She Is Not Invisible

by Marcus Sedgwick

  “Laureth, you’re sixteen. You can do your geography assignments by yourself now.”

  “Mum, it’s the summer holidays,” I said. “It’s not schoolwork. I just want to know which countries use dollars.”

  “Why don’t you look it up? Google it? You need to be more independent.”

  That would have been enough to drive me crazy on any other day. On any other day I’d have been cross because on the one hand, Mum won’t let me do anything by myself, and on the other, she’s always telling me I have to learn to look after myself better because no one else is going to. The fact that she was going to Auntie Sarah’s, without us, overnight was something of a miracle in itself, and clearly showed the mood she was in.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  Then, trying to sound as casual as I could, I added, “Listen. Where’s Dad?”

  She sighed.

  “Austria. Switzerland. Somewhere like that.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  I hadn’t heard from him myself in days. Which was most odd. Usually he’s pretty good at keeping in touch, with texts at least.

  “Laureth, I don’t have time for this.”

  She sighed again. I waited.

  “About a week ago. Maybe longer. Why?”

  “Because he’s had an email. Someone’s found his notebook. In America.”

  Mum didn’t say anything, but she stopped moving around for a moment. Then she went on packing.

  “I think something’s happened to him,” I said. Mum didn’t answer.

  “Mum, I said—”

  “I heard you. Look, it’s probably someone playing a prank, that’s all.”

  “Mum—”

  Then she yelled at me.

  “Laureth! Just leave it, will you?”

  She followed that by going silent on me. I stomped back to the little spare room Dad uses as an office, and after a while I began to think that, well, maybe she had a point. Maybe it was this month’s loony email. Dad has a private competition every month for the craziest message, something I’d been happily judging since I’d taken over checking the account.

  I sat in front of the Mac again.

  I thought about Mum, and then I thought about Dad. I thought about how things used to be and about how they were now. None of this thinking made me feel very happy, so instead I put my fingers back on the keyboard.

  I kept it short; no point wasting my fingertips on loonies.

  How do I know you have my notebook?

  Jack Peak

  I always sign myself as Dad. It’s probably illegal to pretend to be someone you’re not but it makes life easier than explaining that I’m his daughter and I’m replying on his behalf. People wouldn’t want to know that anyway, they just want a reply from the actual writer.

  I sat there trying to think what else to do.

  I picked up my phone, wondering whether I’d get in trouble for using it to call Dad. Abroad. It costs a fortune.

  Then the email pinged and there was another wordy reply from Mr. Walker, but the gist of it was this:

  See for yourself.

  VoiceOver told me there were three embedded images. Attachments.

  I swore, then fetched Benjamin. I dragged him into the room and sat him in Dad’s chair.

  “Don’t sit too close,” I warned him.

  He made a small grumpy noise.

  “I need you to look at something,” I said. “There are some pictures on this email. Tell me what they are.”

  Benjamin sighed, but he did as I asked.

  “There are three photos,” he said. “They’re like schoolwork. Writing in a book.”

  “Handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Benjamin, do you think they could be pages from Dad’s notebook?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what they are.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  He sighed again.

  “Because they have his name. It says ‘reward offered.’ There’s his email address. Because it’s his messy writing. Because—”

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay. Thanks.”

  * * *

  I thought for a long time.

  Then I phoned Dad’s mobile from mine.

  There was no answer, it just kept ringing and ringing.

  I went and spoke to Mum again, and told her I was really worried. I told her that I knew Dad was supposed to be in Switzerland doing research for his book, but that his notebook had just turned up in America, and that he wasn’t answering his phone.

  I could tell things were bad when Mum didn’t even have a go at me for calling abroad on my mobile.

  “Laureth,” she said, and her voice was hard and thin, the way it often was these days when she spoke to Dad. “Right now, I could not possibly care less where your father is. Do you understand?”

  I wouldn’t let it go.

  “Mum,” I said. “I’m worried. I’m worried he’s gone missing. Something’s happened. If he’d gone to America he’d have told us.”

  Mum didn’t reply to that.

  “He’d have told me.”

  In the silence I started to wonder, would he? Would he have told me? I hoped that was still true. Dad might be many things, but he’s always texting me and messaging me and as I thought about that, I realized I hadn’t heard from him in days. Maybe longer.

  “Look, Laureth,” Mum said. “Stop being so … imaginative.”

  She said it as if it was a bad word.

  “Mum—”

  “No, that’s enough. You’re too much like your father sometimes. Head full of fairy dust. You need to be more responsible, you need to grow up and look after yourself. Be sensible. You’re sixteen.”

  I ignored all that, even though I wanted to say a million things back, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Mum. He’s gone missing. I know it.”

  And she just said quietly, “And how would we know if he had, Laureth? How would we know the difference?”

  I thought again about saying a million things, and sometimes thing is the only word to use. But I was too angry to say any of them, so I said nothing.

  My mind was full of two final things: worry and Dad.

  That’s when I decided to go and look for him.

