Things Not Seen (17 page)

Alicia's quiet for about ten seconds. “Bobby?”

“What?”

Another pause, and then it's her quiet voice. “You're very smart. You know exactly how to talk to this woman. I know that. So why did you call me?”

For the second time during this phone call, I've got to get something just right, first try. “Because this afternoon…because it felt like we rode out there to Sears together, and…and then we came home alone. And I didn't like it.”

Silence. And I'm thinking I've said too much or maybe too little or maybe just the completely wrong thing because I'm an idiot.

But she says, “That's my fault—but don't think it's because I didn't want to be with you or help you…or that I don't like you, because I do like you. It's…it's because I talked with those people about being blind and working…like really working in a real job at a big company and everything. I mean, some lady at the Lighthouse talked to me about all the jobs there are for blind people, but that was like a year ago, and I didn't believe it had anything to do with me. But today, it was different. And it was so new. To think about myself that way. And it was scary, and…and it made feel alone. It made me feel alone.”

“Oh.”

She opens up her heart to me, and what do I say? I say “Oh.” And I'm so mad at myself. Because I could have said, “But you're not alone, Alicia. I'm here. I'll always be here.” And then the lights would dim, and the violins would start playing, and I take her face between my hands…oh, jeez. I am in big trouble.

Right away I say, “But it's good, what happened to you. Maybe you meeting those people was what today was really about, you know what I mean? Because this Sheila woman, and all the other two hundred and some people on my list? Maybe all that is nothing, like…nothing. But what happened for you today, that was real, right? So that's good.”

“Yeah. It was good. I think that's true.”

Then things feel awkward, and for a second I'm afraid I might have said that stuff I was thinking right out loud, or else maybe Alicia used her real eyes, and she saw what I was feeling. Right through the telephone. Her real eyes.

I say, “So, listen. I'll call this lady tomorrow, and then let you know what happens, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And thanks, Alicia.”

“For what?”

“For today, I guess. For everything.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah.”

“You're welcome. And thank you too, Bobby.”

“For what?”

“Same thing.”

“Bye.”

“Good night.”

As I get ready for bed, and then turn off the lights and pull up the feather quilt, I'm not thinking about my electric blanket and how much I miss it. I'm not thinking about Sheila Borden, or about her dad—call number fifty-nine.

I'm thinking about call number sixty, my call to Alicia.

I
half wake up, wrestling with a dream. This guy named Hoffman has kidnapped Alicia and locked her away in a tower, and I'm going nuts looking for a way inside. Then I discover a secret panel that looks like thick pink glass, but it's just a hologram, and I walk right through it. Inside, Alicia is chained to a table, and these electrodes are hooked to her temples, and she's straining at her chains, and beams of sharp green light are shooting out of her eyes and burning holes in the ceiling. Hoffman is wearing a caveman suit made out of old brown pants tied on with neckties, and he's got his hands on the power dials, and behind him there are two jail cells with Mom in one and Dad in the other.

I sit up in bed and force myself to wake up. The clock on my dresser says 9:20. And I know it's Wednesday, and I'm in my house in Hyde Park. And I'm glad all that was a dream. Not that reality is a whole lot better. Or less random. And I don't like that image of Mom and Dad behind bars. I have to shake off a feeling of dread. Because if you let it, the fear just keeps coming.

I do my best thinking in the shower. It's so odd to see the tiny streams of water bounce around, see the shapes of my hands and arms and legs. Warm water runs down my back, and I plan out my talk with Sheila Borden. Because that's the big event for today. Maybe the biggest event in my life. And maybe hers too.

I turn off the water and drip dry a little, slide back the curtain, and step out of the tub. And there's no towel. I open the door, and I'm about to yell and see if Mom is still home. But I hold the yell just in time. Because I hear Mom talking down in the entry hall. And I know the voice that answers her. It's Ms. Pagett. I creep to the banister at the top of the stairwell. I can't see either of them, but the acoustics are great.

“The problem? The problem is that I've now heard from the Florida authorities, Mrs. Phillips. They have called and visited the home of Mrs. Ethel Leighton and have gotten no response, day or night. Seems your aunt Ethel has vanished. So we'd like you to tell us where she and your son might be.”

Mom laughs lightheartedly and says, “Well, that's Aunt Ethel for you. She's a little flighty sometimes. When I talked with her Monday afternoon, she said Bobby was feeling so much better. She said they might do some day trips, maybe even go up to Orlando.”

