Then She Was Gone - Lisa Jewell Page 0,76
was keen to see Noelle that morning. The night had felt long, virtually endless. She wanted a human being to break the strange spell she’d cast herself under. But Noelle didn’t come at breakfast time and she didn’t come at lunchtime. With every passing minute Ellie became more and more anxious, more and more scared. When she finally heard the sound of Noelle’s key in the lock in the early evening she was ready to throw herself at her and sling her arms around her neck.
But when the door opened and she saw Noelle’s expression, Ellie immediately recoiled into the soft cocoon of her bed.
“Here,” said Noelle, slamming a bowl of Coco Pops, a bag of Wotsits, and half a packet of Oreos on the bedside table. “I haven’t had time to cook.”
Ellie sat cross-legged, her arms wrapped around her bump, looking at Noelle in surprise and fear.
“Oh, stop with the big brown eyes. I’m not in the mood for it. Just eat your food.”
“It’s not very nutritious,” she ventured quietly. Noelle had been making a big effort to give Ellie vegetables and fruit since she’d become pregnant.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered. “One shit meal’s not going to kill you or the baby.” She sat heavily on the chair, radiating fury.
Ellie waited a few minutes before speaking again. “Where’ve you been?” she asked, pulling apart the packet of Wotsits.
“That’s none of your affair.”
“I was worried,” she ventured. “I mean, it made me think, what would happen if something happened to you while you were gone? Like, maybe you were in an accident or you got ill. What would happen to me?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, don’t be stupid.”
“No, but it might. You might get a concussion and forget your address. And I’d be locked here with a baby in my tummy and no one would know we were here and we’d both die.”
“Look,” said Noelle, exasperated. “I am not going to get a concussion. And if anything else happened, I’d tell someone you were here. OK?”
Ellie saw that Noelle was losing patience, that she should drop the conversation right now and eat in silence, but what she’d just said, that she would tell someone she was here, this was new and transcendental and extraordinary and thrilling. This couldn’t be ignored.
“Would you really?” she asked, slightly breathless.
“Of course I would. You think I’d just leave you here to die?”
“But what about . . .” She picked her next words carefully. “Wouldn’t you be worried? That the police would come? That you’d be arrested or something?”
“Oh, for crying out loud, child. Will you stop. Stop with all this nonsense. I’ve had enough filthy shit today already to last me a fucking lifetime. I do not need any more from you. All I do is spoil you and care for you, and all you do is sit on your huge fat arse thinking up stupid things to worry about. I have put my life on hold for you and that baby. Now just stop whining and let me deal with everything. For God’s sake.”
Ellie nodded and stared into the orange rubble of the crisp packet, her eyes filling with tears.
“Those animals stink, by the way,” Noelle growled, tossing her head in the direction of the hamster cages. “Get them cleaned out or they’re going down the toilet.”
And then she was gone, and Ellie was alone. Outside the high window a sharp wind threw the tangles of the leafless foliage around like tossed hair while Ellie ate her Wotsits and prayed for a bus to bang into Noelle Donnelly next time she went to the shops, prayed for her to be hospitalized for long enough to have to tell someone about the girl in her basement with a miracle baby growing in her tummy.
Noelle didn’t seem to be excited about the baby anymore. The bigger Ellie got, the more disinterested Noelle became. The gifts stopped, the baby names stopped, there were no more little sleep-suits to admire or gentle palpations of the bump to see what position the baby was in. Noelle still came three times a day to visit Ellie, to bring her food—no longer the healthy, good-for-the-baby meals of the early months, no more boil-in-the-bag vegetables and uninspired arrangements of tomato and cucumber, just fried food in varying shades of white, pale brown, and occasionally orange—and often she stayed to talk.
Sometimes these chats were mundane, sometimes they bore precious nuggets of information—the weather outside, for example, with its suggestion of