I come in the side door, and the phone’s ringing.
“Bobby? What’s going on? Are you all right? I’ve called six times during the past two hours, and your father’s tried too. Where have you been?”
“Out.”
“What does that mean? Out where?”
“Out. You know, out. Outside. Like not inside. It’s a nice day, so I went out.”
“But…but how?”
“Well, I walked down the steps to the side door, then I turned the doorknob, then I pulled on the door, and then I stepped over the threshold, and there I was. I was out.”
Mom is quiet. Sarcasm makes Dad get loud. Mom gets quiet.
“So…where did you go?”
“All over.”
“Did you walk?”
“On my very own feet. They work just fine.”
“But how did you deal with—”
“With my little problem? Simple. The sun was shining earlier, and it didn’t feel that cold, so I just stripped down to nothing and I went out.”
Silence. “I wish you had told me. Or your dad. We need to know where you are, Bobby.”
“You need to know where I am? Because you don’t think I’m a responsible person? Well, I am. I know how to take care of myself. I’m actually pretty good at it.”
Silence again. Plus a sniffle. “I should be home tomorrow, Bobby. Probably about noon. They’ve decided my nose won’t need surgery, so that’s good, I guess. Not that my nose has ever been some grand thing to be admired.”
Mom wants to have a conversation, but I don’t. “So you’ll be home around noon?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Good.”
“Okay. Well, I got kind of cold outside, and I just got back, and I need a bath now. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right, Bobby. Have a good night. And call if you need to talk to someone. Bobby…your dad and I love you very much. We do.”
“Yup.”
“Good-bye, Bobby.”
“Bye.”
As I hang up, I know I should have been nicer. I know she’s just trying to be a good mom. But that’s not what I need right now.
It’s later, after a great bath, after some microwave lasagna and two root beers, after I’ve played my trumpet until my lips hurt, after I’ve watched the last half of The Terminator on cable: The phone rings.
It’s right next to me on the couch, but I let it ring. Mom. Maybe Dad. I don’t want to talk to either of them. I grab the handset just before the answering machine kicks in.
“Yeah?”
A pause, about three seconds of silence. “‘Yeah?’ Is that how you answer the phone?” It’s Alicia.
“Oh! Well, no. I mean, no one calls except my mom and dad. And I’m pretty tired of talking to them.”
She says, “Then I’ll try again.”
And she hangs up.
Fifteen seconds later the phone rings. And I’m ready.
“Good evening, this is the Phillips residence, Bobby speaking.”
She giggles. “Much better. Dignified, yet not too stuffy. Now, if you’d said ‘Robert speaking,’ that would have been too much.” Then, in a quieter voice, “So, how are you? Did you thaw out?”
“Yeah. Completely. I love our hot water heater. It’s one of the greatest inventions.”
“Could be.” There’s a smile in her voice. “But I think the toilet ranks higher.”
I’m nodding. “Right. Plumbing in general. Very good ideas. So, how are you?”
“Bored. My ears are worn out. You can only listen to so many audiobooks before everything starts to sound like mush.”
Then I don’t know what to say. I haven’t had much practice talking to girls, not this week—not ever, really.
But I ask, “So, how bad did I scare you today?” Because that’s something I want to know. Like, how big a freak am I, really?
Alicia’s quiet for a few seconds. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about, I mean, about no one being able to see you. And I still don’t know if I totally believe it’s true—but it has to be. That guy didn’t see you, and I know you were there. I waved your arm right in his face, and he didn’t see a thing.”
She asks me about when I bumped into her on Tuesday, like, what I was doing and how I got to the library, and I tell her about my first trip out, and about the two men in the fifth-floor bathroom, and then about the accident and me going to the hospital.
When I tell her about tube lady in the bed next to my mom’s, she starts laughing and tells me I’m making it up. She laughs so hard that she makes those funny little snorts when she tries to breathe in.
Then she stops laughing. And she says, “I think you’re so brave, Bobby. Really. Like, to go and visit your mom? And this afternoon, telling me about what’s going on? That was brave too.”
I can see the look on her face when she says that, and I can feel myself blushing. “Nah, you just got me mad, that’s all. You were calling me a pervert, remember? And I didn’t want you to think that.”
Another dead end, both of us feeling awkward. Or maybe it’s just me, blushing my patented invisible blush.
She breaks the vacuum with a question. “So, will you come to the library tomorrow?”
“I said I’d try, remember?”
“Yeah, but how hard are you going to try?”
“Have to see. My mom’s coming home from the hospital about twelve. So I don’t know what’s gonna be happening here around two. Could be all hell breaking loose. But I’ll try to come, I really will.”
“So it’s a definite maybe.”
“Yup.”
“Okay. Bye, Bobby.”
“Bye…. Oh—Alicia?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for calling.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Bye.”
I’m sitting on the couch next to an empty lasagna tin and two root beer bottles, but I’m a million miles away. Or maybe only about ten blocks away. I can see what Alicia’s face looks like, and I can see her smile, and then the phone rings.
Another courtesy test.
I grab it on the first ring and say, “Good evening, Miss Van Dorn. You’ve reached the Phillips residence again.”
“Bobby?”
“Dad! Hey…hi, Dad. How’s it going?” I try to sound cheerful, but I didn’t want it to be Dad. Because talking to Dad snaps my missing body back into focus, and for a few minutes I’d forgotten all that.
“‘Miss Van Dorn,’” Dad says, “who’s Miss Van Dorn?”
“Someone you don’t know, Dad. A friend of mine.” I talk to Dad for about five minutes, but I’m not thinking about what’s he’s saying.
I’m thinking about what I just said about Alicia. About how she’s a friend. And about how it’s true.
Because, already, that’s what Alicia is. She’s a friend.