“But surely, Mrs. Phillips, you must know where your own son is. You don't seem worried at all.”

“Why should I be worried? Aunt Ethel is my father's sister, and I have known her all my life—and I've known Bobby all of his life. They are two very stable people, and I'm sure they're just fine, and when they get a chance, they'll check in. And I am so sorry that this is proving difficult for you and your friends in Florida.”

Ms. Pagett takes her time answering. “Mrs. Phillips, this isn't difficult. Difficult is when a child is declared to be formally missing under suspicious circumstances. Because at that point, the full resources of the state of Illinois jump into action—and possibly the FBI as well. When that happens, these things often get into the newspapers. It can affect lives and careers. It can get quite messy, and…difficult.”

“That sounds a lot like a threat, Miss Badger.”

“My name is Ms. Pagett, and it's not a threat. It's a promise.”

Mom pauses. “Do they teach the people in your agency anything about the United States Constitution? One of the best ideas in the Constitution is that little part about how a citizen shall be presumed innocent until proven guilty.
Proven
. Tell me, did you happen to bring along another search warrant this morning?”

“No.”

“Fine. Then you have a nice day, Miss Pagett.”

And the front door slams shut.

It can't be a good idea, treating the woman like that. I'm not sure I like having Mom act like some tough guy from a Clint Eastwood movie. But as with almost everything else these days, it's out of my hands. So I get on with the business of finding a towel.

As I grab a quick breakfast, Mom is cleaning up in the kitchen. She doesn't say anything about Ms. Pagett, and I don't ask. But I can tell she's on edge. I'm glad she has a ten o'clock class. It'll get her mind off the long arm of the law, and it'll also get her out of my way.

Ten minutes later, Mom's gone, and I'm at the desk in my room. I have some notes on a pad of paper. I know what I'll say if I get an answering machine, what I'll say if Sheila picks up herself, what I'll say if it's a kid or a boyfriend or someone. And I think I know how I can get her to tell me if she knows anything useful.

And as I punch in her phone number, I'm being careful. For myself, I mean. I'm being careful not to get my hopes up. I'm just going to ask this lady a few questions. If her answers help, fine. If they don't, then I go back to the big list and call another hundred, another two hundred people—whatever it takes to see whatever there is to see. Which might just be nothing. Or everything.

“Yes?” And then a throaty cough. A woman's voice, sleepy. The voice of someone who smokes cigarettes.

“Sheila Borden?”

“Yes, that's right.” Awake now, on guard.

“I'm calling because I think you might be able to—”

“Are you one of those kids from Students Against Drunk Driving? Because I already said no to you people two days ago.”

“No, it's nothing like that. I'm calling because of something else. I'm calling because I talked with your father last night. And—”

“You talked with my father? About me?” Now there's an edge in her voice—fear, maybe a little anger.

“No, not really about you, not specifically.” And this is the scary part of my plan. Because I've decided to just tell the truth. Because it takes truth to find truth, right? That's what my dad says. And what's the risk? She has no idea who I am. I'm just this voice on the phone. So I say, “I called your dad because I woke up one morning about three and half weeks ago and I was…
gone
. Just like you.”

Tick, tick, tick. Then she says, “What are you talking about? You got up one morning and you ran away from home?”

And I notice she's not hanging up on me. She's talking, thinking.

I say, “I didn't run away from home. From school, yes—but only kind of.” I pause, because I want her to have time to think. “I was just…
gone
.”

She's angry now. “Is this some kind of a prank? I don't believe you talked to my father. Anybody could call anybody and say that. What's his address and phone number?”

I'm ready for that one. I read off the information.

“Okay, so you talked to my dad. So what? What's this got to do with me? How come you're calling?”

So I use my big question. “When I say that I woke up one morning and I was ‘gone,' what do you think I mean by that?”

Just the slightest hesitation, then she says, “How should I know what you mean?”

“Just take a guess. That's all I'm asking. First guess?”

“Like I said…that you ran away from home.”

“Nope. Guess again.”

“…You didn't know who you were—amnesia or something.”

“That's closer. Guess again.”

“Hey, you know what? Good-bye, that's what!”

And she slams her phone down so hard that I hear it bounce off onto the floor, hear her swearing and grabbing for it, and then a second slam, and the line goes dead. And I'm afraid I've lost her. Really afraid.

