by Herta Feely
Oh, God, she could kick herself for having called the police on Saturday night. She always said you shouldn’t do things in the heat of anger. Now she’d have to explain everything to Phoebe. She tapped their home number and waited for someone to answer. Despite two more calls to Phoebe, plus one to Ron, she got no answer. Damn it!
Ron pulled away from the curb where he’d parked for about five minutes while he and Sandy spoke. She’d made him rock hard, and now he was pounding his hand on the steering wheel to a Stones’ tune. “Who says you can’t always get what you want?” he shouted. With a smooth sweeping motion, he turned the steering wheel hand over hand, and headed north on 16th Street away from the Washington Post’s offices.
“I am on a roll,” he said, punctuating each word, and then shouting, “On-a-fucking-roll!”
At the top of his game, that’s how he felt. He’d just gotten approval from the White House for an interview with President Obama! Christ! I’ve got a great job, great kids, perfect everything, he thought. Well, maybe not everything. He was having a little trouble balancing a wife with the notion of a fuck buddy. He’d just set up “lunch” with Sandy for Friday.
A wife and a mistress didn’t really go together, but he knew guys who did it. And he couldn’t stop thinking that she was a vixen. He’d always love Isabel, but he wanted to fuck this babe. The honk of a car reminded him that his driving had slowed to a crawl. He sped up and turned his thoughts to dinner, wondering what Milly had made.
Phoebe fought back her tears. Jessie and Shane had been right. Her mother had called the cops. And now everyone would HATE her for what her mother had done. Worst of all, Shane was no longer interested in meeting her and he WASN’T coming to her party! She’d NEVER get to know him. She’d never be his “number 10!”
Phoebe marched over to the dollhouse and retrieved the box cutter, then marched back and saw what Skyla had written: This better not wreck our party. What the heck did you do? And your mom!!? Whoa!? So uncool.
Oh, please, not again, Phoebe thought as she stared at Skyla’s note. Not another year like the last one. And now this one seemed infinitely worse.
How low! You are such a piece of trash! someone else wrote.
Phoebe gaped at the words when suddenly a post appeared from Vanessa, a former Woodmont friend of hers and Jessie’s, who she hadn’t seen since the summer: You’re a cutter! I saw the scars. How weird! What’s wrong with you?
“No! Please,” she whimpered. Vanessa and Emma were the only girls besides Jessie who knew about her cutting. And now her secret was exposed! How could she?
Oooh, ick. How sick.
Shane: God, you’re such a loser!
Vanessa: Your mom called the police! If I were you I’d leave home or slash my wrists. Get it?
The words on the screen grew into a grating noise. She closed her eyes and covered her ears. This can’t be happening. Please make it stop. When she opened them, she saw another note from Shane: The world would be better off without you. Don’t you know that?
Phoebe slammed the computer shut. Somewhere in the distance the phone rang. She vaulted off her bed and ripped Shane’s photos off the bulletin board, the thumbtacks flying across the room. She tore his image into shreds, allowing the pieces to flutter onto the thickly carpeted floor.
Engrossed in sending Phoebe one last message, Sandy jumped at the sound of Jessie’s voice. “What the heck are you doing, Mom?”
Sandy hadn’t heard her arrive. Now she felt Jess right behind her. “What are you talking about?” she said without turning around. Her fingers fumbled with the cursor and finally managed to close Facebook.
“Mommm!”
“Oh, stop your yammering,” Sandy said, keeping her back to Jessie.
“How’d you do that? How could you write a message from Shane?” Jessie asked, a rare urgency in her tone. “Turn around! Answer me!” shouted Jessie.
Sandy should have known that it would only take an instant for the neurons and synapses in Jessie’s brain to put two and two together: Shane hadn’t come to her party because there was no Shane. Because she, her mother, was Shane! Which is why she was writing messages that appeared to come from Shane.
