Things Not Seen (16 page)

A
fter I'm home, and after I get Mom off my case for being gone so long, and after I get my door locked and put on some clothes, I unfold the list and flatten it out. I stare at the names and I think about how I got them, and I'm not proud of myself for being a sneak thief. But it had to be done. Because something had to be done. Can't just sit around and do nothing.

And I think about Alicia. I feel like I should call to make sure she got home okay. But she'd probably just get all hissy about how she can take care of herself. So I root around in my desk until I find a clipboard and put the list on it. Then I pull the cell phone loose from the charger wire, flop down on my bed, and go to work.

My first fifty-eight phone calls to the people on the blanket list break down like this:

• thirteen phone service messages that say stuff like, “This number is no longer in service”;
  
• eight answering machines that I don't leave messages on;
  
• six husbands who don't know their wives had done any such thing as exchange an electric blanket, and who couldn't care less;
  
• five wives who don't know their husbands had exchanged an electric blanket, and who also couldn't care less;
  
• six lonely old people who remember something about a bad electric blanket, but who really just want to talk to me about their grandchildren, or
  Wheel of Fortune
  , or the weather, or the cost of heating oil, or anything at all;
  
• eight people who hang up because they think I'm trying to sell something;
  
• six kids who don't know when Mom or Dad will be home, or who say Mom or Dad can't or doesn't want to come to the phone, and could I call back later;
  
• and six people—two men and four women—who are actually pleasant and cooperative, but had no strange blanket events to tell me about.
  

Fifty-eight phone calls and not one hint about anything unusual that might have happened because an electric blanket had stopped working properly.

Mom has gotten over being mad about me going out today without telling her anything. Dad has come home from the lab for dinner, but he doesn't smile about anything. I can tell he's still churning the data. And for two and a half hours before dinner and two and a half hours after dinner, I'm in my room going through the names from my crumpled stolen list. I'm lying on my bed, microwaves burning up my brain, running up a killer phone bill.

So it's about quarter of ten, and I make the fifty-ninth call. I know it's kind of late, but I skip ahead two names to a person who lives in Denver, because it's an hour earlier there.

“Mr. Borden?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you at home, but I'm doing a survey about your experience with a Sears electric blanket.”

“A blanket?”

“Yes, from Sears. Do you recall exchanging the blanket?”

“Yeah, we had a pink one. It was prob'ly my wife did it. But it wasn't really our blanket. It was just…left here.”

“Left there? You mean at your home?”

The man doesn't answer at once. His voice is strained. “My daughter. Sheila. That was her blanket.”

“May I please talk with her, then?”

“No, she's…she's gone now.”

I hear the catch in his voice. And that certain way he uses the word “gone.”

I don't know what to say. “Oh. I…I'm so sorry, Mr. Borden. I hope you don't mind me asking, but this is pretty important. Do you think your daughter's death had anything to do with the electric blanket?”

“Death?” he says. There's anger in his voice. “She's not dead. That's the hell of it. She's just…gone. Over three years now.”

I feel the hair on my arms stand up—invisible goose bumps. “Gone, you mean like…how? Like run away from home? Something like that?”

The man blows his nose, clears his throat. “Don't really know. She dropped out of college, moved back home, gets a job. Then she takes up with some of her old friends, starts staying out late. Came home drunk most nights. Sleeps next day till noon, gets up, goes to her job at the restaurant, and on like that for about two months. Then one night she comes in late, goes to bed, and the next morning…gone.”

“…And you haven't heard from her since?”

“Only once. She called, asked could we send her two thousand dollars—two thousand
more
than the four she already stole when she left. Send it Western Union, she says, to this grocery store in Florida. So I did it. Probably stupid, but if you have kids, you know why I had to do it. That's about two years ago. Since then, nothing—'cept a note last Christmas. And it's not like it was even a card or something nice for her mother. Just one of those computer messages.”

My heart almost stops. “You mean an e-mail?”

“I guess so. It's just plain letters on a piece of typing paper. Sent it to Mrs. Harlan's house next door, then her boy made a copy on his computer and brought it over to us.”

“Mr. Borden, it's really important that I talk to your daughter. Do you still have that message your neighbor brought to you?”

“You kiddin'? My wife keeps everything—pictures, bits of hair, baby shoes, first tooth, report cards—everything. Tore her up when Sheila left.”

“Could you find that paper for me?”

“You mean right now?”

“Please…if it's not too much trouble. It might be a big help.”

“Hang on. I've got to walk upstairs.”

I'm on my feet now, pacing. I go over to my desk and open up a little notebook. My hands are so sweaty, it's hard to hold the ballpoint. He's taking a long time.

There's a click on the line as Mr. Borden picks up another extension.

“You still there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Here's what it says: ‘Dear Mom and Dad, I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. I know I left so suddenly, but I think it was the best thing for all of us. Sorry if it hurt you. I think about you a lot, and I hope I can come home to see you again. Love, Sheila.'”

I don't want to hear all this, but once he's started, I can't interrupt. His voice is thick at the end, and when he stops, I say, “Mr. Borden, at the top of the page, is there something that has the ‘at' symbol in it—a little ‘a' inside a circle? It might even say ‘From,' and then have a bunch of letters or numbers?”

I'm holding my breath. “Yeah, up at the top. It says ‘From,' and then there's something like that.”

