Things Not Seen Read online

  Then I start to think of my room like it’s a crime scene. Because that’s where I was when it happened. Or maybe I was in the hall bathroom. So I make a list of everything in both rooms. Everything. The carpet and the lightbulbs and my alarm clock and the flashlight under my bed and the pack of firecrackers hidden in my desk, the shampoo in the tub, the plunger under the sink, Dad’s old Norelco razor, everything. Then I categorize every item as many different ways as I can think of. Natural, synthetic, liquid, solid, electrical, chemical, wood, metal, plastic, paper—on and on. And it feels like I’m making progress for a day or two. But by the end of the second week, I’m out of ideas, and no matter how I look at all the information, all I see is an invisible kid looking at nothing in a mirror. And when I show the lists and the time line to Dad after dinner one night, he says, “Hmmm. Interesting material, Bobby. I’ll hang on to it.” But I can tell from his face that Dad doesn’t think much of my sleuthing.

  So another thing I learn is that Sherlock Holmes always finds the right clue, and I don’t.

  Here’s something dangerous I learn. About myself. I learn that even with a steady fear eating away at me—the fear of being this way forever—and even when I’m working hard to find a solution or just a clue, even then, I can call Alicia or get a snack or read a book, and I can trick myself into feeling almost normal for hours at a time.

  But the most dangerous thing I learn during this three weeks is that people who run schools are nosy. They don’t like it when a kid just stops coming. It doesn’t matter if it’s a public school or one like mine. When you don’t show up for a week, they want to know the details.

  So the school nurse calls the Monday after my mom gets home from the hospital. Mom tells her I’ve still got the flu. The nurse has heard about the car accident, that Mom and Dad were in the hospital. Mom tells her that Aunt Ethel was here to take care of me. The nurse is glad I’m doing much better now—how much longer will he be missing classes? Another week? Fine.

  A week later—to the day—the nurse is not curious anymore. Now she’s edgy. She calls Mom again. She’s getting notes from my teachers and the counseling office, because two weeks is a long time to be absent from a high-powered private prep school. It’s a lot of classes to miss, not to mention the midterm exams. And Mom chats and tells her not to worry, that Bobby is much better now.

  Then a half hour later on the same day, Mr. Creed, the guidance counselor, calls Mom and says he’s got a huge pile of books and assignments for me. He’d be happy to bring them over to the house. And if the flu isn’t infectious anymore, maybe he could talk with Bobby and explain some of the assignments. But Mom says no, don’t bother, she’ll be happy to stop in at the office, because Bobby is still tired a lot. And the counselor says it would be good if the school could have a note from our family doctor about the illness. Just for the files. Because that’s the school policy about long absences. When there’s a note in the file, the work can be made up gradually with no penalties.

  But Mom and Dad don’t have a note from Dr. Weston. Because that would mean a house call. Dr. Weston’s bedside manner is a little too gossipy, a little too informal for Dad. Dad doesn’t want Dr. Weston anywhere near me.

  So there’s no note.

  The next day, Mom calls Mr. Creed and then goes to pick up my assignments. Her black eyes have turned to a bruised yellow, so no one stares too much when she goes to the counseling center. But when Mom is talking with Mr. Creed, and the school nurse happens to pass by—“Mrs. Phillips, isn’t it? And how’s that Bobby? He has the flu, right?”—it doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

  Schools aren’t in the business of wondering about kids or guessing about kids. Schools are in the business of knowing, and when a school wants to find something out, the school takes steps. Private schools aren’t linked up with the state government like the public schools are. They actually try to stay free of the state. But one of the ways private schools do that is by following all the rules. And the state has rules about children and extended illnesses and contagious diseases, and it doesn’t matter what kind of a school the kid attends.

  So that’s why a second Save Bobby Phillips Committee gets going. At the beginning it’s the nurse, my teachers, the guidance counselor, and the people who run the school.

