Things Not Seen (20 page)

L
oud voices.

It's still dark, 4:30
A.M
. by my alarm clock.

Loud voices. Mom's is the loudest.

“How dare you! This is outrageous!”

A man's voice, deep, and a woman's, both too soft to hear. But I know that woman. It's Ms. Pagett.

Footsteps up the front staircase. And fragments from an angry Miss Pagett: “…repeated warnings…new information…search is fully warranted.”

Mom splutters something, and it's the man who answers. “…reports of lights on late at night…the missing boy's room.”

The voices are coming down the hall, and it's the deep voice again. “This is his room.”

Dad: “Are we charged with some crime? This is harassment!”

The deep voice: “Step aside, sir.”

I'm out of bed now, and I've pulled off my boxers and tossed them into the open closet.

This is bad. Too many people in a small room. Someone's going to bump me or step on me. And what if someone stays in the doorway? No escape.

The door opens, and a shape fills the opening, and an arm reaches for the light switch.

I'm next to my desk, standing still. The overhead light blinds me, and I take a deep breath and hold it.

A bulky police officer comes into my room, steps quickly to the bed, and puts his hand palm down onto the mattress. He turns to Ms. Pagett in the doorway and says, “Still warm.” Then he turns and looks at the papers and the cell phone on my desk, and he says, “What the!…”

He's looking at my desk. The list from Sears! And the cell phone—with all those numbers in its memory.

But there's nothing I can do, so I just stand still. He comes toward the desk, right toward me, and I'm ready to duck and roll, maybe get under the bed. And he looks me right in the eyes and says, “Who are you?”

I stand stock-still.

He's still looking into my eyes. “I said, who are you?”

Ms. Pagett is in the doorway. She's looking at me too. And behind her, Mom and Dad.

I look down, and there I am. My body. Me.

“I—I'm Bobby Phillips.” And I'm naked, and I grab up a sweatshirt from the floor and use it to cover up. And I'm dazed, and I must look like an idiot because I can't stop grinning.

Ms. Pagett has turned to face my mom, furious. “What is going on here!”

Mom knows she has to say something to Ms. Pagett, but she keeps looking past her to smile at me. Then she focuses, takes a deep breath, and says, “What's going on? You want to know what's going on? You've just burst into my home and terrified my son, that's what. He got home from Florida late last night after a long train ride, and the last thing he expected was to have armed storm troopers crashing into his room at four in the morning!”

“Well…why wasn't I notified of his return?” Ms. Pagett is still trying to sound tough, but she's already retreating, and Mom is on the attack.

“Why?” Mom takes a step toward Ms. Pagett, and the lady flinches. Mom's voice is shrill. “Why weren't you
notified
? Because this problem you've been trying to solve has never been any of your business, that's why. There's never been a real problem. You've tried to make our family's activities into the state's business, and you assumed Bobby was lost or missing or who-knows-what. But we have never been uncertain about his safety or his whereabouts for one moment. And did you expect me to call you at home last night so you could meet him at the train for us?”

Ms. Pagett doesn't know what to say. “We were only able to work with the information we had—”

“And we appreciate that.” Dad's turn. “We know that you've been doing your job, and by your standards you had reasonable cause for concern. And when my wife has had the rest of her sleep, I'm sure she'll be less angry than she is at the moment. Now, is there anything else we can do for you?” Then, turning to the cop, Dad says, “Officer, is there something else you need to search for?”

The cop looks at Ms. Pagett, and he's embarrassed. He says, “No. I think that does it, right?”

Ms. Pagett nods. Mom steps back, and Dad moves aside, and the policeman and Ms. Pagett walk out of my room, down the stairs, and out of our house.

Here's the summary of what happens next: hugs, kisses, some tears, some hot chocolate, more hugs, and a lot of talk. First, I explain about the ACE and the SOHO websites, then about messaging Alicia and her double-negative idea. And then how I just got the blanket, plugged it in, and got into bed. I don't tell them how my last thoughts were about Alicia.

Dad almost flips out because he's never performed a big experiment without thinking about it for at least a year or two. The physicist is angry about me taking this step with “such an incomplete assessment of the variables and the risk factors.” But the father is proud about me being so bold. And both the physicist and the father are blown away with the results.

