Since You've Been Gone (9 page)

“T
he
thing is, Edie, no one really cares what happened to my brother. Not really. What people care about is the drama of it all. It's the community's own little reality TV show.”

I nod. We're walking along the canal's edge and the view is stunning. There are cyclists humming along, people having leisurely drinks at waterside patios, and loads of brightly painted houseboats bobbing peacefully at their moorings like corks in the water.

“I didn't kill my brother or our friends,” Jermaine says. “However, I'm the only one still alive from that day and I guess my word doesn't mean much.”

“How old were you when it happened?” I ask.

“I was eight. My brother, Jerome, was ten. So were most of our friends. That's why they let me be the superhero that day.”

“What do you mean, they ‘let you be the superhero'?”

Jermaine laughs. “I was always bothering Jerome, tagging along. And he was so good about it. He was always so good about it. It was Saturday, you know? He should've just wanted to hang with his friends, but he let me come along.”

We're passing one of the houseboats. A young couple sits on the deck, drinking wine and laughing. The woman has the shiniest red hair I've ever seen and is wearing a floral dress that looks expensive. It makes me jealous to see people that seem so carefree, especially adults. They're the ones who are supposed to have big problems and worries, not kids like Jermaine and me.

“And that day there was this abandoned BMW in the car park of our estate. It had been there for weeks. We decided we'd play Superhero. One of us would rescue everyone else from the car. We'd pretend there was an accident and the superhero would save everyone from the … the burning car.”

Jermaine pauses and already the terribleness of what he's about to tell me is sinking in.

“The plan was that Billy would light these matches he nicked from his father and then I'd rescue them. Only the doors locked somehow and I couldn't open them and …”

We stop walking. Jermaine leans his arms against the railings and looks out over the water.

“They died in the car?” I ask. “In the fire?”

He nods and drops his head onto his forearms.

“But that's not your fault. Anyone with half a brain should've figured out it was an accident.” I'm not sure whom, Jermaine or myself, I'm trying to convince by stating the obvious.

He lifts his head and looks straight at me. His dark eyes are heavy with sadness. “Yeah, the police and everyone eventually believed me, but Billy's dad kicked in my mum's door that night and threatened to kill me, which she didn't really need, considering her oldest son had just died.” He laughs, a bitter laugh that seems to come from far away. “It's funny how I became the villain in the story, innit? But maybe that's 'cos Billy's dad is white and I'm black. There are loads of people in the community who have decided to mark me for life.”

“Including teachers at school,” I say.

“Including loads of people at school,” he says.

We stop talking for a few minutes. I've wanted to tell someone my secret for so long. The secret Mom and I hide each time we move. Jermaine is the only person that knows Mom is gone. Now I want to tell him the whole truth.

“Mom and I haven't really spoken about the night we left my father since it happened,” I say. It's hard for me to believe I'm actually going to confide in someone about what happened the night our life was turned upside down. Even Rume doesn't have a clue that Mom and I were on the run when we moved to Regent Park. And she still doesn't know we're on the run, though she might be wondering after my email.

“When I was a little girl, my life looked perfect from the outside. My dad is a psychologist for the police and we had a really nice house with two cars and a big yard. We went on nice vacations. I've even been to Disney World in Florida twice. No one knew the truth of what was happening in our house, though. I was always good in school, so none of the teachers suspected a thing.”

“Teachers also don't care enough to notice or to ask if they do suspect stuff,” Jermaine says.

“My teachers were great,” I say. “They cared about us, but I guess they didn't think bad stuff happened in nice areas like the one I used to live in.”

I pause. Am I ready to unleash my memories? I fear it might be a bit like opening Pandora's Box. Jermaine continues watching me. I appreciate his silence.

“The thing was, my dad has a bad temper. Really bad. It was hard to tell what would cause my dad to get angry. Sometimes it was as simple as a glass being dropped on the floor or a bad day at work. But he always hit Mom and never me … until the night we left.”

