Since You've Been Gone

by Mary Jennifer Payne

  Jermaine arches an eyebrow at James. “No one needs to know.”

  I can’t be sure, but Jermaine’s reply seems to make James nervous. He starts rubbing his hands together. Silence fills the van. I agree with James; what Jermaine did back there was nothing short of amazing.

  I look out the window and immediately feel ill. Motion sickness is something I’ve suffered with on and off since I was a little kid and watching London’s streets whizzing backwards away from us is too much. Everything outside the ambulance looks washed-out and grey. It’s as if the entire city has been put into a washer and dryer too many times, fading all its vibrant colours.

  The ambulance slows and comes to a stop outside the hospital’s entrance. We hop out and stand waiting for the paramedic, not sure what we we’re supposed to do next. Fat drops of rain begin to fall, creating a polka-dot pattern on the concrete at my feet.

  “You okay?” I ask Jermaine.

  He nods. “Just a bit tired. What happened back there is starting to sink in.”

  “Here we are,” James interrupts. “Tallest hospital in Europe, Guy’s is.” He motions toward the building with a wave of his hand.

  I look up and stared at the gloomy brown building. Hopefully someone put more effort into making the inside more cheerful.

  “Has to be the ugliest as well,” Jermaine mumbles, as though having read my mind. I smile at him.

  Once inside, James goes to make a quick phone call while Jermaine and I register with the paramedic at the front desk.

  “Have a seat,” the receptionist says after taking our information. She shoos us toward some uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs with a dismissive wave. Over a dozen other people are already waiting. A bald, middle-aged man sits and moans softly, clutching his stomach, which hangs over the waistband of his pants like an over-inflated beach ball.

  “This should be fun,” Jermaine says, his voice thick with sarcasm.

  James comes back and rejoins us. He seems much quieter, picking up a tattered section of newspaper from one of the empty chairs beside him to read rather than engaging in conversation. Maybe everything that happened earlier is beginning to sink in for him as well.

  I sit back and aimlessly watch scenes from a car bombing somewhere in a Middle Eastern country flash across the screen of a bulky television set that is bolted to the waiting-room wall. The camera pans over to a sweaty reporter standing in front of a crowd of angry young men.

  “Excuse me, is your name Jermaine? Are you the boy who was involved in the rescue at Bankside today?”

  I look up, startled, as a bright light is suddenly shone on Jermaine. Two men are standing in front of us. The one holding a microphone in Jermaine’s face is well-dressed with short, spiky hair and speaks with a clipped accent. Standing beside him is a burly man balancing a television camera on his shoulder.

  Jermaine swings around to face James. “What the bloody hell is all this?” he asks. “Is this why you were so desperate to make a call when we first came in?”

  James looks taken aback. “What you did was brilliant. God knows we need more feel-good stories in London. Would you rather the news was only filled with images of war and little old ladies being mugged for their pension cheques?”

  The reporter nods at the cameraman. The bright light now shines on him, revealing a mask of caked-on makeup, which cracks and creases as he broadens his grin for the camera.

  “Hello, London! Welcome to the ITD evening news. I’m Trevor Watson here at Guy’s Hospital with the capital’s newest hero,” he says. “That’s right, in this day and age of Asbos and endless stories of hoodie-wearing youths terrorizing our streets, we bring you a good news story about the city’s youth.”

  Every eye in the room is now on Jermaine. Even the bald man has stopped moaning and is intently watching.

  The reporter swings around and sticks the microphone in Jermaine’s face again.

  “Can you tell us exactly what happened in the moments leading up to your daring rescue of that young boy in the Thames at Bankside today, Jermaine …?” the reporter asks.

  “Lewis,” Jermaine says, finishing the reporter’s sentence for him.

