Loud 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.