine excitedly, which nearly results in a meatball and tomato disaster happening on his lap.

“Blimey! I'd rather eat it than wear it, Edie.”

“Sorry, sorry!” I say, breathlessly. “My cat. Peaches. That's why I have the username. My best friend has her!”

Jermaine laughs. “Your cat created your username?”

I punch him playfully on the arm. “No, dummy! My cat's name is Peaches. We couldn't bring her when we came here and didn't have time to find her a new home.” I pause for a moment, remembering the last time I saw Peaches curled up on my bed. “But she's safe. She's with my best friend, Rume.”

“That's brilliant,” Jermaine says. “Why didn't you find her a new home, though?”

“Long story,” I say, turning back to the screen. Not even Rume knows everything about Mom and I. “I'll log off soon and we can go.”

Thankfully, Jermaine doesn't push for any more information, and, instead, goes back to devouring his sandwich.

I'll write soon and tell u more. Give Peaches loads of kisses for me.

I exit my email and grab my sandwich.

“Let's get out of here,” I say.

“What about eating?” Jermaine asks.

“Not important,” I say. “We need to find my mom.”

We stand up and make our way to the first floor of the restaurant. Outside, London waits. And somewhere in the city is the answer to Mom's disappearance.

T
hrongs
of people fill the sidewalk outside the Camden Town tube station. The atmosphere reminds me of a circus. Like Toronto, the people are diverse: someone from every part of the globe seems to walk by in the few seconds I spend standing still on the sidewalk. A middle-aged Rasta man in a vibrant knit hat casually lights a joint while a young American couple talks loudly about the evils of drug use as they stroll by, cameras slung around their necks. And the air is heavy with smells: dried spices mingle with the odour of fried onions and meat from the street vendors, the sweet smokiness of marijuana mixes with the sweaty scent of thousands of bodies, and, as always, the smell of London itself, is there, underneath it all, a mixture of ancient damp and exhaust fumes.

“We need to head in this direction,” Jermaine says, crooking his thumb to the right. “The street vendors will probably know where this place is and they may even have seen something. I bet loads of them set up really early. I reckon they're the eyes and ears of this place.”

“Do you really think they'd have been around when Mom was getting off work?”

Jermaine shrugs. “Dunno, really. Thing is, if she was around for a bit that morning, they're likely the ones who'd have seen her.”

Within the first few minutes of walking, we pass at least a dozen booths set up to lure tourists into buying cheaply made replica soccer jerseys with Rooney's and Beckham's names printed across the back. Everything is so flashy and funky. I wish I had money to shop. I imagine walking down the street with deep red streaks in my hair, wearing a short denim skirt and a pair of platform boots like the ones on display in the shop windows here. I'd be reinvented: a new Edie for a new city, finally leaving my painful history in Canada behind. Except a new start would mean nothing without Mom.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask.

“Not sure. I've never been here before,” Jermaine replies.

I stop. “What do you mean you've never been here? How are we supposed to have a chance of finding my mom?”

“I've spent most of my life in South London. Why would I go all over London? The only time I'm north of the river is usually for school trips and stuff. Me and my brother used to think we were on holiday when we'd go to Electric Avenue in Brixton to the shops with our mum.”

I open my mouth to apologize, though I'm not exactly sure what for. But before I can say anything, Jermaine veers off to the right and down a wide alley where several different sorts of vendors are set up.

I follow him as he saunters toward a doughnut stand. The sign at the top of the both is adorned with an American flag, and, in red-and-gold lettering, the words
delicious american doughnuts
.

“Show him the photo,” Jermaine says.

The man working the doughnut stand looks a little like one of the deep-fried pastries he's selling. He's nearly as wide as he is high and his eyes glitter like two jewels from within his bloated face.

I pull the photograph of Mom out of my coat pocket, my fingers treating it as gently as a glass egg. I don't want to look at it. I can't.

“Can I help you, Miss?” the doughnut man asks. His eyes are kind.

I nod. The lump in my throat is back.

