Girl in the Window. Penny Joelson

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СКАЧАТЬ here,’ I said, waving Mum off in the car. I meant it too. I’d always been determined to be well by the end of the summer holidays. I knew that I wasn’t OK, though. I was achy, weak and in pain. I’m sure Mum knew it too but we both wanted to believe that once I got to school I’d feel better and everything would somehow, magically, go back to normal.

      ‘Come on, let’s get in,’ said Ellie. ‘Don’t want to be late on the first day!’

      We walked to the main entrance. I felt so weird and wobbly, as if the ground underneath me was moving. I tried to ignore the dull ache in my legs and the swollen glands making my neck stiff and uncomfortable.

      Inside, everything seemed different. The corridor looked so much longer. Erin and Tilly rushed up to say hi, and Tilly tried to hug me. It hurt, but I didn’t like to say so. They were clearly pleased to see me back, chattering and asking me questions.

      ‘I thought it was just tonsillitis,’ said Erin. ‘How come it took you so long to get better?’

      ‘The doctor said I had post-viral fatigue,’ I explained. ‘I still felt ill even though the infection had gone. No idea why. It just happens sometimes. Did you have a good summer?’

      ‘We went camping in France,’ she told me. ‘The first week was amazing but then it rained the rest of the time! I never want to go camping again.’

      She kept talking, telling me about all the other things she’d been doing. I zoned out. People were talking all around me too. I couldn’t take the noise. Surely school never used to be this loud? As we reached the stairs to our form room I looked up and was overcome by panic. It was a flight of stairs – a flight I’d climbed every day for years but now it looked like a mountain. How would I ever get up there? And the crowds – I couldn’t bear all the people swarming around me. I suddenly felt so fragile, as if I was a delicate flower about to be trodden into the ground.

      ‘You are OK, aren’t you?’ Ellie asked.

      ‘Not really,’ I told her.

      ‘You can use the lift if you need to.’

      I did, but I felt weird, embarrassed, standing waiting for it. The lift is for disabled students. I’m not disabled. When I got out on the first floor, I was sure everyone was staring at me.

      I sat down with relief in my form room, listening to more holiday stories, with people coming up to say they were so happy I was better and how I looked fine. I didn’t feel fine, even sitting down. When I looked at my Year 10 timetable, I had a sinking feeling. I even asked Ellie, ‘Have they put more lessons in this year?’ and she looked at me like I was mad.

      ‘French first!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Look, we’ve got Madame Dupont! She’s the best.’

      I like Madame Dupont and I like French, but I didn’t smile back because the room was on the other side of the school. The thought of having to stand up and walk down more corridors, packed with students, already felt too much.

      I made it to French but within minutes I felt so ill I couldn’t sit any more – I had to lie down. Ellie took me to the medical room. The nurse called my Mum straight away.

      I’d lasted thirty-seven minutes in Year 10.

      Now, I stand at the top of the stairs, looking down. I imagine I’m an Olympic skier at the peak of a challenging slope. The previous contender has been taken off in an ambulance. I don’t know the extent of her injuries but, after checks, the organisers have declared the course safe. I am not so sure.

      I cling to the banister, aware that I am holding my breath as I put one foot tentatively forward. Then the other. I’m getting into a rhythm, but halfway down I feel light-headed and my legs feel like they’re going to give way. I haven’t been downstairs since that day – the first day of term, 2 September, when I tried to go back to school. But I am starting to improve.

      When I didn’t get better after tonsillitis, Mum and Dad were constantly trying to get me to do more and I had to make them understand that I couldn’t. Dad actually thought I’d got lazy from being ill in bed. Mum thought it must be depression or anxiety, especially when she took me to the doctor who did blood tests that all came back clear. The doctor said it was possible I had post-viral fatigue, and mentioned chronic fatigue syndrome or CFS, though it’s more often known as ME. It stands for Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. That was probably the reason I was taking so long to recover. But I don’t think Mum and Dad realised exactly what that meant, or how long it might take. I didn’t either. I know now, though.

       I. Know. Now.

      People can be ill for years with this. Some people never get better. I’m not going to be one of them. I can’t.

      I’ve been thinking about trying to come downstairs for a couple of weeks – but I’ve been so scared of getting stuck halfway, or not feeling well enough to go back up again, that I’ve been too frightened to even try. I know I have to get over this fear, but it’s based on real experience. I only have to do the smallest thing and it wipes me out completely. Already I need to sit down, but that’s OK. Now it is as far to go back up as it is to keep going, and down is definitely easier.

      I start going again, before I panic. And then I’ve made it! I’m down! I’m a little giddy, but I’m here.

      I wait for a few moments to get steady, then I take a deep breath and stroll casually into the kitchen. I’m almost surprised that it looks exactly the same. I feel like so much time has passed that Mum might have a new tablecloth or kettle or something. She’s busy at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The smell is like a life force to me. I feel stronger just being close to it.

      ‘Hi, Mum! That stew smells delish.’

      She nearly drops the spoon in the pan.

      ‘Kasia!’ She rests the spoon on a plate and flings her arms around me. She knows to be gentle. She lets go of me and rubs her eyes.

      ‘Don’t cry, Mum!’ I tease.

      ‘It’s onions, just the onions,’ she says with a smile. ‘You should have told me you wanted to try coming down. I would have helped you, mój aniele! Do you feel OK? Are you sure it wasn’t too much? Come – sit. After all those stairs you must sit. Let me get you a drink.’

      She brings me a cushion for the hard, plastic chair. My whole body is so sensitive these days. I’m already starting to feel weak, but I don’t say anything about it. I hope Dad gets home soon. I’m not sure how long I’m going to last.

      I glance at the photos on the fridge. Me and Dad making silly faces, Mum posing on a bridge, a picture of my aunt and uncle in Poland. There’s one missing – the one of me and my brother Marek. I’m sad, but not surprised. Dad and Marek haven’t spoken since he dropped out of uni and went off around Europe.

      Dad is home early to my relief – and the expression of delight on his face as his large frame and bald head fill the kitchen doorway makes it all worthwhile.

      He’s still in his work clothes, dirty from his day at the building site, but he does his funny version of a traditional Polish celebration dance round the small kitchen. Mum hastily moves crockery and pans out of the way so nothing goes flying and I am laughing so much it actually hurts.

      ‘Moje kochanie,’ СКАЧАТЬ