Girl in the Window. Penny Joelson

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.

      I lie in bed, sleeping, listening to podcasts and audiobooks on my phone, meditating and thinking of ideas for stories. Then my mind turns to Josh. I like him so much. Only Ellie knows how I feel. I wish I’d had the courage to say something to him while I was well. I kept hoping he’d speak to me, but maybe he’s shy. He’s in the year above me but we were both in the orchestra – I could have said something then, but I didn’t. He’s probably going out with someone else by now and I wouldn’t blame him. He has no idea how I feel about him, so it’s not as if he’d be waiting for me to get better.

      I get a message from Marek. He’s seen Mum’s photo of me sitting downstairs, and his message is full of excited smiley emojis, along with a photo of a frozen pizza, with the caption ‘My job is cheese sprinkling!’

      Dad had better not see that!

      I reply, telling him about the writing competition, and get more excited smiley emojis back. I think about telling him about the abduction, but I’m too tired to text that much.

      I lie back and think about the award ceremony again. I just have to get well enough to go. I must.

      A few days later, I’m feeling a bit better. I don’t feel like attempting the stairs again but I’m mostly OK being out of bed. I sit on the floor and open my chest of drawers, just for something to do. There I find the Get Well card with the cheerful yellow sunflowers on it. I open it and run my finger over Josh’s signature. I wonder if he ever thinks about me now. The card is also signed by the other twenty-four members of the orchestra but his is the only name in there that really matters to me. He’s an amazing violin player and when we’d finished orchestra practice he used to meet my eyes sometimes and smile. I’m sure something would have happened between us one day.

      I put the card back in the drawer. My legs are hurting from sitting on the floor but I don’t feel too bad otherwise so I stand stiffly and sit on my wicker chair by the window, looking out. I still feel like I’m on a boat – but it’s a gentle rowing boat now. I watch as the woman at number forty-eight comes out, bumping the grey buggy with a rain cover over it, down the steps to the street. She hurries off up the road and I glance up to the window above. There’s no one there.

      It’s raining heavily now – big drops streaking down my window like bars, reminding me of the prison my room has become. It’s hard to see through the rain, but I try. There’s no one looking out across the road. Cars splash past in the big puddle by the bus stop. The haziness makes everything seem unreal. It’s like the rain is trying to wash away what I saw – washing it all away, wiping the slate clean, a fresh start.

      I can’t remember it clearly now. Maybe none of it happened at all. But if it did, what happened to that woman? I can’t help wondering about her.

      It’s a week later when I pluck up the courage – and have the energy – to go downstairs again. And it’s fine! I stay for a whole meal, and also get back upstairs by myself too. I do it again, each day stretching it out a little longer, and I don’t have any ill effects.

      I feel full of hope – I’m finally getting better – and I want to do more.

      Mum comes into the living room, waving a parcel at me. ‘I’m just popping next door,’ she tells me. ‘The delivery man left it here this morning, when he couldn’t get an answer.’

      ‘I could take it,’ I offer.

      Mum looks at me in surprise. ‘Are you sure you feel up to it?’

      ‘It’s only next door. And it would be good to get outside. Let me, Mum. I’ll be fine.’

      ‘OK,’ says Mum, but she’s looking very doubtful.

      ‘Is it forty-three?’ I ask her. ‘Won’t they be at work?’

      ‘No – forty-seven,’ says Mum. ‘Mrs Gayatri.’

      ‘How did she manage to miss a parcel?’ I comment. ‘She never goes out.’

      ‘She does sometimes,’ Mum says with a shrug. ‘Perhaps she was having a nap or just didn’t hear the door.’

      ‘OK. I won’t be long,’ I tell Mum.

      It’s weird putting on outdoor shoes when I’ve worn nothing but slippers for months, and I’ve rarely been out of bed enough to even need them. My shoes feel hard and uncomfortable in contrast.

      ‘Put your coat on,’ Mum fusses. ‘And your scarf.’

      ‘It’s only next door!’ I say, but I do it anyway.

      I take the small package and step out of the house – so happy to actually be outside. I wonder what Mrs Gayatri has ordered. It’s rectangular but not heavy. We don’t see our neighbours very often. There’s a young couple on the other side, at number forty-three. We only know their names because they sometimes have parcels delivered while they’re at work, and Mum takes them in. I don’t remember Mrs G ever having a delivery before, though.

      We don’t see her much either, though I used to sometimes see her weeding her front path. She’s the only person round here who has pots and flowers and bushes out the front. She’s not very chatty, but she always has a smile and says hello if we pass her. Of course, since I’ve been ill I’ve only seen her from my window, on her rare walks up the road to the shops.

      The cool breeze makes my cheeks tingle as I stand on Mrs G’s front step and ring her bell. I feel a buzz