I remember everything so clearly; I was working on a school project, sitting on the floor of our den. At dinner, my father drank three glasses of Scotch and was very quiet. This was usually a sign that things weren't good and that Mom and I should be as invisible as possible. But I wanted to do well on that project. I loved my grade four teacher, Ms. Sherman. She always made me feel like I could achieve anything and I wanted to make her proud. That's why I didn't put away my papers and markers and scissors when my father sat down in his leather chair with the remainder of the bottle of Scotch to watch the hockey game.

“What happened that night?” Jermaine asks.

“I refused to clean up a school project I was working on and go to bed early.”

Images from the past are coming back, tumbling freely into my mind. It's like I've pressed Play on the DVD of my life.

I'd glanced over at the television after defying my father. A player in a blue-and-white hockey jersey had just violently thrust his elbow into an opposing player's face. A whistle blew.

“Go to bed, Edie. And clean … that … mess … up.
Now
.”

I remember taking a deep breath. I wanted the project to be good. And I remember being tired of walking on eggshells around my father when he was like this.

“No. I don't want to,” I whispered.

Suddenly, I was back with Jermaine. Back in London, beside Regent's Canal with the sun just beginning to shine and warm my back as we leaned over the railings. I didn't want to remember.

“You okay?” Jermaine asks. “Don't tell me if it's too hard.”

I shake my head; it's too late. And I want to get this out, to have someone know what's happened to me. “He moved so fast, like a cheetah. One minute I was sitting cross-legged on our blue shag rug. The next minute I was in the air and sailing toward the wall.”

“Damn,” Jermaine says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“All I really remember after that is my mother screaming about needing to take me to the hospital, then my dad making stupid, drunken apologies while putting me to bed with an ice pack on my shoulder. Later that night, Mom woke me up and told me to be quiet because we were leaving. We ended up in a shelter for women and children for a few weeks, but once we moved out and into our own place, he kept finding us.”

“What would he do when he found you?” Jermaine asks.

“He'd phone and either beg Mom to come back or threaten her. He always thought she was dating other men. Like she had time for that. And he'd park outside our house for hours, sometimes overnight. Crazy stuff. So we'd pick up and run again. We even moved to Vancouver to try and escape him. But it didn't work. That's why we're here now.”

“And you think your dad has something to do with all of this? With your mum disappearing?”

“I'll bet my life he has something to do with it,” I reply. “It's like I can feel his presence in my bones. He's been trying to track us down nonstop since that night. He'll stop at nothing to get his family back.” I turn and look directly at Jermaine. “What I'm really afraid of is that if something has happened to Mom,” my voice wavers, “that I'll be sent back to him. I'd rather be put in Children's Aid.”

Jermaine nods. He doesn't have to say anything; I know he understands.

We both gaze out at the couple on the houseboat. The guy is now reading a newspaper and the woman is setting down a platter of what looks like fruit and cheese. Their wineglasses have been refilled. I wonder how many rich people in London know or even care that millions of us in the city are leading lives so completely different than their own.

T
he
concierge sitting behind the desk at the Camden film office is a small man with sharp, elf-like features. In fact, he's so small, if it wasn't for the bald spot at the crown of his head, I might've mistaken him for a kid.

“Can I help you?” he asks haughtily after we stand in front of the desk for a few moments, waiting for him to acknowledge we exist. The final Harry Potter book sits open in front of him. He's holding his page with his left index finger. It's clear we're interrupting his reading and that he's less than impressed.

“Hopefully,” I say, removing the photograph of Mom from my pocket once again. “Do you recognize this woman?”

“Should I?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at me. He begins to drum the fingers of his right hand against the desktop, slowly and deliberately.

“Um, she sometimes cleans here. At night.”

At that point, I swear he rolls his eyes. Gritting my teeth, I continue to smile even though I want to punch him in his arrogant face. He closes his book, takes the photo and quickly looks at it. My heart beats rapidly in anticipation.

“I'm only here during the day,” he says, his words clipped. “So, I'm afraid I can't help you. Anything else?” he asks as he hands the photo back. Then, without waiting for my answer, he reopens his book and begins reading again. Clearly he's finished with us.