I punch redial. Two, three, five rings, and the answering machine picks up. It's her voice on the message, all bright and cheery and efficient: “This is Sheila at Eilash Technical. Leave a message, or send an e-mail from our website, Eilash dot com. That's E-I-L-A-S-H dot com. Bye.”

Then there's the beep, and I'm rushing. I'm rushing to say everything, and I'm talking way too fast, and I'm probably saying too much, but I don't care. “Sheila? I didn't mean to get you mad or anything. I'm just trying to find something out. Because I…I really did wake up that morning, and I really was gone. Like I couldn't see myself. That's what I mean. And I'm trying to figure it out, I
have
to figure it out, I
have
to, and I just thought that if—”

She picks up the phone and I hear her answering machine click off. There's a deep tiredness in her voice, a weariness. “You can't just call someone up and say, ‘I turned invisible one day,' can you?”

And I know. I don't believe it yet, but I know. I gulp, and I feel tears at the corners of my eyes. Because it's like I'm finding a lost sister or something…like a reunion with an army buddy, an old Greek warrior. “So…so it really did happen to you too?”

Almost a whisper. “Really.” Then, “How did you find me?”

So I tell her, and she's blown away. “A
blanket
? That's so wild! A blanket? From Sears…” She pauses, then, “Oh, man…we could be talking about a
big
lawsuit here.
Sears
, for God's sake!
Big
money, do you realize that? Millions!”

She wants to talk. I can tell that. But I look at my notes, and I have to keep to my own program.

“So, can you remember the date that it happened to you?”

She laughs, and there's bitterness in it. “What do you think? Of course I can. January twelfth, three years ago. Hard to forget a day that totally scrambles your life, don't you think?”

And then she needs to talk, and I listen to her whole story. How she panicked that morning, how she started to tell her parents, but then stopped. She actually lived at home three days after it happened. She saw her parents crying about her. She lived in her own room, learned to sneak around, learned how to carry small stuff between her arms and her rib cage. She stole her dad's savings account information, went to the public library, used the Internet, and transferred four thousand dollars into the account she had used at college. Then she set up an account for herself at a bank in Miami and transferred the money there. She stole it because she didn't know what else to do. Which tells me a lot about her, and about me. Because the first thing I did when it happened was tell my parents. She didn't feel like she could do that.

I ask, “Why Florida?”

“Why do you think? Ever try walking around naked in Denver in the wintertime?”

And I see why she went south. She took a plane. Just rode the bus to Denver International, found a flight that wasn't too full, and walked on. Sat up in first class and stole food from people who were sleeping.

At a public access terminal in a Miami library, she found a cheap apartment and paid the deposit electronically.

“Didn't you have to sign papers or something? Like, in person?”

“Ever see a Muslim woman completely covered in a black veil? That's what I did. No one even blinked. I wear it when I go grocery shopping too. There's a pretty good sized Islamic community around here. The only bad part is when I'm at the supermarket, and another veiled woman comes over and starts yakking at me in Farsi or Urdu or something, and all I can do is nod and say ‘Salaam.' But other than that, it works great.”

For the past three years, she's been earning good money designing websites. She bought a fast computer that was delivered to her door, bought some good software, and learned how to use it.

“I had plenty of time, know what I mean? And the Internet? It's made for people like me—like us. You don't ever have to go outside if you don't want to. I find design jobs on the Net, I work at home, I upload my projects over the Net, and I get paid by direct money transfer into my accounts. Works great.”

“What about…like, friends?”

She laughs, but there's a hollow sound to it. “You mean, like, a boyfriend? Not a chance. I didn't like men that much back when they could see me. And they didn't like me so much either. I used to miss hanging out with my girlfriends from back home, but I'm over it. I had a parrot for a while, but it died. So this is simpler. I do my own thing, and that's all there is to it.”

“What about doctors and dentists, stuff like that?”

“The only thing I worry about is if I get really sick. I had the flu last winter for about two weeks, and I almost thought I'd have to go to the hospital. But I just took a bunch of aspirin and toughed it out.”

“How about if things got serious?”

“I've thought about that. First, I'd find a very rich woman doctor, the richer the better. And I'd walk into her offices wearing my black outfit. When we're alone, I'd remind her that she's required to keep my condition a secret, and I'd make her sign a promise of complete medical confidentiality. Then I'd take off my veils. And if she ever broke her promise, I'd sue her right down to her panty hose.”

This lady's definitely a Greek warrior, only she's probably tougher than the guys were.