“Can you please spell it out for me, just exactly the way it's written?”

“It's not written, it's all typed.”

“That's what I mean. Just the way it's typed.”

“It says ‘e-i-l-a-s-h,' then that ‘at' doohickey, then it says ‘g-l-o-w-z' and then a period, and then ‘n-e-t'—‘net.' And that's all of it.”

“Mr. Borden, thanks so much for your help. I really appreciate it.”

“Well, you're welcome. And I hope you can fix this blanket problem of yours.”

“Thanks. Me too.”

I push the button to end the call, and I see the phone wobbling. That's because my hands are shaking. Maybe this is nothing, just a coincidence. But if there's anything at all to find out, I will. Because now I have Sheila Borden's e-mail address: [email protected] Her dad probably never even noticed that “eilash” is just “Sheila” mixed around a little. That's probably the only e-mail he ever got in his life.

Dad and Mom are both in the study, sitting in the big armchairs on either side of the tall reading lamp. Dad is dozing, a clipboard with notes and diagrams lying in his lap. Mom looks up from her book and smiles when my clothes walk in. I sit down at the computer, and she frowns.

“It's almost bedtime, Bobby.”

“I just have to use the Net a few minutes.”

She goes back to her book, and when the computer is ready, I open up a search engine. I find the people search features, and jump around until I see what I need. It's a reverse-hunt engine: You put in an e-mail address, and unless the person you are looking for has been a freak about online privacy, that e-mail address leads you right to the rest of their data.

So I scroll to the right box, and I key in “[email protected] glowz.net.”

I've got her: Sheila Borden lives in Miami, and I've got her street address and her phone number!

When I shout, Dad sits up straight and his clipboard clatters to the floor. Mom stares over her book at me.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry. Nothing. Just found a cool website, that's all.” Because I don't want to jinx this. It's probably nothing, and besides, I don't want to get stuck trying to explain about my field trip to Sears for the rest of the night.

“Well, it's your bedtime. And you too, David. You've been sitting here snoring, so don't tell me you've got work to do. Up now, both of you.”

I grab the printout, say “Good night,” and I'm back up to my room, two steps at a time. I shut my door and grab the phone off my bed, and then I stand still. Part of me says, “Go back down there and talk to the folks, tell them what you're thinking here, ask for some advice.” But I don't want to. This is my deal this time, not theirs. Part of me says, “Call this Sheila right now and see what she has to say.” But I don't want to do that either. And part of me says, “Call Alicia.”

That's the part of me I agree with. So I punch in her number.

“Hello?”

“Oh—hi, Mrs. Van Dorn. This is Bobby. I'm really sorry to be calling so late. Could I talk to Alicia?”

Long pause. “Bobby, did you go somewhere with Alicia this afternoon?”

My head kicks up into overdrive. In two seconds I think:
If she's asking me this, does it mean she already knows, and this is a test to see if I'm a liar? Or is she just suspicious—fishing for info?

I say, “I did see her at the library, if that's what you mean.” Because that's true, and now it's her turn to give me another clue about where this is coming from. I'm a pro at this game.

I can hear the worry in her voice. “She was out almost four hours this afternoon, and she won't talk to me about it. Do you know anything else?”

Aha. The mom doesn't know. She's fishing. This next part has to be just right, or I'm blacklisted by the mother and hated by the daughter. The first would be an inconvenience; the second would be a tragedy.

So I say, “If you don't mind, Mrs. Van Dorn, I don't think it's my place to get between one of my friends and her parents.” Nice—no, better than nice—brilliant. And it hits me: Three weeks ago I couldn't have even
thought
that, much less said it to somebody like Alicia's mom.

Another pause, plus a mom-sigh. “Yes, I suppose you're right, Bobby. I'll call Alicia.”

And while I wait, I'm thinking maybe I should become a family counselor, or maybe a hostage negotiator.

“Bobby?”

“Hi, Alicia.”

“Just a minute.” Then away from the phone she yells, “Mother? Hang UP!”

And I hear the other phone click off.

“She always tries to eavesdrop. So, did my mom say anything to you?”

“She asked me if I went somewhere with you today.”

“And you said…”

“That I did see you at the library. And then she said you wouldn't tell her where you were for four hours, and did I have any information, and then I said I didn't think I should get between a friend and her parents.”

“You said
that
?!”

“I did. And she said, ‘Yes, I suppose you're right.' You may applaud now, or throw flowers if you wish.”

“I'm impressed.”

“I knew you would be. That's why I told you.”

“Okay, smart guy. So what did you do when you got home?”

“You mean after I dealt with
my
mother?”

“Of course.”

“I made a jillion phone calls—fifty-eight duds, and then I hit the jackpot…maybe. Or maybe it's just another dead end. The father of a girl who went to bed one night, and in the morning, she's all gone.”

“Like
gone
gone?”

“Don't know. She hasn't been home in about three years, but she sent an e-mail to her folks last Christmas, and I got her e-mail address, and then I looked up her address and phone.”

“You called her?”

“I…I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Oh.” And then, “How come?”

“To see what you think I should say to her.”

“How should I know?”

“I mean, I can't just call up and say, ‘I know you had this defective pink blanket, and that you left home very suddenly—so tell me, Sheila, are you invisible?' I can't say something like that, or she'll just hang up. And besides, it's pretty late.”