CHAPTER 14
DAY TWO
At two in the morning, my phone rings. The sound reverberates off the bathroom walls, bouncing against my skull, at once returning sanity and tearing it asunder.
“Jake.”
I have not even answered the phone yet. I hit receive and press the cold, lifeless plastic against an ear. My skin feels like it is burning hot.
“Jake?”
No one says anything. I can’t even tell if the line is connected.
“Jake, is that you? Please.”
The call ends. I feel I have the coordination of a toddler as I bring up the list of recent calls. It reads Unavailable.
I press the display, an impotent attempt to call the number back. Nothing happens. I am confused, then suddenly remember I have to tell Rachel about Karen . . . and worse, Tairyn. It is going to break her heart.
Holding on to the toilet for support, I stand. My head spins and my chest feels light. I bull through the sensation and open the door between the rooms. Darkness meets me. I push the button on my phone, illuminating the display. Through the faint light, I see Rachel and Laney. They lie prone on the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. Their steady breathing calms me. I stay there for a moment, battling with my need to move, letting my breath sync with theirs.
Closing the door as softly as I can, I step backward until I feel the bed against the back of my legs. I sit, my mind still doing nauseating somersaults. I try to rationalize the phone calls. Although I want to remain hopeful, there is no way it was Jake. He would have spoken to me. I start to talk softly to myself.
“Maybe he’s lost somewhere the reception is bad.”
“I must be missing something.”
“Could Jake be hiding more from me? Like the doll?”
That’s the breaking point. My defenses rise up. I feel inexplicably angry, my thoughts returning to the statements shouted by the reporters. Immediately, the faces of Leigh Marks, James George, and Amanda Brown flash behind my closed eyes. I shake my head, trying to make them go away, feeling guilty that it is not sadness that I feel. It is something darker, something I cannot face.
I need to do something but it is two AM, and the world sleeps. The reporters, their visages becoming vulturelike in my mind, said something about the Internet. I grab my iPhone. I think to go online and find out what they might have been talking about. Opening Safari, I don’t even know where to start. I knew Jake had a Facebook and an Instagram page but I do not. That is Rachel’s domain to police. I think about waking her up but instead search Jake’s name on Google.
I get three letters in—J A K—and he pops up as the first option. I don’t click his name on the drop-down menu. I can’t because it sickens me to think of the millions of people who have done just that, mutating my son’s name into an often-searched term on Google. I finish typing it out, pausing. I begin to realize what will appear when I enter my request. Closing my eyes, I do it anyway, flinching a little as if about to be struck.
Every major news outlet appears—CNN, local networks, national nightly news pages. I visit each, right down the line, looking for clues. These stories, however, regurgitate what I’ve already seen on the television, story after story alleging my son’s involvement in the shooting. Scrolling down, I find the link to Jake’s Facebook page as if I’m searching out the illicit. When I go to the page, there is a picture of Jake from a flag football game and a message that says
Jake Connolly’s private information is only available to friends.
I’m his father. I try to find anything, the smallest shard of information that could help, but I get nowhere.
I ask myself, Did Jake have a Twitter account? I do not know. I remember hearing about Instagram, but honestly have no idea what it is. When I search for him there, I find nothing. Putting his name in again, I delve deeper. On the second page of responses, a message board catches my eye. It is for a video game Jake liked to play called Modern Soldier. I hit the link and it takes me to a conversation. Jake’s name appears as one of the entries. His post reads:
My clip of a 360 quick-scope.
He embedded a video with the post, which was dated five months before. I watch it. The shot is a first-person point of view, someone carrying a sniper rifle. The scenery suddenly spins and the gun lifts. I look down the scope and the crosshairs alight on a man dressed in a black uniform. The gun fires and the man falls dead. The video ends there, a total of fifteen seconds long.
Understand, this video is familiar to me. I have not only watched my son play this game, but I have played along with him as well. I am awful, although Jake always tries to make me feel better about my inability. But this video causes my heart to sink to my feet.
I try to delete it. My attempts are frantic and end with me failing, throwing the phone to the ground. I lower my head into my hands and try to catch my breath. If people see that, they will think my son did it. I am powerless to do anything about that, though.
I need to refocus. I’ve spent the day hiding evidence, trying to protect him from what people might think. Instead, I have to find him. That’s all that can matter . . . either way. Picking the phone up off the ground, I hit the button and the Web forum shows up again. I notice that there are pages of comments. I start to read them but stop quickly. Every one of them has been posted in the last twelve hours. They all call Jake a murdering monster.
I cannot remain in the hotel any longer. I slip out of the room, riding the elevator down to a nearly empty lobby. A single young woman stands behind the check-in desk, busying herself. When she turns to look and sees it is me, she blanches, immediately returning to what I assume is pretend work on her desk.
After I slowly pass, I feel her eyes return to me, boring into my back. I stop, attempting to see through the tinted glass doors despite the darkness outside. The faint white outline of a van materializes, as does another.
“There’s a side exit through the parking garage,” a thin voice says from behind me.