But as I talk with Dad, I can see the wheels spinning in his head, and I know that the scientist is just itching to take that blanket and try it out on something else—maybe a little white mouse.

Mom won't let go of my hand. We're downstairs on the couch in the living room, and she keeps reaching over to push my hair up off my forehead. My hair's a lot longer than it was a month ago. And she keeps tilting her head and smiling this goofy smile at me. I feel like her eyes are devouring my face.

But you can only take so much of this kind of stuff, and after about half an hour, I start yawning. And Mom can see me yawn. She can see I look tired. And she can see me smile when she says I ought to go back to bed.

And Dad says, “But
not
under that blanket—please!”

And we all laugh, and that sets off another round of hugs.

Mom comes upstairs with me. She takes the blanket off my bed, folds it carefully, and puts it on my desk chair. Then she picks the comforter up off the floor, spreads it over me, and tucks me in. And she bends down, runs a hand through my hair, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. And I'm glad.

Alone in the darkness before dawn, though, I can't sleep. Much too excited.

Today will be Thursday. I could get up at 6:45, shower, eat at 7:15, catch the bus at 7:37, go to school, and have a regular day. Regular Bobby having a regular day.

But I don't think that's going to happen. There's some other stuff I need to take care of.

I
t's about 9:00
A.M
., and I spend at least five minutes in front of the mirror after my shower. Which is about ten times more time than I ever spent back then, back before. For a month there was nothing to see. It's like I have to remember how I look again.

Mom doesn't want to go teach her ten o'clock class. She wants to stay home and moon around, find some more excuses to sit and look at me. She wants to fix me another breakfast, maybe go with me to the barbershop. She wants to be the new, improved Mom. Which is actually quite nice.

But I don't want to go the barbershop. I like my hair this long. Maybe even longer. It looks good. Only time will tell. Time. Now I have time for things like growing my hair.

When Mom finally leaves at the very last second, I'm glad. I've got stuff I've been waiting to do.

The first thing is to call Sheila. She answers on the third ring.

“Sheila? This is Bobby Phillips. We talked about your blanket a couple days ago?”

“Hi, kid. How's it going?”

“I'm back.”

“No!”

“Really. And it was so simple. I promised I'd let you know, so…I'm letting you know.”

“And it was simple?”

“Easy as falling asleep. But I think you might have to go north. And you have to wait for the right conditions. I made some notes for you, about how it works. Should I mail them, or send you an e-mail?”

There's a pause. Then she says, “Did you keep your promise? About not telling about me?”

“I only told Alicia, the girl I told you about. My dad wanted to talk to you himself, but I didn't tell him.”

“Good. Now I have something else I need to ask you to do for me, okay?”

“What?”

“Forget you ever found me. Forget my name. Forget we ever talked. Don't tell anyone about me, don't ever call me again.”

“What about—”

“Don't tell me anything else. I've been thinking about this ever since you called.”

“But—”

“Listen. Don't talk, just listen. I've thought about this a lot. And what I figured out is, I started disappearing a long time before this happened to me. If it hadn't been this, I would have disappeared some other way. Booze or drugs maybe, maybe three more bad boyfriends—that would have done it. I was already disappearing, a little bit at a time. It was better happening all at once. And now I don't want to go back. I don't want to start worrying about my weight and my hair and all that junk again. I like who I am, and I've got a life that works fine. It's fine for me. So I'm going with it.”

I don't say anything.

She says, “You don't understand that, do you?”

“I think I do.”

“It's just as well if you don't. Listen, kid, I'm happy for you. Really. I hope it all works out the way you want it to. So take care, okay?”

“Okay. So long. And you can call me anytime, if you want to.”

But she's already hung up. She's gone. And I put the phone down.

Sheila thinks I don't understand her. But I do. That's the thing. I do understand. Because a week ago, back when there was no hope of a comeback, I didn't have any responsibilities. None. I was a floater. A week ago it was all about living, just living, minute by minute. No tomorrow, no future. No tracks. No expectations. Not really here. Mostly gone. And there's a kind of freedom in that. And I wonder if I'll miss it.

