Charlie’s dad went through Charlie’s room, looking for what? Drugs? Porn? Something, anything, a clue. To understanding his own son.
I’m losing him.
That’s the worst thing you can think, as a father. To look at your son, who used to curl up in your lap and call you “Dah-dah” and ask for “peaner butter.” And then to realize, I don’t know him anymore. I can’t help him anymore.
Add him to the list of people I can’t save.
My son.
My wife.
Myself.
Arthur Lake could pinpoint the exact moment he knew he was outgunned, as a father. When Charlie was twelve, the school had assigned the kids iPads. Charlie wanted to put games on his, like his friends did. But Charlie’s dad wanted to draw a line. Two games. That was it. The iPad was for school. It wasn’t a toy.
“Okay,” Charlie said, just like that.
Win! A Father of the Year moment.
Then one day Arthur came home and saw the iPad sitting on the kitchen table, unlocked like always. A couple of the apps had the exclamation-point symbol, showing they needed to be updated. But one exclamation point floated in space on the screen, not over any icon. It was just there, hanging over the background picture.
Curious, Charlie’s dad pressed on it. A whole new section of the iPad opened up, filled with games. It was as if Charlie had placed an invisible door on his screen, known only to him. If it had been his room, Charlie’s father could’ve searched for months and never found the trapdoor under the rug. Except at least a secret door has edges, a hinge, something. If not for the accidental update notice, Arthur Lake would never even have known this hidden place was there.
What else was Charlie hiding from him?
What would it be in a few years, when it wasn’t just games? And how the hell are you supposed to raise your kid when you can’t even find the door to his secret room?
Now, five years later, Arthur Lake knelt in front of Charlie’s computer on his desk. Arthur woke it up, and the home screen was locked. He felt it again, the walls between them.
Arthur tried a password so obvious, so heartbreaking, that it couldn’t possibly be right. He typed in his lost wife’s name, Alicia.
The home screen unlocked, showing Charlie’s desktop and his mess of apps and papers. A Web browser was open and minimized. Arthur brought it up, wondering what he would find.
It looked like some kind of game or chat room. There was a tent, like a carnival. Next to it, a lizard in a top hat was sleeping on the ground.
The text said:
You are invited!
COme inside and play with G.O.D.
Bring your friends!
Arthur read on. At the bottom, there was a gap, then:
Invitation accepted.
He breathed a sigh of relief. It was a stupid game. Not instructions for a bomb or suicide cocktails. If Charlie was playing games, he was living life. He was a kid.
Arthur moved the cursor, to see what was in Charlie’s search history, but the lizard woke up and looked right through the screen at him, as if the movement had stirred him.
It was creepy. The animation was crude, but the responsiveness was unsettling.
Arthur glanced at the little camera for skyping and whatnot and thought, Is Charlie watching me? Can this be motion activated, too? Am I busted? How can I be busted? he corrected himself. It’s my house. I’m the father.
Arthur had something he wanted to tell Charlie. A reason he was feeling better than he had in months. Years. He’d let Charlie down when Alicia was sick. He tried his best but fell down. But this new thing, it could be good for all of them. A fresh start.
He decided to leave Charlie’s room. Give him his privacy. Leave him to his games. We’ll talk tonight.
Arthur left the room.
He was wrong about Charlie watching him through the camera.
It was God who was watching through that little eye.
And why not? Wasn’t God always watching?