A large, burly man wearing an Arsenal soccer jersey and smelling strongly of beer combined with wet dog steps in front of me.

“'Ello, mate. Two of them chocolate ones with the hundreds of thousands on top,” he growls, rummaging around in the front pocket of his jeans for money.

Jermaine rolls his eyes at me and kisses his teeth loudly at the man who is now handing over a five-pound note while simultaneously stuffing one of the doughnuts into his mouth. Renegade sprinkles cling to his bottom lip. As soon as he moves out of the way, I take a deep breath and step forward.

“I'm hoping you can help me, actually,” I say. “We're looking for this woman. She's … a relative. Last seen around here.”

The man looks hard at me and then at the photograph of Mom. He shakes his head.

“Sorry, love. Haven't seen her. And I certainly would've remembered a lady that beautiful if she'd come this way,” he says. “Is it drugs?”

“What?” I ask.

“Drugs. Is that why she's on the street?” he shakes his head. “They claim too many in this city. The need for the needle turns them into zombies, doesn't it?”

I begin to shake. “No. She is not on drugs. That's not it at all,” I snap.

“I didn't mean to offend you, Miss. None of my business,” he says apologetically.

“No it's not,” I say. “But thanks, anyway.” I put the photo back in my pocket. Finding Mom is going to be impossible.

“Can I at least offer you a free doughnut?” he asks, waving a shovel-sized hand over the colourful display of pastries.

“No, thanks.” A sharp jab to my ribs causes me turn around. I glare at Jermaine.

“You best get a doughnut,” he says, nodding enthusiastically toward a row of Boston creams. “You've hardly eaten anything today.” He looks at the man. “My sister. What can I say? She gets so focused on things that she forgets to take care of herself.”

“Your sister? She's your sister?” the man asks.

“Looks more like our father,” Jermaine replies.

“Actually, a Boston cream would be great. Thank you,” I interject, wanting to get out of there.

The man carefully extracts one of the doughnuts from the row, its shiny, brown icing cracking under the pressure of the metal tongs. He places it on a piece of waxed paper and hands it to me.

“Good luck on your search,” he says. “I'm sure she's looking forward to seeing you as well.”

I nod and quickly walk away, tears welling up in my eyes once more. Mom will be trying to get back to me as well … if she's able to.

“Wait up,” Jermaine says, falling into stride beside me. He touches my elbow. “It will all work out, Edie.”

I turn around and practically shove the doughnut at him. “How do you know it will be okay? You still have your mom. That makes it really easy for you to say everything will work out, doesn't it? You're not going to be an orphan at the end of the day!”

Jermaine holds up his hands, palms forward, in the universal sign of surrender.

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I'm the one helping you here. Remember? And, like I said before, my mum is really sick. The stress of my brother's death and the mess that followed really affected her. She's in pain a lot of the time. And it kills me seeing her like that. You're not the only one who has it tough, Edie.”

The anger drains from me, leaving me feeling deflated, like a forgotten birthday-party balloon. He's right. For the last few years, I've been so wrapped up in what Mom and I are constantly going through, that I hardly notice other people's issues.

“Why is she in pain?”

Jermaine puts his head in his hands for a moment.

“She has Sickle Cell. Stress makes it really bad.”

“And your brother?” I ask. The doughnut begins to shake in my hand as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Do I really want to know the answer to this?

Jermaine raises an eyebrow at me. “I can tell you heard. Who filled you in on the urban myth? Was it Keisha? Man, that cow has a big mouth. She just be hoping no one remembers her mother walking around drunk in Tesco nude two years ago, thinking there was a special naturalist night on.”

“Her mom really did that?” I ask, incredulous.

“Yeah.” He smiles. “Can you imagine her shopping list? Milk, rice, and, most important of all, knickers!”

I nod. “God, I was horrible to you just now. I'm really, really sorry. I just don't know how we'll ever find my mom here. There's too many people and the city is so huge.”

“We need to take a walk and clear our heads.” Jermaine says. “I think that the canal is around here.”