And now that I know how it's done, would I do it again someday, on purpose? So I could take a vacation from life?

And what about my dad and Dr. Van Dorn? Are they going to be able to let it lie? Or are they going to team up and try to win the Nobel Prize in physics one day? Publish their findings on the Internet? Where's it really going to end?

Sheila's already decided where it ends. It ends with her. She's made a life that she likes. She's like the guy who spends sixteen years in jail, and then gets out, and hates having to make all the decisions of regular life. So he steals a car or something to get himself sent back inside. Back where it's warm and dry, where you already know about all the dangers, where you don't have to make any decisions.

Sheila likes her prison. It won't surprise me if she moves to a new town in a week or so. She'll probably change the name of her business, cover her tracks. I'm not her rescuer. I'm a threat.

Sometime I'll sit down and try to figure out why I'm not like Sheila. But not today. Too much to do.

 

I don't take the bus to Alicia's house. It's a long way, but the sun is out, it's in the mid-fifties, and I am wearing a shirt, some jeans, a jacket, Nikes—everything. It's a great day.

I walk past school, and I think maybe I should go in and say hi to the nurse. I could do some push-ups for her, let her know I'm fine, tell her that I'll be back in school soon. Or maybe not. Maybe I really will take the rest of the semester off. Might make me graduate late, might even set me back a whole year. So what? Years don't scare me much anymore.

I made Mom and Dad promise not to call Alicia's parents. I wanted to tell Alicia myself, in person. And the closer I get to her house, the more nervous I feel. Because things are different now. And how do I talk to the person who just gave me back my life?

Mrs. Van Dorn answers the door and looks at me, her eyebrows up. “Yes?” she says.

I guess I thought maybe she'd be able to recognize me, like maybe some weird sort of intuition would kick in and she'd give me this big smile and say, “Wait—you
must
be Bobby!”

It's not happening. She has no idea who I am.

“Mrs. Van Dorn, I'm Bobby Phillips.”

Her mouth drops open, and her eyes bug out, and she says, “Oh! My goodness, you're…you're here! Bobby, I'm so happy for you—and for your parents! This is wonderful! Of course, I feel like I know you, but it's very nice to…to see you this way. Please, come in, come in!”

And I know that what she really likes best is that she doesn't have to imagine me walking in her front door naked anymore. And she's glad that I don't look like some complete Neanderthal with my knuckles dragging on the ground. Mrs. Van Dorn is into looks, and now she can relax because she knows what her daughter's friend looks like. In my head I'm getting ready to launch into a lecture about appearance versus reality, but I hear Alicia call, “Who is it, Mom?”

And her mom calls back, “It's for you, Alicia,” and she smiles a scrunchy smile at me and whispers, “I'll be in the kitchen.” Because now that she knows what I look like, it's safe to leave me alone with her daughter.

Then Alicia's at the top of the stairs. She's wearing the green sweater and red corduroy pants she wore that first day I talked to her in the listening room. Her head's tilted, her hair falling away from her cheek. She's trying to pick up on what's happening. “Hello?”

Using a neutral tone of voice, I say, “Hi, Alicia.”

She's coming down now, stepping surely, right hand on the railing, her face a flurry of emotions. “I was so worried about you last night.” Then accusingly, “And it was just mean the way you signed off. I was going to call you, but it was almost midnight.” She's stopped about two feet from me in the entry hall. Her face brightens, and she says, “But I'm glad you're all right—everything is okay, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, “fine. Except for one thing.”

Her face clouds over again, genuine worry. About me. And I feel like a jerk for playing things up this way. So, real fast, I say, “But it's a good thing—because now I have to wear clothes out in public again. You were right last night—two negatives make a positive!”

Alicia doesn't get it for a second, and when she does, for another second she doesn't believe it, and then I can see she knows I wouldn't kid about that, and she lights up with this huge smile. “You
rat
! Really?! You did it, with the blanket? And you…and it worked?”