In those same few moments, Sandy collected herself and rotated the swivel chair to face her daughter, all traces of guilt and anxiety erased from her countenance. She, Sandy, had rectified an injustice. Jessie, on the other hand, looked like she might puke.
“Sit down, honey, we need to talk,” Sandy said.
In a trance, almost as if sleepwalking, Phoebe entered the bathroom without closing the door and without switching on the light. She laid the box cutter on the edge of the tub and began peeling off her clothes. One by one, each article fell to the floor as water splashed and filled the tub. Light from the hallway spilled inside, illuminating a vertical slice of the darkened room. The water shimmered as she entered. Shadows hovered and climbed the walls like so many wraiths.
The words you’re such a loser and I don’t want to see you ever cycled through Phoebe’s mind. The world would be better off without you. A shiver ran through her body as she sank into the tub. Steam rose into the air, obscuring the dim light in the room. She lay there for a few minutes, tears seeping from her eyes, dripping down her cheeks, and running along her slender throat. Everyone hated her. Everyone.
She lifted the box cutter and twisted the dull metal tool in the air before dragging the blade across her left wrist. The gash separated the skin. She stared at the open wound with cold detachment and waited for the blood to appear. At first there was no sensation, then, as always, the pain of the cut overtook the thoughts in her head, and all her confusion began to recede, like a wave rushing back out to sea. But this time relief lasted only a few precious moments. Then the cacophony of voices assaulted her anew. Ooh ick, you’re sick. I never want to see you. You’re a liar. A slut. We don’t trust you. We hate you. Why don’t you just end it? The world would be better off without you.
Phoebe balled her left hand into a fist and made several more slices across her thin bluish veins. The skin curled open and more blood pulsed to the surface. She tilted her wrist and watched dark pearls of liquid splash into the water – drip, drip, drip – then spread like ink. She’d actually never seen ink in water, except once on a show about squids and the way they squirt the toxic substance at their enemies, giving them time to disappear behind an ever expanding bluish-black cloud.
Isabel maneuvered the car along the curves of Rock Creek Parkway. She pressed harder on the gas pedal, watching the speedometer climb to fifty, half an eye on her rearview mirror, the other on her iPhone. “Damn it,” she said aloud, fumbling with the icons, touching the wrong one, banging “end,” striking another, wishing she’d learned to use voice commands. Finally, she tapped Ron’s name and listened to the phone ring. “Damn it,” she said viciously, “answer the fucking phone!”
Driving north on Wisconsin, Ron glanced at his cell reluctant to answer Isabel’s call. But, finally, he turned down the volume on the radio. “What’s up?”
“Are you home yet?” Isabel’s tone was urgent, borderline hysterical.
“No, what’s wrong?” Since Saturday’s fiasco, things had been touchy between them. He’d made it clear he thought calling the police had been unnecessary, and in an added imperious tone told her it could have negative ramifications for Phoebe, a comment that had been met with stony silence.
“Well, how far are you?” she insisted.
“A couple of blocks,” he said, his voice gaining an edge. And it wasn’t entirely true. “What’s going on?”
Isabel filled him in on the panic-stricken conversation she’d had with Phoebe, and her subsequent refusal to answer the phone.
“Okay, calm down,” he said, even though he felt like lashing out. Why had she called the fucking police? Even now he was tempted to say, I told you so. Goddamn it! On the other hand, he thought she was over-reacting.
“I’m heading home,” he heard Isabel say, “bu
t I want you to know that I got, uh, stopped for running a red light.” Her voice sounded breathy, not like herself. “I left the scene before the policeman returned with my license.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, I’m dead serious.”
“Christ, Izzy.”
“I know. I’ll deal with it later. But if he catches up to me before I get home, well, you’ll know where I am.” She managed a little laugh.
“Christ, Izzy.”
“You already said that. Just hurry up.”
An epithet was on the tip of his tongue, but she’d already ended the call. The needle on the speedometer of his SUV edged up. If anything happened to Phoebe, he’d never forgive Isabel.