“Excuse me, mate,” Jermaine says, placing his hands palm down on the desk and leaning forward. “But it's really important that we find this lady.”

This time there's no mistaking the frostiness in the concierge's gaze. He places his index finger back in the book and fixes his eyes on Jermaine.

“May I ask why you two are looking for this woman and not someone more …” he pauses and looks Jermaine up and down. “More official?”

My heart sinks. This is the only place I really felt might give us a solid lead for finding Mom. Now it appears to be to be a complete dead-end.

“Isn't there anyone here that might be able to help us?” I ask. “The woman in the photo is my mom and I have good reason to believe she's in danger.”

Jermaine glances at me, a look of surprise sweeping across his face. I don't care if this pompous midget of a man knows that I'm desperate. I'm tired of keeping what Mom and I have to go through a secret. It isn't fair. We didn't do anything to deserve a life where we need to constantly run like criminals.

The concierge pauses for a moment, letting his irritation at being disrupted settle like toxic dust. He looks at me and sighs.

“I suppose Thomas might be of help,” he says reluctantly. After paging Thomas on the phone, he goes back to reading his book without another word.

We sit down on a green plastic couch to wait for Thomas. Neither of us says anything.

After what seems like forever, the steel doors of the elevators slide open and a tall, bald man with a neck like a steel beam steps out.

He walks over to us. “Can I help you two?” he asks. His voice is surprisingly gentle and soft for a man of his size.

I nod and show him the photograph.

“We're looking for my mom,” I say. “She was cleaning here a couple of nights ago.”

Thomas looks at the photo, runs a hand along the smooth skin of his brown scalp, and laughs. “Of course I remember her! Loved her accent. Gorgeous woman, she is.”

My heart begins to hammer with anticipation. I quickly put the photo back in my pocket so that Thomas and Jermaine won't notice my hands shaking.

“Did you happen to see her leave the building that morning? Like after she was done her shift?”

“Sure. I'm usually just coming on duty then. We need to let the cleaners out because the building still locked up at that time.”

Hope surges through my body. “Did my mom say where she was going when she left?”

“Funny that. She did, actually. I guess she didn't know the buses well because she asked me where the nearest place to get a good cup of coffee was and which bus would get her back to New Cross or Lewisham the quickest. I told her there was a Starbucks that would be open right by the 29 stop and that the 29 would take her to Trafalgar Square where she could pretty much catch a bus to wherever she needed in South London.”

“So last you saw her, she was headed for Trafalgar Square, then?” Jermaine asks.

Thomas slowly nods. “Well, last I saw her, she was headed out that door,” he says, pointing to the glass doors at the entrance of the building, “on and her way to Starbucks.”

We hastily thank Thomas and hurry back outside before he can ask any questions. Jermaine whistles loudly at the concierge and gives him a sarcastic wave goodbye on our way out. The concierge shoots him a withering death stare in return.

“I guess we retrace Mom's steps,” I say, breathing deeply. I feel alive and optimistic. By the end of the day, I'm going to be with Mom. I just know I am.

I
order a coffee from the barista at Starbucks and then show her the photo of Mom. She shakes her head.

“I wasn't working that day,” she says, handing me a steaming paper cup of coffee. “But I think Simon was on. Just a minute and I'll get him for you.”

Simon finishes putting whipped cream on top of a drink and comes over. He's really young and really cute with spiky blond hair and blue eyes that dance when he smiles.

“Hiya,” he says.

“Hi,” I say, smiling widely back at him. I recognize the accent from the old Crocodile Dundee movies Mom used to watch when I was little. He's Australian — and gorgeous. I continue smiling.

“Edie,” Jermaine hisses, giving me a slight shove.

“Um, yeah. So the girl that served us said you were working the other day. This is a long-shot, but we think my mom came in here and I was hoping you might recognize her.” I put the photograph on the counter.

Simon peers at it. “Is she your birth mother or something? Are you adopted?”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Are you looking for your biological mother? Is this her?”

“Sort of,” I reply. “I mean, yeah that's her.”