  YOU NEVER KNOW

  When embarking on a manhunt, it’s vital to understand the psychology of your quarry. That’s what they always say on those detective shows on TV. I thought I had a pretty good grip on Dad’s thought processes, but clearly it needed some work. I mean, I know he’s a bit strange, but to go missing? That’s not Dad. It’s just not him. It’s more like a story—but then again, fact and fiction, he always says, are hard to tell apart. You never know the difference for sure.

  I suppose he would say that, being a writer, but he says when you’ve spent long enough making things up to seem as real as you can, it begins to get hard to tell one from the other.

  He says lots of authors have said the same thing, over the years, which is why you should never trust the autobiography of a writer; they’re just too good at making things up, and more to the point, they’re good at believing that what they’ve made up is actually true.

  It’s when he talks like that that Mum goes quiet, and then Dad says even more peculiar stuff, and usually has another glass of wine or two.

  * * *

  I was thinking about all this when I replied to Mr. Walker. I wondered how to ask him if I could trust him without actually saying it. But first I asked him where in the States he was. I got an email straight back.

  Woodside. That’s in Queens if you’re unfamiliar with the area. Queens is in New York if you’re likewise unfamiliar with that.

  I decided to ask him where he’d found the book.

  He didn’t reply for a few minutes, and I found myself browsing some airline sites. In my head was a news story I’d heard the week before. A nine-year-old, a young boy from Manchester, had run away from home. He’d flown to Turin before he was stopped. He didn’t have a passpo
rt or a ticket. He’d just hung around at the back of a big family group and somehow had got through five separate security checkpoints. It was only on the plane when he told someone he was running away that the crew radioed ahead to Turin. Who knows where he might have ended up if he’d kept his mouth shut?

  I had no idea if I could fly by myself. I thought it would prove to be impossible, but I was wrong. Being sixteen I was entirely free to fly on my own, without the need to register as an unaccompanied minor. All I needed was a letter from my parents saying I was traveling alone. Five minutes on Word fixed that.

  I stopped myself. There was no way I could do it. I hated to admit it, but it was true. It was one thing to get around by myself at school. That’s different. I know where everything is. I know everyone. They know me.

  But it’s not the real world.

  I waited for a reply from Mr. Walker, and while I did, I read the section about “younger passengers.” I’d put headphones on because I didn’t want Mum to come down the corridor and hear what I was reading, even though that was unlikely. She never comes into Dad’s study unless it’s to get me off the computer. She says I spend far too much time on it. She’s probably right.

  I couldn’t quite believe it, but it seemed that it was also fine for Benjamin to fly, as long as he was with someone over fifteen.

  My heart began to bounce about in my chest then, because there was one last possible obstacle. But though I read and read, and searched in all the ways I could, for disabled, and impaired, and accessibility and so on and so on for something that meant I wasn’t allowed to fly by myself, there was nothing. Nothing to say I couldn’t, although there was nothing to say I could, either.

  It seemed to be what’s called a “gray area,” so there and then I decided to take Benjamin and walk straight into that peculiar mixture of what I’m told is black and white.

  * * *

  I wanted Dad’s notebook. I knew he’d be desperate if he lost it. He once lost it for ten minutes and you would have thought the world had ended. It’s because it’s full of gold, or that’s what he calls it, anyway.

  I’ve had a new idea, I’d heard Dad say to his editor, Sophie, more than once.

  Any good? she’d asked, laughing. Worth much?

  Gold dust. Gold dust and diamonds!

  And although they joke about it, it’s a serious matter to Dad, because he says you can’t remember ideas when you first have them—you have to write them down. And when you do write them down, it helps you to see if they’re any good or not. If he’d lost his notebook, I hated to think what he’d be like.

  So I wanted to get the book back for him so he wouldn’t be upset, but more than that, I wanted Dad. And if Mum didn’t care if he was missing or not, I did. She’d told me to grow up, be more responsible. And that’s just what I was going to do; take responsibility for finding Dad, when she wouldn’t even listen to me.

  Mr. Walker replied again and said he’d just found the book; that was all.

  We swapped a few emails. I did some sums, looked at some flights. Then I told him I’d meet him at two the following afternoon, and could he please suggest where.

  Very good. I suggest we meet at Queens Library. 21st Street, Long Island City.

  Where are you coming from?

  How will I recognize you?

  I ignored the first question and instead told him he’d recognize us pretty easily. I’d be wearing sunglasses, I’d have a seven-year-old boy with me and the seven-year-old boy would have a large fluffy raven in his right hand.

  * * *

  Mum went to bed early, and when she had, I sneaked downstairs and took one of her six—yes, six—credit cards from her bag, where she always leaves it, on top of the fridge.

  I didn’t actually need the card to buy the plane tickets. Like I said, I’ve learned the numbers off by heart. It’s all part of her plan to help me stand on my own two feet, as she puts it. So I know not only the pin numbers for every one of her bank cards, but also the card number, the expiry date, the security digits, everything. So I didn’t need the card online, but I knew I’d need it to get some cash when we got to the airport. Fortunately Mum always puts the same one back in the same slot in her purse—because she’s very neat that way—so I chose the one I thought she uses the least.