  Maybe it’s the nurse or the counselor, or somebody else at school. Maybe it’s nobody at the school. But it’s somebody, and I vote for the nurse. Because somebody calls the Cook County Board of Health and reports that a fifteen-year-old boy attending University High School has been home ill for three weeks. The parents have not supplied a note from a doctor. No one has even seen the child—me, that is—during the past three weeks.

  And then somebody at the Board of Health calls the Department of Children and Family Services. So the second Save Bobby Phillips Committee is getting bigger.

  And this committee has an action plan.

  chapter 15

  A SMALL WAR

  It’s another Monday morning, and after three full weeks at home, a ringing doorbell is a major event in my life. So I drop The Lord of the Rings on my bed and trot to the landing at the top of the front hall staircase. I bend down to look, and I can see that Mom is standing in the front doorway. And I listen.

  “Mrs. Phillips?”

  “Yes?”

  “How do you do. My name is Officer Martha Pagett, and I’m from the school and truancy division of the State Department of Children and Family Services. May I come in?”

  “Is there a problem?” When Mom says that, I tiptoe to my room, pull off my clothes, and hustle down the back stairs. I want to see the action.

  By the time I get up to the front of the house, Mom is still standing squarely in the doorway. She’s not even going to let the woman into the front hall. I’m about four feet away, looking at them through the French doors that open to the front hall from the parlor.

  The woman is shorter than Mom—most women are. She’s got a narrow face, and her brown hair is pulled back into some kind of twisty thing. Thick lenses in her wire-frame glasses make her eyes look big. She’s wearing a blue skirt and jacket. Her coat has a small American flag on the left lapel. Her white shirt is buttoned all the way up, and there’s a black briefcase in her left hand.

  The lady is smiling, nodding, talking, and Mom is listening, trying to look pleasant, her arms folded across her chest. “…so naturally, there’s some concern about Bobby. I’m sure you’ll agree that three weeks is an uncommonly long illness. Since the school has not received a note from a physician, we’ve been asked to make a visit and simply verify that Bobby’s on the mend and that everything’s fine at home.”

  So this isn’t just a chat. This lady wants to see a body. My body.

  I can see the wheels spinning behind Mom’s eyes. She’s smiling, and it looks like a real smile, but I know better. That’s her I’m-just-barely-not-ripping-your-head-off smile.

  Raising her eyebrows, still smiling, Mom says, “And you believe you have the authority to march up my front steps and into my home and ask to see my sick child? Is that what you’re saying? Do you have a search warrant?”

  This social worker doesn’t know Emily Colton Phillips. For example, she doesn’t know that Mom got pushed around by Chicago cops when she was eighteen during the 1968 Democratic Convention. And Mom pushed back. I’ve seen the news footage. Then two years later, she chained herself to the door of the university president’s office. And she stayed there six days—until he promised to hire more women as professors.

  The lady looks up at Mom. I can see her stiffen and tighten her grip on the handle of her briefcase. She keeps smiling too, but I can see it’s just a mask. I’m looking at a small war between two smart women. Without raising her voice, she says, “You mean today? Do I have a search warrant right now? No, Mrs. Phillips, not today. But I can assure you that I do have every right under the child protection laws of the state of Illinois to have a brief visit with your son, and if I need to have a search warran
t to accomplish that, then I can certainly get one.”

  Mom waves her hand as if to whisk away that idea. “Oh, don’t mind me, Miss Badger.”

  “It’s Ms. Pagett,” says the woman in blue.

  Mom laughs lightly, still smiling. “Yes, Ms. Pagett. Please forgive me. I must sound like I’m ready to call a press conference and accuse you of being a jackbooted government thug or something. That’s just my old radical upbringing talking. Of course you can talk to Bobby. You could talk to him right now, except for one problem—he’s not here.”

  The lady looks surprised, almost as surprised as I am. She says, “Oh. I see. Do you mind my asking where he is?” She’s stooping now, putting her briefcase flat on the porch floor. She opens it and takes out a pen and a yellow legal pad.