A few minutes later, Isabel wondered if Ron had arrived home yet. She’d forgotten to ask his exact location. He’d said a couple of blocks. But was he really that close?
Isabel made good progress on the parkway. A little surprising since it was rush hour. She even passed several cars, completely ignoring the solid double yellow lines, and turned off at Porter Street. Only a few more blocks. At the intersection of Porter and Connecticut she again lucked out. A place where congestion was a near certainty this time of day, she only had to wait through two changes of the traffic light, where normally she had to wait twice that long.
Less than a block from home though, she could see the flash of red lights glowing on the tall oaks surrounding her house. Of course, she should have realized the police would be waiting for her. The cop had her license, which contained her address. For an instant, as adrenalin rushed through her veins, instinct told her to flee, but in the next her rational lawyerly mind breached the wall of fear, and she knew what to do.
Still, anxiety gripped her. Her hands clutched the steering wheel. She told herself to buck up, that it was now or later, and coming home would at least illustrate that she’d been honest earlier when she told the cop she was rushing to get to her daughter.
However, when she pulled up, not only were two DC police cars – flashing lights and all – blocking the driveway in front of her house, but an ambulance also stood out front and numerous neighbors were gawking nearby. Just then the door of the house opened, an EMT backing out, carrying one end of a stretcher with a white sheet draped over a human form.
Isabel leapt out of the car. A guttural cry rose up her throat. “Noooo! Noooo!” she screamed. “Please, God, noooo!”
Part Three
Justice
Chapter One
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Light fell in patches on the floor beside Isabel. Soon fall would officially give way to winter. Though in some ways she dreaded it, there were other aspects she had always liked: the cool weather, snow floating past the solarium windows, everything frozen, in hibernation, as if you could suspend time. As if you could stop time altogether and reverse the order of things. If only she could. She would give away all their money and all her possessions; she would give up her job and stay at home; she would give her life, gladly, if only she could get Phoebe back.
As if in keeping with some inner rhythm, tears pooled in her eyes and a sob rose from the depths of her soul. She allowed herself to cry for several minutes before mindlessly drawing a tissue from the box on the small wicker table. The image that kept swimming to the forefront of her mind was of Phoebe, lying in the Intensive Care Unit, tubes extending from her mouth and arms, sheets shrouding her body, already as if only half-alive and being readied for the next world.
Then, in an almost ritualized fashion, Isabel wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and repeated a quick prayer, her mantra: Please, God, save her. Please.
The computer sat in Isabel’s lap, waiting patiently. She was afraid to open her email account. She couldn’t believe how many people had sent notes over the past two days saying how sorry they were and asking if they could help, a heartfelt one from Liz Van-Dorn and even Sandy Littleton, who’d signed hers with: “Love to you and Ron, from Sandy, Jessie and Bill.”
As much as Isabel resented her, she was both surprised and appreciative that the woman had had the graciousness to write. Though she hadn’t heard from Jessie, she did receive messages, calls, and cards from Emma, Skyla, and a dozen other girls, including a couple who had been involved in the piling on of insults and taunts. She couldn’t bring herself to respond to the latter, not until she’d carefully considered what to say.
Although each person had been alone at their computer during the hazing, mob mentality had ruled and drawn out the vicious, dark side of each participant. It was something she thought about constantly. Yet what could she possibly say or do?
In the two days since the nightmare event, the number of email messages had mounted to the point that she’d stopped reading most of them, much less answering them. In that time she’d discovered it was far easier to use Phoebe’s Facebook as a means of communicating to the world of well wishers, nosy neighbors, annoying problem-solving control freaks, the outright unabashed voyeurs, and to some extent even her friends and Phoebe’s.
She stared at Phoebe’s Facebook photo. The curve of her full lips, wavy hair tucked behind tiny ears, the bashful smile. Such innocence, such vulnerability, such naiveté. That in contrast to the cruelty of the girls and boys who’d bullied and shamed her, and the horrible twisted Shane, who’d led the charge, whoever he was.