  I hurried back upstairs and tucked it into the case of my phone.

  I crept into the office and bought two single flights to JFK. They cost a fortune and as I reached the payment page I felt slightly sick, but then I remembered what Mum had said the night before and I clicked the confirm button so hard I almost broke the keyboard.

  Just before I went to bed, I called Dad again. It was eleven, so that meant it was six p.m. in New York. He should have been awake. He should have answered. He should have picked up the phone and said, “Laureth!” with his usual laugh, but he didn’t. The phone just rang and rang, and then went to Dad’s voicemail.

  I left him a voicemail; Hi, Dad. It’s me. Please, Dad. Call me as soon as you get this. Love you.

  Then I sent him a text message. I said exactly the same thing.

  * * *

  My only fear was that Mum would notice the missing credit card in the morning. I lay in bed, nervously listening to her get ready.

  Then she tapped on my door and came in to say goodbye.

  I pretended to be asleep.

  “Laureth?” she whispered.

  “Mum?” I said, rolling over, trying to sound as if I’d just woken up. “What time is it?”

  “I’m off now…”

  “Okay, Mum.”

  I waited for her to close the door, but next thing I knew she was perching on the edge of the bed.

  “Listen, Laureth. I’m sorry. Sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  I felt her hand on my shoulder.

  “That’s okay, Mum.”

  “Yes, well. It’s not okay. It’s not your fault.”

  “What isn’t?”

  She didn’t answer, but I knew she was thinking about Dad. She took her hand away.

  “Are you cross?” she asked.

  “What about?”

  “That you’re not coming to Manchester.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “That’s okay.”

  I meant it. Mum had explained that Auntie Sarah’s party was a grown-up party, so Benjamin and I couldn’t go. Any other time that might have bothered me, but to be honest, I was glad not to have to go and pretend to get on with my cousins. They don’t like me and they’re mean to Benjamin, too.

  “So what’s wrong?” Mum asked.

  “I told you.”

  “What, dear?”

  “I’m worried about Dad. I think something’s happened to him. Why else is his notebook in America when he’s in Europe?”

  “Laureth…”

  “No, Mum, I mean it. Don’t you think we should do something?”

  I thought Mum would soften up. That she’d hold my hand and tell me she was worried, too, and we’d call the police or something and they’d find Dad and everything would be fine. Then I wouldn’t need to go through with my plan.

  “Laureth,” she said. “I think it’s your dad that needs to do something. Not us. Not me.”

  “But…”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Laureth. Make sure Benjamin eats properly.”

  She left the room and closed the door. I heard her go into Benjamin’s room. She didn’t say anything but I knew she was kissing his messy hair, something he would have squealed about if he’d been awake. The door closed again, and then she went, off to Manchester for Auntie Sarah’s party.

  * * *

  I waited two minutes, got dressed, and packed a bag. Our passports were where Mum always leaves them. As I said, she’s very organized, something that makes my life much easier. When Dad’s around it gets harder, because the TV remote is never where you left it, or the telephone handsets, or, in fact, anything.

  I checked my phone. There were no texts. No misse
d calls.

  Then I got Benjamin up. He was grumpy at being woken.

  “Mum said I didn’t have to get up today. She said we’re not going swimming.”

  “We’re not,” I said, and while I packed a bag for him, I told him we were going to America to find Dad.

  “Come on,” I said. “We have to be quick.” I knew we were supposed to check in a long time before the flight, and although Heathrow’s only a dozen stops from ours, I knew we couldn’t afford to waste time.

  Benjamin started to moan a bit, but I distracted him by telling him he needed to pack some comics to read on the way, because it was a long journey. He loves comics more than anything, except perhaps Stan, so even the mention of them was enough to get his cooperation.

  “Hurry up!” I said, propelling him into the kitchen so I could throw some cereal at him. “Don’t you want to go and see Dad?”

  “Yes!” said Benjamin. “Where is he?”

  “New York. I told you. And we’re going to see him later today.”

  I hardly believed it myself. See Dad. In New York. It sounded as if I were making it up, making it up just to tell myself that I was doing something, that I could do something, even though it was truly impossible. But then, you never know what’s true or not, what’s impossible or not, unless you try.

  THE GUARD DOGS

  “You should have seen her, Bernard! And then I told her she couldn’t—not on a Friday—but she didn’t want to listen. Oh, no, which was her lookout, because it was shut till Monday. And … Do we have to take our shoes off? So anyway, she says … What, and our coats? Why do you have to get your laptop out? What is this, the Third Reich? So then she drove all the way to … Oh, bugger it, I’ve left liquids in my bag. What? Yes, liquids, Bernard. Liquids!”

  I listened to the woman in front of me in the queue for security.

  Occasionally Bernard, who I assumed was her husband, managed to mumble a quick reply, but he was too quiet for me to hear. And though she was very annoying, her continuous commentary on everything she had to do made things loads easier for me.

  “What? Boarding passes? I thought this was passports? Isn’t it passports?”