I look out of the window as often as I can that evening and the next day, but she doesn’t reappear. Then, in the evening, I see the woman coming out of the house. She’s on her phone. She walks up past the bus stop toward the store, barely glancing left or right as she crosses the street.
She’s deep in conversation with someone, and I can’t help wondering what they’re talking about. Maybe she’s telling a friend how the house gives her the creeps—especially that small front bedroom. She gets a chill every time she’s in there, and it makes her shudder. She wants to move.
I know this is just my imagination running wild, but as I watch, the woman turns and walks back to the house, still speaking in an animated way into the phone. She isn’t going anywhere—she just came out to talk privately. Maybe she was nervous about speaking in the awkward atmosphere in that room. She can’t tell her husband. He’d think she was lying. And she can’t explain it, but she feels as if she’s being watched. She looks like she’s shouting into the phone now.
She’s so loud I can hear a little of it, but I can’t make out the words, and, anyway, I don’t think it’s English.
The woman is back at her front door now. She glances up in my direction as she takes a key from her pocket, and she sees me. I pull back from the window, embarrassed, partly about being seen and partly because of the story I’ve been making up. I wait a minute and then cautiously look out again. She must have gone inside.
The ghost theory keeps going around and around in my head even though I try to ignore it. I don’t think I believe in ghosts, but right now I can’t think of another reason why I keep seeing a girl who nobody else sees, not even the people who live there.
When I feel up to it, I ask Mom to bring me my tablet so I can do some research. I can’t spend too long on it or I get headaches.
I start by looking up the address, 48 New Weald Road. Maybe I can find out who lives there, or even if anyone has ever died there. I don’t expect to find anything, but at least I’m doing something.
The first Google entries are real estate pages, house prices and homes for rent and for sale. Then there are the stores, the hairdressers. There’s a report on a burglary at number 249. A bus route being diverted. I keep scrolling through pages. It’s very boring, and my head soon starts to hurt, so I stop.
I lie down and decide to try meditating, which a doctor said might help me. Mom wasn’t impressed with the suggestion, but I found I really like it. I have an app on my phone, and it is definitely relaxing and something I can do without effort. Mom is baking downstairs. The smell wafts up, and I start by visualizing a piece of cake in my mind, focusing on that and nothing else.
Thoughts keep drifting back, though, even as I try to let them go. Maybe I need to think of another way to research, like asking someone who knows the area. I wonder if Mrs. Gayatri could help—she’s lived here a long time.
* * *
“I was thinking I might go next door and visit Mrs. Gayatri,” I tell Mom next time I’m well enough to be downstairs.
Mom glances up doubtfully. “Are you up to it? And I’m not sure you should go bothering her. I think she prefers her own company.”
“Maybe that’s because she doesn’t have any other option,” I suggest. “Anyway, she invited me—when I took that package to her. She sounded like she really wanted me to come.”
“Okay, if you want to.” Mom smiles. “Don’t stay too long, though—you don’t want to tire her, or yourself, either. Here—I’ll give you some apple cake to take with you.”
Like last time, Mrs. Gayatri takes forever to come to the door.
“Another package?” she asks, looking puzzled. “I don’t remember ordering anything.”
“No, this is some of Mom’s apple cake,” I tell her. “I’ve come to visit, if that’s okay? But say if you don’t feel like company. I won’t mind.”
“How lovely!” Mrs. G. smiles, her wrinkles briefly ironed out with pleasure. “Come on in, dear. Do you mind taking your shoes off?”
Even though we’ve lived next door to Mrs. Gayatri for ten years, I’ve never once stepped inside this house, and it feels strange following Mrs. G. into the hallway. I take my shoes off and put them on the mat.
“I don’t get many visitors,” she says, sighing as she leads me into a rather dark living room. She points to the red velvet armchair. “Sit yourself down. Can I get you a tea or coffee? Will you help me eat this cake?”
While she makes the tea, I sit looking around the room. There’s a slight smell of incense and a small statue in the corner that is part elephant, part man. There are photos—some very old sepia ones of people that look like they were taken in India. There’s one black-and-white wedding photo, and I wonder if it’s Mrs. Gayatri’s own wedding picture. I go closer to look.
Mrs. G. comes back in with flowery teacups and saucers on a tray. She sets the tray down on a small, dark, wooden table and then goes back for the cake slices on two matching china plates.
“I was just looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind,” I say.
“That was my wedding—so, so many years ago.” She smiles. “My darling husband Vijay. He died ten years ago, and I still miss him so much. These are my parents—they of course died many, many years ago—and my five big brothers, too.”