  “Lewis. Right.” A flicker of annoyance momentarily crosses the reporter’s face. Then his blinding white smile is back. “So, Jermaine, I think it’s fair to say that your Sunday was more than a little out of the ordinary. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The camera pans to Jermaine and zooms in for a close-up. He shrugs. “Yeah, I suppose …”

  “Can you tell our viewers how you ended up diving into the River Thames this morning, risking your own life to selflessly save that of someone else?” the reporter asks, his face a mask of contrived concern.

  “The kid was playing around and fell into the water,” Jermaine says. “We heard his mum screaming. I’d have been a twat not to try to save him.”

  The reporter frowns at Jermaine’s use of the word twat, which makes me smile. That’s what you get for filming this live.

  “Do you believe the mother was negligent in allowing her son to play, unsupervised, so close to the water’s edge?”

  “What?” Jermaine asks. “No, of course not. The kid just fell in. Accidents happen.” His face suddenly looks sad. I wonder if he’s thinking about what happened to his brother and their friends.

  The reporter turns his attention to me.

  “And you were with Jermaine when all of this happened? What were your thoughts when you saw him jump in the water to rescue the boy?”

  I sit silent for a moment, unable to speak. The light from the camera makes me squint.

  “We were looking for my mom,” I say. I pause, feeling Jermaine’s eyes on me.

  “What are you doing?” he whispers, leaning over to me.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I want to do this. I need to.”

  I look back at the camera, my eyes adjusting to the brightness. “She’s been missing for four days now,” I continue, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the photograph. The cameraman zooms in on it. “Her name is Sydney Fraser. I don’t know where she is and I’m …” my voice cracks. “I’m so worried.”

  The reporter leans in closer. “So, you’re telling us your mother has disappeared somewhere on the streets of London?”

  I nod. “She was last seen in Camden.”

  Turning back to the camera, the reporter shares this new bit of news. I hate the way he seems so eager.

  “You’ve heard this breaking news first here on ITD. Sydney Fraser, a Caucasian woman in her …”

  “She’s forty-nine,” I say.

  “In her late forties has gone missing. She was last spotted in the London borough of Camden. If anyone has seen this woman, or has any information on her whereabouts, please contact ITD news or the Metropolitan Police.”

  Jermaine leans over. “There’s no turning back now, Edie,” he whispers. He sounds worried.

  “I know,” I reply. “But I can’t do this on my own anymore and I need to know what’s happened. Even if it’s something terrible.”

  “This is Trevor Watson reporting from Guy’s Hospital. Good night, London!” As the light on top of the camera fades, the reporter turns to us. He extends his hand to me. His grin is wider than ever, making the pancake makeup on his face crack in places like an Egyptian mummy.

  “Brilliant! That was just brilliant!” he gushes. “Viewers will be absolutely glued to their screens for updates.” He turns to the cameraman. “Brilliant for the ratings,” he says.

  The words are barely out of his mouth when Jermaine’s fist slams into the reporter’s carefully powdered chin.

  CHAPTER 29

  At first glance, English police stations don’t seem much different than Canadian ones. According to Jermaine, this police station in Lewisham is the largest in Europe. To me, the worst thing about being stuck in a police station is that it reminds me of visiting Dad at his work when I was younger.

  “We’re putting a missing person’s file out straightaw
ay,” says the officer in charge of looking after us. He seems really young for a police officer, his gangly body attempting without success to fit properly into his uniform. He sits down on the bench beside us.

  “I’m Officer Murphy, by the way,” he says. “Do you two want anything to drink whilst you wait? It might take a bit of time.”

  “I’m okay,” I reply.

  “We’re just trying to contact your aunt right now,” Officer Murphy says. He looks over at Jermaine. “And your mum.”

  “Brilliant,” he mumbles. “She’s going to beat me into next year.”

  Officer Murphy nods. The expression on his face becomes very serious. “By the way, that reporter isn’t going to press assault charges. Apparently that bloke James that you were with somehow convinced him that you were suffering from post-traumatic shock.”

  Jermaine smiles. “He deserved what he got. He was a wanker.”

