Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (31 page)

“Have you gotten any leads on this awful character…what's his name…Shane?”

He shook his head, his eyes like a downcast dog's. “No, but Isabel's doing everything she can to find out.”

“Of course she is, I just can't believe someone would, well, do, that,” she said, then stared out at the middle of the river where several groups of college students rowed past them in sleek boats that skimmed the water. “Come on, let's take a little walk,” she said. “I promised to get your mind off things and that's what I'm gonna do.”

She took him by the hand and led him down a few steps toward the water, then turned to the right behind Jack's Boathouse. From the road no one could see them here; only a few bike riders had even passed by the entire time they'd sat on the bench, at least half an hour.

Scarlet was not a color Sandy often wore, but that's what she'd chosen today. A pale gray tank top under a scarlet sweater with pearl gray buttons. It was tight and she could only button the sweater to just beneath her breasts, the better to show them off, she'd thought as she was getting dressed and assessing her reflection in the mirror. Her black pants were tight too, like a second skin, but she had practice unzipping them. No underwear either. Not even a thong.

Ron said nothing, just followed her like a puppy until they came to a halt. He leaned against the structure's gray planks of wood, which the sun had warmed, and Sandy stood in front of him, placing her back against his chest, gazing out at the water as she pulled his arms around her. She held them tight. And he let her. She felt him relax. They stood that way, like a couple in love, watching the flowing river, the silence ruptured by a few squawking gulls and a helicopter passing overhead.

Ron's hands, pressed against her belly, felt warm. Slowly, she moved them up to cup her breasts. At the same time she tightened her buttocks and pressed against him, feeling for hardness, which came soon enough. His hands broke free of hers and slid beneath her tank top, beneath her bra and onto her nipples, which he rolled between his fingers.

Moments later, she was kissing him, slipping her tongue between his lips. He responded with a fierce, needy desire that roused her.

Together they found a more secluded spot nearby. In a matter of seconds Sandy had stripped off her pants and shed her sweater, and Ron had pulled out his cock. The rest was easy.

Afterward, the chill air gave Sandy reason to zip and button hurriedly. As he watched her, his eyes taking in every inch, he said in a hushed tone, “You'll keep this quiet, right?”

Though she'd expected something like this, it disappointed her. She lifted her eyes to meet his and peered at him, like an abandoned fawn, but said nothing. She put on her coat. “Take care, Ron,” she finally said and left.

After Ms. Kendall's departure noise filled the void: The shuffle of feet, the low murmur of voices, a few kids calling out to each other, nervous laughter. Noah again felt Jessie staring at him. “Why do you keep looking at me?” he said in a hushed voice then turned to follow Dylan, already halfway down the row.

Noah had barely taken a step when he felt Jessie's hand on his arm. “Noah,” she said.

He shrugged her off and continued moving away from her. But she followed him. “Please,” she whispered to his back, “I need to talk to you. It's really important.”

When he finally turned to look at her he saw tears glistening in her eyes. “What do you want?” he said harshly.

“Not here.” Her eyes looked puffy and she seemed exhausted, a far cry from the bubbly, exuberant Jessie he was familiar with.

Reluctantly he agreed and told her to follow him. He moved slowly so that most people had passed them before he veered off into one of the small rooms in the building where students took private lessons from assorted music tutors. He really didn't want to be seen with her.

He closed the door. “So what's up?”

“You hate me, don't you?”

Unsure how to respond, he said, “If you're here to tell me that you had nothing to do with it, you can just stop, okay? It's obvious you put one of your friends up to saying that stuff to Phoebe. Or… are you here to confess, is that it?”

When he saw how miserable she looked, he stopped. “Okay, sorry, but what do you want?”

“I know who Shane is.” Her words came out in a whisper, but they punctured Noah's self-righteousness. He took a step back.

“You know?” he said. “Then why aren't you telling Ms. Kendall?”

She stared at the floor, silent.

“How do you know? Who is he?”

She licked her dried, chapped lips. “Not
he
.”

He peered at her quizzically.

“She.” She gave him a beseeching look. As if she wanted him to guess. But then added, “My mother. My mother did it.”

Confused, Noah continued to stare at Jessie. “Your mother?”

She nodded, then told him how she'd found her mother and had stopped her, but also that her mother had used her gift of
persuasion
to get her to dismantle Shane's Facebook page. She wasn't sure whether that had been a good or a bad thing.

“But why? Why would your mother do that?”

“Because she's crazy,” she said, lines creasing her brow.

“Yeah, obviously,” he said, trying to control the swirl of thoughts and emotions that engulfed him. “But why are you telling
me
?” He was still uncertain whether to believe her. He'd known Jessie to lie. Or at least exaggerate. But this was pretty serious.

“Because, like Ms. Kendall said, we have an obligation to tell the truth, and I had to tell someone. I trust you, Noah. You need to tell Ms. Kendall or Phoebe's parents, or something. But nobody can know I told you.” She was about to break down.

“You want
me
to tell?”

She nodded. “You know
I
can't.”

“No matter who I tell,” he said cautiously, “you know it's gonna spread like…like freakin' wildfire… the whole school will know. You know that, right?”