“Do you have no other family—no children of your own?” I ask.
Mrs. G.’s mouth turns down. Her eyes look suddenly glassy, and I wish I hadn’t asked.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.
“It’s fine,” she assures me. “Just hard when everyone I love has gone.” She sighs again. “Life must be hard for you, too, being stuck at home so much.”
“At least I have my mom,” I say. “She’s had to give up her job to look after me, though. And Dad’s working harder than ever.”
“Are you not going to school at all?”
“Not since last June,” I explain. “I have a tutor who comes once a week. I have constant pain in my arms and legs, and I just get so tired when I do anything. It’s really frustrating. But I think I am improving now.”
“What is the cause?” she asks. “Do they know why it started?”
I shake my head. “I had tonsillitis, and I just didn’t get better. No one knows why it happens.”
“And is there treatment for it?”
“There’s some research going on, but they know so little about it, there isn’t much to offer. I’m on a waiting list to see a consultant. The doctor just told me to try to pace myself.”
“But you will recover?”
“I hope so.”
There’s silence for a moment. I don’t want to think about my illness—about the possibility that I’ll be like this forever. I change the subject.
“Mrs. Gayatri, I wanted to ask you something,” I say now. “I’m interested in the history of our street, and I know you’ve lived here a long time. I wondered if you have any memories to share of anything that has happened here?”
“What kind of thing?” she asks.
“Any memorable events, things that shocked you, tragedies?”
“That’s a strange question!” Mrs. G. shakes her head. “It would be better to focus your energies on happier things. Let me think… Now there’s Amir and Zainab, of course, across the street. Their daughter died. That was most certainly a tragedy. She was so young. Their only child. That must have been twenty-five years ago. But that’s probably not the sort of thing you mean. Now, what else…”
“The girl across the street—can you tell me more?” I ask, leaning forward. “What happened to her?”
Mrs. G. shakes her head. “Really, it is upsetting for me even to think about it. Let’s talk about happier things and leave the past behind. It will do your health no good to focus on such sadness. Should I show you what came in that package the other day?”
I nod. I’m frustrated. I am desperate to know more but I don’t want to push her if it’s upsetting her. She walks slowly back into the kitchen and returns with a bird feeder.
“I love my garden, but I’m not up to tending it like I used to,” she tells me. “I like to watch the birds, though. I wondered, since you’re here, whether you might do me a favor and hang it outside for me—on the silver birch. I have the seeds to fill it with. Then I can sit by the back window and watch for the birds. They’ll be grateful now the weather’s getting colder.” This sounds sad to me—having nothing more interesting to do than watching birds, though maybe it is no sadder than watching the street like I do. I nod again and follow her to the back door, which she unlocks. The garden, which looked overgrown when I last glimpsed it from my parents’ bedroom window, looks far wilder from down here. Neglect has turned it into a jungle.
“This garden was beautiful once,” Mrs. G. says wistfully. “My husband and I—we were both gardeners. But now I don’t have the strength for it, nor the money to pay someone.”
“I wish I could help,” I tell her, “but I don’t have the strength, either.”
Actually, it’s the last thing I’d want to do, even if I did have full strength. Gardening isn’t my idea of fun at all.
“Of course you don’t, my dear, but it’s a kind thought.”
She seems so sad as I struggle for something positive to say. “I guess it’s good for wildlife?”
“True,” she says, but I sense this is little consolation. I fill the feeder and find I can easily hang it on a branch. Mrs. G.’s house is on the corner, and it’s the only one in our row that has a decent-sized yard. I’ve never been very interested in gardens, but I do vaguely remember it being much neater in the past. I used to be jealous as a young child, because we only have a small cement back patio with no lawn or plants at all.
“Thank you so much!” she says. “That’s wonderful. I’d have to stand on a stool to do that, and I knew it wasn’t a good idea.”
“No, you shouldn’t go doing things like that,” I agree. “It’s nice to be able to do something helpful for a change. It’s usually me who needs the help.”
“Well, I’m very grateful,” she says.
“I’d better go now,” I tell her. I suddenly feel so tired—and she is looking tired, too. She doesn’t protest, and I wonder if I have already outstayed my welcome.
“I hope you will come again,” she says. “It’s been so nice to have some company.”
I’m relieved. I was worried I’d upset her asking about tragedies, and that she wouldn’t want me back. I’m glad I came, though—Mrs. G. did seem genuinely happy to see me, and I even learned something about the girl across the street. At least, I may have done. I learned there was a tragedy, and it involved a girl who died. Does that mean the girl I see really is a ghost? I wish I knew the whole story.