I don’t answer. All I can think about was how he just used the past tense when speaking about Mom.
CHAPTER 24
I’m beginning to realize that finding Mom in a city as massive as London is going to be impossible without some sort of miracle. Going to the police is starting to look like the only choice I have left. The charity money isn’t going to last forever and I’ll need a place to live, even if that means having Children’s Aid involved.
“Hungry?” Jermaine asks.
Despite the craziness of the bus ride and not being any closer to finding Mom, I am feeling hungry.
“Yeah, I could eat. Want to grab some fries or something?”
“I thought we could spend some of that money on a meal that was a bit more posh. Seeing how I’m taking the rap for stealing it and everything.”
I think about it. There’s still a decent amount of money left, but I already decided if there was any remaining when I found Mom, it should be given back to the school or donated to a charity. It seems wrong to spend it on a dinner for me and Jermaine and at a restaurant. But the idea of having a nice meal with him sends shivers through me.
“Where did you want to go?” I ask.
“Greenwich? Maybe Pizza Express or something like that. I can show you the Cutty Sark, like I promised.”
I smile. “Sounds amazing,” I say, trying not to remember how originally Jermaine promised to show me the Cutty Sark after we found Mom.
The restaurant is packed by the time we get to Greenwich. That doesn’t matter because it’s just nice to be on a date. Moving nearly every year has been disastrous for my love life. I’ll start to get to know a guy and maybe have a chance to mess around a few times with him at a party or something and then Mom and I leave again. Because of that, I’ve never really had a boyfriend.
Jermaine holds open the glass door to the restaurant for me as I step inside. Harried-looking waiters and waitresses rush by us without a passing glance and for a moment I wonder if we’ll be ignored until we give up and leave.
Finally, a red-faced waitress stops in front of us. “Table for two?” she asks, straining her voice above the noise coming from several nearby tables with young children. A transparent bead of sweat trickles slowly down her right temple.
I nod. As she leads us to our table, I look around at the polished wooden floors and tiny vases, each holding one red flower, on the tables. This is nicer than any restaurant I’ve been to since we left Dad. When Mom and I were first on the run, she’d take me to Swiss Chalet for a chicken dinner whenever there was a little money to spare. After a couple of years of running, there never seemed to be any extra money.
The waitress seats us at a table in the corner near the open kitchen where we can watch the pizzas being made. A tiny candle flickers and splutters in the middle of the table as if desperately trying to stay lit.
“I think I need to go to the police,” I say as soon as we sit down. I keep my voice low. The table next to us is close enough to reach out and touch.
Jermaine’s eyes widen. “Why would you want to do that?’
“I can’t go on like this, that’s why. Plus, what if my dad is here and is holding Mom hostage or something?”
“There’s already been community officers around yours,” he says, his face darkening. “You might end up with him or in care. Besides, the police around here don’t always help.”
A different waitress appears at our table, forcing us to end the conversation. She is very beautiful, with dark hair and full lips the colour of the wine. I feel a twinge of jealousy as she smiles at Jermaine.
“Anything to drink? Coke? Fizzy water?”
“I’ll have a Coke, yeah,” Jermaine says. “And an American Hot Pizza.”
“Me too,” I say. “I mean I’ll have a Coke. But diet.” I quickly scan the menu. The waitress puts a hand on her hip. I can feel her impatience radiating in waves toward me.
“And, um, I’ll have the Four Seasons pizza,” I say, deciding on the first pizza that is easy to pronounce. I don’t want to look like a fool in front of Jermaine.
The waitress nods curtly, scribbles down a few words on her little pad of paper, and sweeps the menus off our table.
Once she’s out of earshot, Jermaine leans forward, elbows on the table.
“The police will ring council services straightaway and they’ll put you in a care home until they find out what’s happening with your mum, you know.”
“I know,” I say, trying to sound determined.
“They might even deport you. Without your mum, how can you stay? And if your dad is just on holiday, they’ll likely ring him and have you sent straight back to Canada to live with him.”
I chew nervously on my bottom lip. I hadn’t thought of that. If there’s no proof Dad is involved in Mom’s disappearance, and, let’s face it — the police aren’t exactly going to be suspecting one of “their own” could do such a thing, then he’ll likely be the first person granted custody of me. There’s no way that’s happening; I’ll live on the streets of Toronto before living with him again.
“Let’s make a deal. Give it one more day of searching,” Jermaine says. “And tonight you can stay at mine.”
I stare at Jermaine, eyes wide. Did he just ask me to sleep over?
“So you’re not alone. And my mum will be there, of course,” he quickly adds.
The waitress arrives at that moment and unceremoniously plunks two glasses of Coke onto the table before dashing away.
I think about it. On one hand, I really don’t want to spend another night alone in that apartment, even though being around familiar things makes me feel closer to Mom. And I have to admit the idea of staying with Jermaine overnight — even if we weren’t going to be sleeping in the same room — was exciting. The downside is that I don’t want to get a reputation. Jermaine’s not my boyfriend. Not that I’m going to have sex with him. But if it gets around that I stayed the night at his place, that’s what everyone will assume. And the last thing I want is to be known as a slut.
“Won’t your mom mind?” I ask, bending over to take a sip of my Coke.
“She won’t think it’s safe for you to be going into that empty flat every night. You never know who might be watching and noticing that there’s no adult living there right now.”
I swallow the Coke, the bubbles burning the back of my throat. What Jermaine says makes sense: I haven’t been thinking enough about my personal safety these past few days. My whole focus has been on finding Mom. But if Dad is involved in this somehow, then he’s likely looking for me as well.
“Thanks,” I say. “You know, not just for inviting me to stay at your place but … for everything.” I pause for a moment, wanting to choose my words carefully. “It was really hard to leave Toronto and Canada and all my friends and stuff. And then Mom …” I trail off, tears blurring my vision. I hate being so weak; being all emotional isn’t going to help bring Mom back.
“You best thank me,” Jermaine says. “Now that I’m an accessory after the fact because you told me about the charity money.”
I can’t contain my tears any longer. They slide down my cheeks in salty rivulets. Even though I feel like a coward for crying, another part of me is glad to finally let out all the fear and sadness I’ve been bottling up for so long.
Jermaine looks alarmed. “I’m just taking the piss. After all, I’m helping you spend the money right now, aren’t I?”
I begin to laugh and cry at the same time, causing the family at the table next to us to glance over. Our waitress arrives at the table with our pizzas. She looks quizzically at us before setting our plates down.
“I’m fine,” I say. I use a napkin to wipe my eyes and then pick up my knife and fork. I start to cut my pizza, trying to act as normal as possible. The little boy at the table next to us is still staring at me. I stick my tongue out at him as I stuff a forkful of pizza into my mouth.
CHAPTER 25
Jermaine’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 p
illow 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.
CHAPTER 26
“You 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?
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