first-, second-, and third-grade classes. My mind forced a memory to the forefront, Evelyn and I sitting next to each other on a bench, watching our children navigate a bouncy house at Joey Franklin’s eighth birthday party. The mother of Amanda Brown, one of Laney’s friends, had stared at nothing, her face pallid. Julia George had looked around, her eyes wide and panicked. I coached her son James in soccer for three seasons.
Now, they are gone. I am the last. There is a phantasm of hopeskirting the edge of my mind, teasing at the ominous mountain of dread I am holding at bay. I know for sure that the other parents’ children are, at best, wounded, at worst, dead. This is a harsh thought, but it is true.
Unable to act, I am left to think. Questions snap into existence:
Could Jake have skipped school? Had he done that before? Did I really know where he went every second of every day?
Maybe Jake is hiding somewhere . . .
Is Jake . . . ?
A sliver of the shock tears away and I am left with a clear thought. More nervous than I have ever felt before, I fish out my iPhone. Going directly to recent calls, I hit Jake’s number. His picture flashes on the screen, smiling and wearing a Notre Dame Fighting Irish baseball hat backward.
Each ring tortures like metaphorical hot irons slipping between the fingernails of my emotion. My brain screams NO over and over again as I grip the phone like it is the ledge of a sheer and bottomless cliff.
On the fifth ring, someone answers.
“Jake . . . buddy,” I say, my voice cracking. He’s okay!
I hear strange rustling, the phone rubbing against fabric. Muffled voices are just audible, like ghosts in the static.
“Jake!”
A much louder rustle, then the phone goes dead. I am frozen, the cool glass pressed hard against my ear as I try to breathe. I dial again, and again, and again. There is never an answer. Holding the phone away, my head folds downward and my temples throb.
Honestly, a daze clouds my consciousness. Reality slips into something less, and more. It becomes numbing absence and jolting awareness. I look up at the door, yet I cannot fathom the possibility that Jake is gone. He just answered his phone. That one time, he answered. It had to be him.
My phone rings. I fumble, my fingers thinking they belong tosomeone else. When I answer, I hear my wife’s voice instead of Jake’s. She is panicked.
“The police are here!”
“Tell them I just called him.”
Her tone is tight, like an unexploded bomb.
“They’re at our house.”
“What do you mean?”
“The SWAT police are everywhere.”
“Where are you? In the car?”
“He wants me to park,” she says.
I listen to the disjointed sounds coming through the receiver. My wife talks to someone, I assume a police officer. The phone rubs up against fabric, the speaker coughs between the sound of muffled voices. I need her to get back on the line, tell me what is happening.
“Rachel.” It comes out more of a shout.
I still hear her talking. Something about “entry.” She is angry when she gets back on the line.
“They won’t let me in, Simon.” Her anger turns to obvious fear. “They’re searching the house.”
“What do you mean they’re searching the house? Did you tell them about the call?”
“What call?”
“I called Jake’s phone. He answered.”
“You talked to him?!”
“No, he didn’t talk. I just heard . . .”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t even ask myself why they might be searching our house.
Finally, Rachel speaks again. “Get over here.”
“I can’t leave. I’m waiting for Jake. I called his cell. He answered . . . or someone answered. I—”
I turn around. A police officer stands in the doorway of the church. He is looking at me. I turn away. He’ll go away if I don’t payattention. My eyes close. Everything will go away if I don’t look at it. It will all disappear, not like a dream, but like it isn’t real. None of it is real. I am not
Now, they are gone. I am the last. There is a phantasm of hopeskirting the edge of my mind, teasing at the ominous mountain of dread I am holding at bay. I know for sure that the other parents’ children are, at best, wounded, at worst, dead. This is a harsh thought, but it is true.
Unable to act, I am left to think. Questions snap into existence:
Could Jake have skipped school? Had he done that before? Did I really know where he went every second of every day?
Maybe Jake is hiding somewhere . . .
Is Jake . . . ?
A sliver of the shock tears away and I am left with a clear thought. More nervous than I have ever felt before, I fish out my iPhone. Going directly to recent calls, I hit Jake’s number. His picture flashes on the screen, smiling and wearing a Notre Dame Fighting Irish baseball hat backward.
Each ring tortures like metaphorical hot irons slipping between the fingernails of my emotion. My brain screams NO over and over again as I grip the phone like it is the ledge of a sheer and bottomless cliff.
On the fifth ring, someone answers.
“Jake . . . buddy,” I say, my voice cracking. He’s okay!
I hear strange rustling, the phone rubbing against fabric. Muffled voices are just audible, like ghosts in the static.
“Jake!”
A much louder rustle, then the phone goes dead. I am frozen, the cool glass pressed hard against my ear as I try to breathe. I dial again, and again, and again. There is never an answer. Holding the phone away, my head folds downward and my temples throb.
Honestly, a daze clouds my consciousness. Reality slips into something less, and more. It becomes numbing absence and jolting awareness. I look up at the door, yet I cannot fathom the possibility that Jake is gone. He just answered his phone. That one time, he answered. It had to be him.
My phone rings. I fumble, my fingers thinking they belong tosomeone else. When I answer, I hear my wife’s voice instead of Jake’s. She is panicked.
“The police are here!”
“Tell them I just called him.”
Her tone is tight, like an unexploded bomb.
“They’re at our house.”
“What do you mean?”
“The SWAT police are everywhere.”
“Where are you? In the car?”
“He wants me to park,” she says.
I listen to the disjointed sounds coming through the receiver. My wife talks to someone, I assume a police officer. The phone rubs up against fabric, the speaker coughs between the sound of muffled voices. I need her to get back on the line, tell me what is happening.
“Rachel.” It comes out more of a shout.
I still hear her talking. Something about “entry.” She is angry when she gets back on the line.
“They won’t let me in, Simon.” Her anger turns to obvious fear. “They’re searching the house.”
“What do you mean they’re searching the house? Did you tell them about the call?”
“What call?”
“I called Jake’s phone. He answered.”
“You talked to him?!”
“No, he didn’t talk. I just heard . . .”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t even ask myself why they might be searching our house.
Finally, Rachel speaks again. “Get over here.”
“I can’t leave. I’m waiting for Jake. I called his cell. He answered . . . or someone answered. I—”
I turn around. A police officer stands in the doorway of the church. He is looking at me. I turn away. He’ll go away if I don’t payattention. My eyes close. Everything will go away if I don’t look at it. It will all disappear, not like a dream, but like it isn’t real. None of it is real. I am not
Similar Books