  “Not at all. It’s so cold and damp this time of year in Chicago. What with his illness and the accident and all, Mr. Phillips and I decided that some time away would be good for Bobby. He left Thursday to stay with a relative in Florida for a month or so.”

  Ms. Pagett is surprised again. “Florida?” She’s standing up now, writing.

  Mom nods, smiles sweetly. “Yes. We’re withdrawing Bobby from school for the rest of this semester. He just missed his midterm exams, you know, and we don’t want him to feel burdened with all that makeup work. It’s just too much right now, and his health has to come first.”

  Scribbling on the yellow pad, the woman nods. “Yes, of course. And where in Florida will he be?”

  Mom says, “Down in the southern part, where it’s nice and warm.”

  The woman frowns slightly, but keeps writing, and without looking up she says, “And when do you expect Bobby to come home?”

  With a shrug and a smile, Mom says, “Hard to say. Certainly not until he’s feeling like his old self again. Now, Miss Pagett, is there anything else I can help you with this morning?”

  The lady looks up into Mom’s face, her eyes slightly narrowed, her lips pressed together. There’s a pause, and the silence is filled with questions, questions like, “Where is he—really?” and “Do you know how fast I could have a search warrant?” and “You know this isn’t over, don’t you?”

  Then she bends down to put her pad and pen back into the briefcase. The latches click, she straightens up, looks Mom in the face, and says, “I think that’s all the help I need today, Mrs. Phillips. Thanks so much for your time.”

  Mom meets the lady’s eyes, and smiles. They both know that round one is over. Mom won. “You’re quite welcome. Bye now.”

  When the lady’s heels have tapped across the wooden porch and down the steps, Mom turns around and calls softly, “Bobby?”

  I open one of the French doors. “In here, Mom. So now I’m in Florida, huh? Cool.”

  “I can hear you smiling, Bobby, and you shouldn’t be. This isn’t funny.” Mom moves quickly to the lace curtains on the front bay window and peeks out. “These people are like pit bulls. See that?”

  I look over her shoulder, and the social worker is standing on the porch next door, talking with Mrs. Trent, taking notes.

  “That lady is on a case. You are the case, Bobby. And your father and I. The school nurse and the Board of Health and the Department of Children and Family Services have got their little collective brain into a tizzy about one missing boy, and they’re going to push until they get answers. This isn’t funny.”

  But I think it is. “Right, so what do they think? Do they think you murdered me and put me down the garbage disposer or something? Or maybe I’m locked in a closet? Come on, Mom. Get real.”

  Mom isn’t smiling. Her face is so pale that the bruises under her eyes look bright as goldfinches. Her lips are tight, her words clipped. “No, Robert, you get real. You do not understand this situation. This is not a joke. This is the state. These people have real power, and they are not afraid to use it. Kids do get hurt by their parents and others, and someone’s got to be allowed to look around if things are suspicious. And right now, our situation looks very suspicious. It’s not going to surprise me one bit if that woman and six of Chicago’s finest come back here in one hour with a search warrant and complete authority to tear this house apart—looking for one Bobby Phillips, male Caucasian, age fifteen years, last seen by Mrs. Trent getting out of a cab on the evening his parents were involved in a car crash, when he was already supposedly home from school with a severe case of the flu. So don’t laugh about this. This is a real mess—and it’s dangerous for you. I don’t want these people taking you away from me. And now I’ve got to call Aunt Ethel.”

  Mom runs to the den and calls her aunt and tells her that if she gets a contact from anyone asking about me, she’s to say that I’ve been there since March thirteenth, and that I arrived by train. Or maybe it would be a good idea to let her answering machine screen the calls for the next week or so, because if you don’t talk to anyone, you can’t very well be charged with perjury. And, really, maybe the best idea is to go check into a nice hotel under her maiden name for a week or so—at our expense, of course—would she mind terribly? And if you want to talk, please call our cell phone number.

