Young Writers Society

Lost and Found Chapter Seven:

I found myself wandering through the streets with no direction.

Henri had mentioned ‘grace’ before. It’s what you say when you sit down at dinner, to say thank you to God for all good things you have. I guess Henri believed in God, but I didn’t. At that time I wasn’t praying to God, but rather, to anyone or anything, that might lead me to her.

I ended up heading towards the path I walked school, and right back to my neat and shiny apartment building. I ran up and down all three sets of metal stairs in hope that she might just be waiting outside the wrong door.

I found her after pelting up the last flight of stairs, sitting on the rooftop. I put my hand on the tall railings for support and squinted at the little blur sitting in the darkness on the other side of the roof.

‘Henri.’ I hadn’t yet caught my breath and choked over my words. As I walked towards her she looked at me as if she had been sitting there the whole time- as if nobody had been looking for her.

I swore. Twice, in front of a girl.

I didn’t even apologise afterwards.

The gesture seemed to shock her, which was the only thing that reminded me she was a child. ‘What are you doing up here?’ I tried to sound calm. There where a thousand reasons it could be, after all, children are illogical. She looked down and turned away from me, telling me that she did it on purpose. ‘Henri!’ I snapped.

No answer.

I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. I know, never shake a baby. Her wide, watchful eyes where now glazed over with tears, and for the first time I saw a crease in her brown that was not concentration. She started to sniffle and took a deep breath when the tears rolled down her cheeks. I thought that was it- the crying thing I mean. Then she opened her mouth wide and started to wail so loud I could be sure anyone passing by the block would hear her.

‘Henri, stop crying and tell me!’ I tried to say it nicely, but emotion, and the volume of her screaming, and the exhaustion of the night, and everything else was taking its toll on my self control.

‘I’m sorry!’ She sweeched. Sweech: a cross between squeak and screech, it seems to be the best way to describe the sound. Her wails started to break down into quieter, more desperate cries.

‘Henri why are you sorry?’ When she didn’t answer I shook her again, lighter this time. ‘Henri!’

I think she said she was sorry again, but it was quite incomprehensible. She crouched down to the floor.

The atmosphere was perfect for our melancholy meeting. The darkened sky and icy wind were for once welcomed. I picked her up onto my knee, her whole body so stiff and rigid, and leant back against the railings. I felt like I could breath again, and the longer we sat there the tighter I held her. When she had calmed down she started to say almost-coherent sentences in between her sobs. ‘I was bad.’ She whimpered. ‘Mum left because she hated me.’

I didn’t know what the situation was between Henri and Maurita, or why the woman had left her, but I probably should have comforted her somehow. I thought of my own family, the people I walked away from. I might have given her a talk on independence, and how you’ve got to pick yourself up no matter what. How acceptance is the first step of healing. ‘I want to go, because you want to leave me too.’ She sniffled. ‘Mum did it too.’

That was the dagger, the stab in the chest, the strike to the heart, the bolt of lightening... Yeh, you get it. I put my hand over her head to push her closer to my chest and rocked her back and forth. My eyes where burning.

‘I’m sorry.’

Let’s take a breath, step back out of this picture, and look at me. I was the flirt, the playboy, the heartless romantic.

Now a little girl had made me cry.

‘I don’t hate you, Henri.’ I kissed her on the head. ‘I don’t. Now look at me.’ She was the first person to ever see me cry. She stared right at me expectantly. My voice was starting to crack. ‘I swear, I’ll never, ever leave you.’ One of the great things about kids is that even the most clichéd phrases are not wasted on them. She looked away and leant back against me. She was calming down, and I held her like a child holds a teddy bear, sniffling and crying quietly, right there on the rooftop of our and shiny apartment building.

I realised then that Henri meant more to me than I understood. The thought that she might have gone missing was horrifying, but knowing that she hurt so much because of the way I treated her made me think. I decided I’d rather die than hurt her again.

When her breathing fell slow and steady I realised she’d cried herself to sleep despite the wind and spray of rain that fell over us. She must have exhausted herself. I carried her down into the flat, bags in all, struggled in through the door and lay her careful on the couch.

Changing her for bed that night, I think it flared in me some kind of paternal instinct. I had no idea how to look after a kid, I could say that’s because my own father had no idea how to look after me. So I went to the suitcase, my eyes still weepy, and picked up the book Aunt Maurita had sent. Of course I was too tired to read it, but the intent was there.

I decided that it was about time I started treating Henri like a child, like my child, not just a little girl who had turned up on the doorstep one day. I had to love Henri as my own, which right then when I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, didn’t seem all that hard.

Perhaps the world was wrong when they called me heartless after all.