  Officer Murphy shakes his head. “You’re just lucky he believed that rubbish. Next time, keep your fists to yourself. No use getting yourself in loads of trouble. If I went punching every twat and idiot I encounter in this city on a daily basis, I’d have fists as raw as mince.” He gets up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll check and see what’s going on as far as your aunt is concerned.”

  “Where’s your auntie?” Jermaine asks as soon as Officer Murphy walked away. “You didn’t tell me you had family here.”

  “She’s not here,” I say. “She’s somewhere in Ireland. Dublin, I think. I haven’t seen her in ages and didn’t have any way of contacting her.”

  “That’s tough,” he says. “Sorry we didn’t find your mum … or catch your dad.”

  “That’s okay. You saved a kid instead. Not really a wasted day when you look at it that way.”

  Jermaine smiles. “Can you imagine the look on Ms. Bryans’s face when she hears the news?”

  I laugh. “Maybe you’ll get awarded a medal from the Queen for bravery and can invite her to the ceremony. She’d die.”

  “Yeah,” he says with a wry smile. “She probably would die ’cos she’s so convinced I’m heading for nothing but a life of crime. I’m not inviting that bitch anywhere.” He pauses for a moment. “Listen, Edie … you don’t really know what’s going to happen when they contact your aunt. Where you’ll be, you know. Stuff like that.”

  “I know,” I say. “But that’s just the way it is. I’m just so tired. All I want is a normal life … to live in one place and go to one school.”

  “Even if that means being stuck living in Lewisham?”

  I turn to Jermaine. “Yep. I’d be especially happy to stay here.” And then, without warning, I lean over and hug him close.

  Next thing I know, Officer Murphy is clearing his throat uncomfortably. I look up; he’s standing in front of us, holding two Cokes. He raises his eyebrows at us, but there’s more than a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  “Thought I’d bring these just in case you changed your mind about having something to drink,” he says. “Jermaine, turns out your mum already learned about your heroics from the telly and is well chuffed. I don’t think she needs to find out what happened afterward with the reporter. Unless you want to tell her.”

  “Really?” Jermaine says, taking one of the Cokes from Officer Murphy. He pulls back the silver tab. “Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. She has enough on her plate already.”

  “We’ll be taking you home, then,” Officer Murphy says. “And let this be the last time you take a ride in a police car, unless you’re driving one.”

  “I’m not becoming part of the police,” Jermaine says with a scowl. He turns to me. “I can stay and wait with you if you want. I’ll ring my mum. Or you can come and stay at our flat again.”

  “Actually,” Officer Murphy interjects, “we’ve contacted Edie’s aunt and she’s booked on an early-morning flight from Dublin.” He turns to me. “In the meantime, we’ve arranged for you to stay with a local foster family tonight.”

  My entire body goes cold. “But I can stay at my own place,” I protest.

  Officer Murphy shakes his head. “You know I can’t allow that. This is a really nice family and they’re just down the road in Greenwich. Jenny and Bill Gilmore. You’ll like them. And it’s only for one night.”

  I nod, trying to fight back tears. Part of me wants to just give up, but I know that’s not what Mom would want.

  “Listen, we’ll drive Jermaine home and then take you into Greenwich. It’s the best I can do.”

  I nod again, not trusting myself to speak. Jermaine stands up first. He extends his hand to me and I gratefully take it. Together we follow Officer Murphy and his partner, a female police officer with hair the colour of fire, to the parking lot.

  Once outside, the night air strikes me like a slap. It’s the coldest night since my arrival. That seems fitting somehow.

  Officer Murphy opens the door for me and I slip into the small car. Like everything in London, even police cars are miniaturized. I sigh into the darkness.

  Jermaine climbs in beside me. As we drive out of the parking lot and onto a worn-looking residential street that’s dimly lit by yellow sodium lights, I realize I have nothing with me.

  “I haven’t got a toothbrush or pajamas,” I say to no one in particular.

  “Don’t worry. Jenny and Bill will have all the necessities in terms of toiletries and whatnot,” Officer Murphy says, not taking his eyes off the road as he navigates the cruiser around a busy roundabout.