And she's coming toward me, reaching out, and I stand still and meet her hands with mine, and she feels my jacket sleeves, then quickly up the arms to my shoulder and neck, feels my collar, and then runs a hand down my shirtfront to my belt. It's a clothes check, to make sure I'm really wearing them.

And then she brings her hands up again, this time toward my face. And she gets a shy smile on her face and says, “I have to do this, okay?” I guide one of her hands to my cheek, and she feels me nod as I say, “Okay.”

Her fingers are light and cool, and I close my eyes just for a second. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine as her fingers trace across my forehead to touch my hair, and then back down across my brow. Her thumbs meet on the bridge of my nose, and I feel like a book being read, word by word. Eyebrows, lashes, cheekbones, nose, lips, chin, jawbone—the oddest ten seconds of my whole life. And watching her face as she takes her mental tour…I'd like to be touching her face too. I watch her and try to imagine her seeing me, watch her try to match up this new physical image with what she already knows.

She lowers her hands, and she's blushing, the spell broken. Then she says, “Come on!” and grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward the family room. “Tell me everything!”

She's the best audience. It's so much fun to see her face as she pictures everything I describe. And when she can't believe something, I have to tell it again and add more and more details until she's convinced it happened. Like with the cop searching my room at 4:30
A.M
.

“No way!” she says. “This guy's looking right at you, and you don't know it? How could you not know it?”

“Because a month of being invisible makes you feel that way, that's how come. And then he's right in front of me looking me in the eyes. That's the first time someone's looked me in the eyes for a month. And that's when I knew.”

“Didn't you die, like, standing there with nothing on, and everyone looking at you?”

“Well, yeah, and I grabbed a shirt and held it in front of me—but really, I was just so blown away. Really. Like, feeling embarrassed was way down the list. And then you should have heard my mom start spinning out this story about how I just got back last night. It was crazy.”

When I tell her about my call to Sheila and what she said to me, Alicia nods slowly, and her eyes get shiny. Her eyes still work fine for crying. “That's so sad, don't you think? I mean, giving up that way? But I know how she feels. And it is her life.”

“Yeah. That's what got me so mad last night—your dad and my parents, saying how they'd decided everything for me. They didn't have the right. Just like we can't tell Sheila what to do.”

Alicia nods. “Right. But you can't help feeling like you should sometimes. The way Sheila's story makes me feel?” She drops her voice to a whisper and points toward the noises her mom is making in the kitchen. “It's probably the way my mom feels about me—like she has to butt in and try to help all the time.”

And then neither of us knows what to say. But the silence isn't strained. We're both comfortable, just sitting here on the couch, not touching, but close. I look at her left hand. It's resting on the dull red corduroy of her pants, palm up, long fingers slightly bent. And all her fingernails are chewed down to the quick. I've never noticed that before. And without thinking, I reach down and take her hand and lift it up so I can see it better, feeling the tip of her index finger with my thumb.

“You almost chewed this whole finger off.”

She's turned toward me on the couch, and I'm looking into her face, and it's hard to believe eyes this pretty don't work. And I'm feeling like I want to kiss her. Which is not the first time I've felt this way, but without a body, with just a shadow-body, it never felt right before. It was one of those things I couldn't see myself doing.

I'm starting to lean down toward her face when suddenly she pulls her hand back and turns away. Tears again.

I ask, “What is it?”

She swipes at her eyes with her sleeve, and shakes her head.

“Must be something.”

“Duh!” she snaps. And then mocking, “‘Must be something.' Brilliant, Bobby, brilliant. In fact, I think I'll call you Brilliant Bobby—how's that?”

She stands up, tosses her head, feels her way to the end of the couch, gets her bearings, and then stalks out. I hear her footsteps across the tile in the entry hall, and then she stomps up the front stairs. A distant door slams shut.

Jeez.

Mrs. Van Dorn comes into the family room. My face must tell her everything. I'm out of practice. For a month I haven't had to hide what I'm feeling.

She comes over and puts her hand on my arm. “Don't take it personally, Bobby. She gets mad at almost anything. Maybe give her a call this afternoon, okay?”

And she walks me to the front door, and she tells me again how happy she is for me and how great it is that everything's okay now.