Yesterday, she’d called Walter Johnson High, only to discover that no one with his name was registered at the school. When she spoke with the principal and told him what had happened, he immediately promised to do what he could. Not long after sending him a copy of “Shane’s” photo, he confirmed there was definitely no such student at “Walter J.”
As words began to form in her mind, Isabel typed a note on Phoebe’s Facebook wall: This is Phoebe’s mother, Isabel Winthrop, writing this. Ron and I want to thank all of you for your concern, your notes, and prayers. We remain in a state of shock and disbelief at what happened, as you can imagine, and we do appreciate your desire to help. What would be most helpful is to contact us if you know anything about Shane, the boy who initiated the bullying against our daughter. If you do, please call us at our home number and leave us a message if we don’t answer. We check regularly.
An update on our Phoebe: she’s still in a coma in Georgetown University Hospital. She hesitated, trying to determine what else to say.
Without fail, at moments like this, she was catapulted back into the hospital waiting room. Reliving each horrible moment. Sitting and waiting, pacing and waiting. She and Ron in a state of limbo. In purgatory. When Dr. Bailey had finally entered the room, surrounded by a coterie of interns and residents, consternation had been etched across her brow and Isabel’s stomach sank. She was sure Dr. Bailey was about to pronounce the time of Phoebe’s death.
“Phoebe’s condition is very, very serious,” she said. “Blood loss, as you can imagine, was extensive. We’ve transfused her with several units of blood, stitched up and bandaged her wounds, and put her on an IV, but so far she’s unresponsive. In other words, she remains unconscious. She’s in a coma. As far as how much damage was done, either to organs, like her kidneys, liver and so on, or to her brain due to lack of oxygen, that’s hard to tell right now.”
Isabel and Ron stood there mutely. For once, neither of them had control over events. It didn’t matter how smart or rich they were. “What might be reasonable to expect, Dr. Bailey, I mean in the way of recovery?” Ron had managed.
“It’s hard to know, everyone responds differently.” The doctor gazed at each of them. “Young women her age and in her state of health, with comparable blood loss are revived a majority of the time.” Then she lowered her voice, and Isabel noticed that people had turned to stare at them. “The question we can’t answer is how long her brain was deprived of oxygen… about how long she was in an unconscious state before the emergency medical team arrived. That would have a bearing on recovery.”
Isabel tried to do a mental calculation of how much time
might have elapsed between her last call to Phoebe and when she’d entered the tub. She assumed some minutes had passed after the call and Phoebe’s last Facebook entry, but she’d have to check Phoebe’s computer for that. Then several more minutes before the idea even occurred to her, more time to fill the tub, and then how long until she entered the tub and cut herself…she could hardly bear to think of it.
“It couldn’t have been very long,” Isabel said tearfully, “but I can get a more accurate measure after we go home and check her computer.” Not only that, but she’d compute how long it took to fill the tub and find out the exact time when Ron called 911. One statistic she knew: she’d arrived home almost 20 minutes after last talking with Phoebe. For some reason, she’d checked her watch.
The following day, among other things, she’d determined that Phoebe could have been unconscious anywhere from a couple of minutes to seven or eight, which really wasn’t very helpful, since each minute counted in the most horrific fashion. She knew that the longer the time without oxygen to the brain the worse the prognosis.
Now she thought, Oh, dear God, please let it have been a very short time. Then, after staring outside at the barren trees and sodden sky, she continued writing the Facebook message, but first adjusted the part she’d already written about Shane:
We welcome any assistance you can give us to find “Shane,” who we discovered does not attend Walter Johnson High School, as he claimed. Please pass along any ideas or leads you might have. All will remain confidential. Finally, I want everyone to know that we will not rest until we have found Shane and he has been exposed for his cruel and vile behavior, and that he is brought to justice. Thank you, Isabel Winthrop and Ron Murrow.