  I stare out the window at the commuters emerging from the train station. A mother with two young children clutching her hands walks past. I hope they realize how lucky they are.

  I close my eyes. Sure, these people will have a toothbrush and pajamas and everything else for me, I think. But they won’t be my things. This is it. I’m officially in care, the one thing Mom worked so hard to keep from happening.

  The rest of the ride to Jermaine’s place is silent. I stare out the window as we drive past a variety of pubs, kebab shops, and Caribbean food shops. Nothing feels real.

  Finally, we pull up in front of Jermaine’s apartment block. Officer Murphy stops the car, turns on the light inside its cab, and twists around to face Jermaine.

  “What you did today was incredibly brave,” he says. “That little boy is alive tonight because of you. However, if I ever hear of you doing something stupid like what you did at the hospital, I’ll be your personal albatross. Got that?”

  Jermaine nods. “Yeah, I got that.”

  I continue staring out the window. This is it.

  “You got a pen and paper, Officer Murphy?” Jermaine asks.

  Officer Murphy digs around the glove compartment of the cruiser for a moment and then hands Jermaine a small notepad and a pen.

  “Catchy,” Jermaine says. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Don’t be cheeky,” Officer Murphy replies.

  After a few moments of hasty writing, Jermaine folds the piece of paper into a tiny square and hands it to me. I slip it into my coat pocket without looking. Tears blur my vision.

  Jermaine leans across the seat. “You don’t have to read it now,” he says. “Keep your chin up, Edie.”

  I don’t reply; I can’t speak. I just want all the hurt to stop and the only way I know how to make that happen is to retreat into myself like a turtle drawing into its shell.

  “Thanks for everything, Officer Murphy,” Jermaine says as he opens the door and climbs out. The door shuts behind him and I turn away, not wanting to watch him walk to the front door of his building. I can picture it in my head anyhow; I know his saunter, the way he walks with his shoulders out first, swinging one and then the other forward.

  I’m so tired of saying goodbye to all the people and things I care about in my life.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Gilmores aren’t as bad as I thought they’d be. They’re actually much younger than I expected, likely in their mid-thirties with no children of their own. Probably taking
care of screwed-up kids like me turned them off that idea.

  Their house is a narrow, red-brick place on a quiet, residential street. The inside feels warm and safe as soon as I walk into the front hall with its over-filled coat-rack and bright paintings of flowers.

  “This will be your room,” Jenny says. She opens the door to a cozy room filled with stuffed animals and books. “You can move the toys off the bed, of course,” she says with an apologetic smile. “We sometimes get much younger children staying.”

  I nod. Jenny, with her short, bleached-blond hair and pierced nose, bears an uncanny resemblance to Gwen Stefani. I can hear murmurs of conversation drifting up from the living room below where Officer Murphy and his partner are no doubt filling Bill in on my situation.

  “This must be hard for you,” Jenny adds. “And you might not want to talk, which is fine. But if you need anything at all, including someone to just listen, let me know. Okay?”

  I nod again. Suddenly, a flash of orange and white dashes between my legs and lands like a projectile on the green-and white-flowered bedspread.

  “Bedlam! You bloody mad cat!” Jenny cries. She turns to me. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

  “No, I love cats,” I quickly answer. Jenny strides over to the bed and scoops up the cat. It peers excitedly out from under her arm at me.

  “Good!” Jenny says. “Because when Bedlam isn’t acting like a complete nutter, he’s actually quite good company.”

  I watch as Bedlam begins to struggle against Jenny’s arms, kicking with his back feet and wiggling his body in about ten different directions at once in a bid for freedom.

  “You can leave him in here,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind but I think I am going to just go to bed. I’m really tired after everything that happened today.”

  Jenny frowns slightly. “That’s not a problem. Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat? We’ve just finished eating and there’s still loads left. And Bill’s Spaghetti Bolognese is really something else.”