  And when Aunt Ethel asks for details, Mom feels like she has to give them to her. So she takes about three minutes and tells the condensed version of how Bobby became a fugitive from the law.

  And Aunt Ethel is the only one so far who isn’t fazed by the idea of an invisible teenager. She says something like, “Well, isn’t that curious! He must fly down here at once so he can be my bridge partner!” So now Great-Aunt Ethel is in on the secret.

  Mom’s wrong about one thing, though. It’s when she says that the social worker could be back in an hour with a search warrant to tear the house apart.

  Actually, it only takes Ms. Pagett forty-five minutes.

  chapter 16

  SEARCHING FOR BOBBY PHILLIPS

  I think Mom is nuts.

  When the lady from Children and Family Services stops talking to Mrs. Trent, she gets in her car and drives away. Then Mom has this frantic phone conversation with Aunt Ethel, and the second she hangs up, she starts barking orders at me: “Robert, clean up your room. Put all your clothes away. Put all your books back on the shelves. Pack up your trumpet and put it on your closet shelf. Get your toothbrush out of the bathroom and put it…put it with the cleaning supplies under the sink. And toss your towel from this morning down the back stairs. Make your bed and be sure your electric blanket is turned off. Make your room look like no one has been there for days. Now, move it!”

  And then she runs into the kitchen and starts washing the breakfast and lunch dishes like a maniac, doing them by hand and stacking them away instead of putting them into the dishwasher.

  I’m halfway done with my room when Mom yells up the back stairs at me, “Bobby? Think carefully—did you send any e-mails or AOL messages since Wednesday?”

  I think, then holler back, “Nope. I talked to Alicia on the phone a couple of times, but that’s it.”

  “Good. As soon as you’re done, I want you to run down to the laundry room and get all the rest of your clothes. Fold the dirty ones neatly and put them away in your drawers too. Hurry!”

  “Hey, Mom, really, lighten up a little.”

  “Bobby, I don’t want any discussion. If I’m wrong about this, then that’ll be wonderful. But for now, keep working!”

  I think Mom is crazy—until forty minutes later when the lady comes back. Her blue sedan stops at the curb, and then two Chicago cop cars pull up behind her. Three officers get out, two men and a woman.

  Ms. Pagett is at the door with the officers, and after Mom reads the search warrant, she walks into the den and calls Dad and then our lawyer, Charles Clarke. Mr. Clarke arrives in five minutes, but he doesn’t do anything except read the warrant and tell Mom that everything’s in order.

  “What’s this all about, Emily?”

  Ms. Pagett is standing right there, so Mom says, “Nothing, Charlie. It’s about nothing, and I’ll call you later, okay? Than
ks a lot for coming so quickly.” And the lawyer shakes his head, smiles, and leaves.

  Ms. Pagett is enjoying herself. This is round two, and Mom is getting beat up good. The three police officers fan out. Two go up, and one stays down with the social worker.

  I follow the man and woman who go upstairs. They open the doors to all the rooms, figure out right away which one is mine, and then go in.

  And I’m glad Mom is so smart. She called this one right. My room looks empty, cleared out. They open the closet, they open every drawer. They look under the bed.

  I’m out in the hall, watching. They’re being careful, not trashing the place, not making a mess. Which is good. My room’s neater than it’s been in about three years, and I don’t want to have to clean it up again.

  They go to the hall bathroom. No toothbrush, no wet towels. There’s a comb by the sink, but they don’t focus on it.

  They check every room, every closet, every cabinet. They open every drawer. They shine their long black flashlights into every space big enough to hide a kid about my size. They trudge up the attic stairs, poke around, and then track dark dust onto the hall carpet when they come down again.

  When they’re done, I follow them down the back stairs to the kitchen, but I don’t go on down to the basement with them. In the den, Mom is sitting at the desk, doing her best to ignore the suit woman. But the lady is pushing.

  “Mrs. Phillips, I must insist that you tell me where in Florida you have sent your son. Failure to freely offer information will not be viewed favorably.”