I turn to see the young lady. She makes eye contact through a pair of stylishly swooping glasses. A white, wide-collared shirt peeks from beneath the fitted navy uniform. I notice she could not be much older than twenty.
“Excuse me?” I say, trying not to frighten her.
“There’s another way out. Those camera people and the reporters are still out there. Why don’t you go through the exit door down the hall to the right?”
I pause, having to look away. I need to ask a simple question. Why are you helping me? It is bizarre how the mind works. Just as I think that, a landslide erupts. Why wouldn’t she help me? Maybe if she thought my son shot those children. Then the cement crashes into my already vulnerable soul. Maybe he did.
It is difficult to explain how I feel in this moment. I realize I have wavered. At times I am so sure of my son’s innocence. Then, like a physical interruption, a thought flashes across my consciousness. Something I hear on the television, some new development, causes me to think the worst. Either way, the fact that I am unsure devastates me because of what it implies. If I’m not utterly positive, then maybe I just don’t know my own son.
I say nothing to the girl. My head bowed, I walk down the eerily silent corridor. My feet barely come off the carpet. The thoughts press at my temples. The pressure grows. I will burst. Then there is nothing. My skin feels damp, cold. My eyesight is foggy, unclear. I slam into the door marked EXIT, cross a short industrial hallway, and hit another door. Fresh air washes over me and I shiver. But I feel better.
The parking garage empties out onto Orange Street. I see two vans parked there and decide to keep moving through the shadows. I see another green EXIT sign beckoning through the black night. I head toward it and find a pedestrian exit onto the street behind the hotel. I slip out without being seen.
With quick yet stunted steps, I make my way to where I parked Rachel’s car. Thoughts of action replace those other, more troubling considerations. I no longer think, What if? Now I think, What should I do?
&nbs
p; I will go to the school, search the fields behind the building, call out for my son, and hear his lost voice in response. That is my lifeline. That is our salvation. And that is all I can think as I climb into the car and drive off into the predawn night.
The stars hang in the sky above, nearly as bright as the silver moon that rests on the horizon. The road stretches out before me, hollow and void of life. Dim security lights illuminate the vacant businesses I pass. Even the structures sleep, awaiting a new day, one in which the trickle of early risers will inject life into the somnolence that surrounds me.
For now, I am utterly alone. Silence sits beside me like some corporeal beast, feeding off my hopes, devouring them one by one until my mind is left with doubts and horrors. I continue to push back, trying in vain to find some plausible scenario that leaves our lives intact. Every second that passes chips away at that possibility, leaving me with the other options, the ones that make my stomach turn.
The ring of my phone startles me. I pick it up, hoping.
“Hello,” I say, and even before I hear her speak, I know it is my mother.
“Simon, I’ve been up all night. Your brother and sister called. I’ve called your house fifty times. Why haven’t you called? What is happening? This can’t be true!”
“It’s okay, Mom.” But it is not. I have no idea what to tell her. I have no idea what I even know.
“Where is Jake? Laney?”
“Laney is here, with her mom,” I assure her. “She’s okay. So is Rachel . . .”
“Jake! Where is Jake?”
“Mom, I don’t . . . I don’t know.”
“The television is saying he killed . . .” I hold the phone away from my ear. I feel the tears running down my cheeks. I did not know I was crying.
“Simon.”
My dad has taken the phone.
“Jake did not do this.”
My dad makes this statement. I cannot respond because, I realize, I do not have the same confidence level. Not anymore.
“Are you there?” he commands. “Did you hear me?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” I whisper.
“Jonathan will be calling you in an hour.”
I startle. “Dad, no. We don’t need a lawyer. I mean, I don’t think—”
“One hour,” he says.
I hear my mother wailing in the background before he terminates the connection. I am left holding the dead phone to my ear while I drive down a dead street. Jonathan, my father’s business partner for the past decade, is one of the most powerful lawyers in New York City. Although I’m not even sure he still practices law, he had been a high-end defense attorney. Together, they also amassed a veritable restaurant conglomerate. Oddly, neither Jonathan nor my father cooked a single meal for themselves, probably ever. They simply brought a ton of cash to the table and ran the business with a deftness that astounded.
I think to call Rachel. She can’t stand Jonathan because when anything legal comes up in a conversation, my father refers to him, ignoring the fact that my wife is a lawyer as well. I see where she’s coming from and feel I should warn her.
Before I dial, I see the time. I don’t want to wake Laney. Instead, as I drive, I text Rachel.
My father is sending Jonathan. Will try to stop him.
As I type it out, I hear the ghost of my son’s voice.
“Dad, don’t text and drive.”
Nearing the school, I turn off into an adjacent neighborhood. Behind the glow of perfectly stationed streetlamps, I can see the facade of each home as I pass. Built not more than five years before, the homes vary only in shades of the same earthy white. Even the mailboxes, oversize and a pure white, are identical. With my mind distracted already, I miss the turn I meant to take and don’t even realize it until I’ve passed two other streets. Backtracking, I leave my headlights off and coast down a cul-de-sac, rolling to a stop between two houses.