“I remember her. She came in with a man. Her boyfriend or something?”

All the blood in my body rushes to my feet. I nod at Simon, though I'm not sure if I really want to hear anything else.

“They were arguing something fierce. That's why I remember them.”

I can feel hot tears welling in my eyes. Everything blurs.

“What did he look like? The guy she was with?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“I shouldn't have said anything,” Simon says apologetically.

I shake my head. “I'm okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. I need to be stronger than this.

“Decent-looking bloke, probably about fifty. Black hair. Dark eyes.”

That's all I need to hear. I grab Jermaine by the arm. “We need to go. Now,” I say.

He nods. “Thanks so much,' he says to Simon.

“Hey, your coffee!” I hear Simon shout as we run out the door.

“Why do you carry around his work number if he's such a wanker?” Jermaine asks. He watches me leaf through my diary, the same one that, only a few days ago, was unceremoniously kicked around on the wet ground by Precious and her cronies.

“I don't know … he's my dad.”

“But he's a complete twat. No offense.”

I stop looking through the diary for a moment. “I guess I always hoped that somehow things would change.”

“You mean like a fairytale ending? One day you ring your dad and suddenly he becomes Mr. Nice Guy?” Jermaine asks, leaning back against the bench we're sitting on and lacing his hands behind his head.

“I'm not stupid, if that's what you mean,” I snap. I go back to searching for Dad's number.

“No, I don't mean that. It's just I don't even know who my father is,” Jermaine says. “Sometimes I see someone on the train or just walking down the high street and catch a glimpse of myself in the bloke's eyes or in the shape of his lips and I wonder. But I don't really give a toss. I don't need him.”

I put my finger on the page where I scrawled Dad's work number in blue ink a couple of years ago.

“Can you hand me that phone card?” I ask.

Jermaine reaches into his pocket. “You okay to do this? What if they put him on the phone?”

I smile at Jermaine. “That would be a dream come true at this point.”

I tear the plastic off the phone card and flip open Jermaine's mobile phone.

As the phone begins to ring far away on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, I glance at my watch. It's two o'clock. That means it's nine in the morning in Toronto. Dad will have been at work for at least an hour already. He likes to be in his office early.

The phone stops ringing and the click of the receiver being picked up sounds in my ear. There's a brief moment of silence.

“Toronto Police Services. How may we help you?”

I'm not sure if I can speak. Words stick in my throat like peanut butter.

“May I speak with Bryce Fraser?” I finally manage to choke out.

“One moment, please.” I'm put on hold.

Jermaine looks at me questioningly. ‘What's up?' he mouths.

“On hold,” I say, flashing him a thumbs-up.

“Hello? I'm sorry, but Doctor Fraser is out of the office for two weeks. May I take a message?”

My hand begins to shake. “Did he leave a contact number?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jermaine's expression darken with concern.

“We wouldn't be able to give out that kind of information even if he did, Miss.”

I pause. It's useless to even ask whether he's away on holiday or if they know his whereabouts. The answer will be the same. And there's no way I'm going to risk identifying myself just to get answers.

“Well, thanks anyway,” I say.

“What happened? You're as white as a ghost,” Jermaine says as I finish the call.

“He didn't say anything. He's out of the office for two weeks. This is exactly what I was afraid of. Seriously, it's like he has some sort of evil magical power and can pick up our scent, no matter how hard we try to escape.” I hand his phone back and bury my head in my hands.

Mom needs me. I know this. We've been in danger all along; that's why she moved us here: for one last chance at having a normal life.

I sit up, tuck my diary securely back into my bag, and look at Jermaine.

“Let's go,” I say, standing up.

“Go where?” Jermaine asks. “You really think your dad is here in London? There are loads of places he could've gone on holiday.”

“I know my dad. We need to just keep retracing Mom's steps the morning she disappeared and see if we can find any further clues about what happened to her.”

“And what if there aren't any clues?” Jermaine asks, falling into step with me as I hurry to the bus stop.

I look at him, my lips pressed into a tight grimace. “That's not an option. I have to find her.”