From the street, I can see the path. It runs from one of the backyards along a stubby rise, bending around a copse of trees and coming out onto the far end of the sports fields behind the high school. I climb out of the car and ease the door closed, afraid to make even the slightest of sounds. I feel like a criminal, but I hurry down the path and onto school grounds.
“Jake,” I call out, halfway between a whisper and a shout. “Jake.”
With so little moon, the fields are dark. I peer through the gloom, hoping to catch some sight of movement or maybe a soft sound, the type you hear when something, or someone, is trying not to be heard.
When I see the dugouts for the baseball field, my bearings return. I remember what I saw on the television. Witnesses claim to have seen Jake out there, beyond right field where the tree line meets school property. I begin to jog, the sound of my shoes on the infield mix reminds me of my time with Jake, coaching Little League, how I felt when he hit that home run.
“Jake!” I call out louder this time. “Jake, it’s me. Dad!”
I am running when I reach the grass. I head toward the trees, my breath coming in jagged huffs. It seems I look in all directions at once, the scene becoming a dark kaleidoscope. This is where my son was. Is! I have to think is.
“Jake. Come out. It’s okay. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”
A sound! I spin around, nearly falling over. I hear footsteps. My heart races. I’ve found him!
Then a light blasts over me, shining in my eyes. I try to shield my face but the muscles of my body have given up. I might fall to the ground.
“Jake,” I whisper.
“Hold it there, don’t move,” a voice calls out. “Keep your hands out in front of you. What are you—”
Although I still cannot see him, I know this is a police officer. When he pauses, I know he’s recognized me.
“On your stomach. Now!”
“Look, I’m just trying to—”
“Down, now.”
I hear what might be a gun being pulled from his holster. I remain standing.
“No.” I say it calmly, but I will not get down. All I can think about is how little these police officers have done to find my son. I will stand up to them.
The light inches closer. I am still blinded. “Down, NOW!”
“No,” I whisper.
The officer takes me down. It happens so fast that I don’t have time to resist. My hands are cuffed behind my back and I am lifted off the ground.
“Why couldn’t you just listen to me?” the officer asks.
He sounds young. I can make out his face now that the light is out of my eyes. I think I’ve seen him before.
“I know who you are,” he says. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m looking for my son,” I say.
“He’s not here. We’ve been through every inch, even with the dogs. Nothing. There’s a lot of smells, but . . . We’ve checked everything out. He’s not here, sir.”
When he calls me sir, this officer stops being my enemy. I even wonder why I thought he was or why I resisted. My mind is not clear.
“Look, how’d you get here?”
I explain where my car is parked.
“I have to escort you off the property, but I’ll let you go. Go home, get some sleep. We’ll find your son.”
I don’t say anything. What is there to say? That I can’t go home. That the only reason I think they are looking for my son is to arrest him. Instead of speaking, I let the officer lead me back to my car. When we get there, I pull the keys out. The officer turns and looks at the car. His expression changes. Suddenly, his light is back on. He shines it into the backseat. That’s when I remember the doll.
“Shit,” I say.
The officer turns the light on me, shining it into my face. “I think you better come into the station with me.”
CHAPTER 15
JAKE: AGE ELEVEN
I stared at the phone, knowing I should call her back. Our conversation ended poorly again, although I didn’t even know what set it off. In fact, I could barely remember what w
e’d talked about. The words melded with all the others coming before them over the past few months. I sat down on the couch in the living room and closed my eyes. Afternoon sunlight shone on the backs of my eyelids, the world a pink and orange glowing blanket. My head leaned into the pillow.
Since Jake’s birth a decade before, life failed to follow the path I’d expected. I tried to think back to when I was young and full of dreams. Had any involved being a stay-at-home dad? I laughed out loud. During one neighborhood guys-night-out, Tairyn’s husband, a tall, muscular guy with a surgical haircut and hairy arms who claimed to have played minor league baseball, looked me in the eye and said, “I always wanted a sugar mama.”
“Yeah, Sam,” I had said to him. “Guess you’re not handsome enough to pull it off.”
We traded barbs after that. In my opinion, I won. Later that night, however, as I drove home, I really thought about what he’d said. Normally, I’d bemoan a missed opportunity to zing him with some delayed witticism. That night, though, I truly considered his statement—had I always wanted a sugar mama?
After my call with Rachel, the absurdity of that statement struck me harder than at any other time. At twelve, I had finagled a paper route out of a friend’s older brother. At fourteen, I took a job at a fish store, being paid under the table to bleach maggots out of their dumpster on trash days. By the time I was sixteen years old, I’d worked at an ice cream shack, a clothing store, two department stores, and a long-extinct video rental place. I worked odd jobs all the way through college, including internships and co-ops. One week after college graduation, I started my first “career” and did not go a day unemployed until Jake was born.
Every day since, I’ve felt guilt. In the morning, watching Rachel scurrying around in the dark trying to find her matching shoes, I convinced myself that she must feel contempt as I remained in bed, waiting for Laney to wake up and jump in to snuggle for a few minutes. During the day, when both kids attended school, I often imagined the people in the cars driving by the house glancing through my windows and shaking their heads with disgust, asking themselves, What kind of man does something like that?
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