Staring off into the mid-distance she nodded. “I'll probably have to leave, school I mean, but—” she left the thought dangling, as though she hadn't gotten that far in her thinking.

A thousand questions ran through Noah's mind. He especially wondered about the image of Shane. “Whose photo was that?” he asked.

She again lowered her gaze to her feet and shrugged.

He didn't believe she didn't know. “So you had nothing to do with it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, I swear, other than getting him off Facebook. You have to believe me. I would never do such a thing. I promise. I'm as sorry about what happened to Phoebe as you are.”

He stared at her skeptically. “So exactly what am I supposed to say about how I found out?”

“I was hoping you'd think of something. You're smart.” Her eyes latched onto his; they seemed filled with fear and desperation. He'd only seen such looks on people in movies, ones about to get caught. Or killed. “I wish I could see Phoebe?” She seemed to be asking if he thought it was a possibility.

“I don't think so. Not once her parents hear this. I can't imagine they would want that. Can you?”

Around five o'clock that day, Isabel's toughest at the hospital yet, she came home, having put her work on hold indefinitely. She'd hoped to avoid this, thinking that by keeping her thoughts positive, somehow Phoebe would emerge from her coma, brain intact, and she'd be back at work in no time. Cerrtainly by today, one week later, but that hadn't happened.

It pained her to reassign all her clients – she'd thought a little work might ease her through the day – but her mind simply spun off every few minutes; her concentration, on which she prided herself, was shot.

She spent some time with Jackson, but after fifteen minutes of chatting idly, as he sat at the kitchen counter eating cookies and drinking milk while she stood across from him with a cup of coffee, it became clear to both of them that her attempt at acting normal was anything but, and so, with wisdom that far exceeded his ten years, he excused her from her motherly duty.

“Mom,” he said, “I get it. You're worried about Phoebe. I am too. Just do what you need to and don't worry about me.”

She looked at him with tremendous affection and went to his side to hug him. “Oh, darling, I'm so sorry we're neglecting you. This is a tough time for all of us. Thank you for being such a grown-up about it. You're wonderful, you truly are. You know that don't you?”

With a grin, he said, “Yup, I know, Mom.”

Which is how she found herself upstairs in Phoebe's room, lying on her bed beside Hagrid, staring at the ceiling, the same ceiling that her daughter had stared at countless times. “Oh, Phoebe, Phoebe. I'm so sorry.” She stroked the cat mindlessly as her eyes traversed the beams, from one end to the other, to the mobile of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets that floated overhead and had since Phoebe moved into this room at the age of seven.

Isabel recalled that move, how Phoebe had said she wasn't afraid to be all the way up here by herself, but Isabel knew that the small nightlight she installed and the bright glow that the mobile cast over the room had helped her sleep. It showed that underneath it all, her daughter was a brave girl, or at least tried to be.

She raised her hands and studied her nails. They were a mess, yet she couldn't care less, all she wanted was to lie here with Phoebe beside her. How often the two had lain on this bed, Isabel reading to her before going to sleep – all the classic fairy tales,
Harry Potter
, the Lemony Snickett series, countless others.

That's it, she thought. Like Noah, I'll read to her. It will help pass the time and perhaps the familiar words will reach my sweet girl, wherever she is. In a moment she would get up, but now she just wanted to lie here a bit longer, the cat's fur warming her. She drank in Phoebe's spirit, suffused as it was in all the things around her. In the furniture, in the lime green and purple bedspread and curtains, the dozens of stuffed animals, the little girl saddle and riding gear, the doll house, the clothes and shoes in her closet, the school pennants and knickknacks, and even in that pile of used clothes in the corner.

Her eyes settled there. And guilt engulfed her. She closed her eyes and recalled the stupid arguments they'd had over Phoebe's secondhand clothing fetish, over her friendship with Jessie and Emma, and over her own desire to protect Phoebe and, perhaps, direct too much of her life. But, I love her, she thought. I only wanted the best for her. Breathing deeply, she steepled her hands in prayer, her fingertips touching her lips.

Please, God, forgive me for all the things I did wrong as a mother. But, you know that I love her. With all my heart. You must know that
. She squeezed her eyes together more tightly.
Just please let her be okay. Take me if you have to take a life, but let her live. She's just a young girl. Please, I'll do anything
. She thought a moment about what else to add.
And thank you for hearing my prayer
. She hadn't prayed this much since she'd wanted her own pony. Though Lucky had materialized on her tenth birthday, she wasn't at all sure that God meddled in human affairs, but if by any chance
He
or
She
or
It
did, then she was submitting the most earnest, most genuine plea of her life.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly six o'clock. In a few minutes she'd head downstairs and defrost one of the many meals that friends and neighbors had left for them. Perusing Phoebe's bookshelves, her fingers hesitated on one of the
Twilight
paperbacks, but she wasn't wild about them and decided to take her daughter's favorite
Harry Potter
book instead. She'd choose one other volume after dinner.

Maybe she'd ask Jackson for his choice, or perhaps Ron would want to contribute an idea, which reminded her that he'd said he was going to stop by the hospital mid-afternoon, but he hadn't. Maybe he was angry with her; she knew that over the past few days they'd taken their frustration and fears out on each other. She'd do better. They were a team. This was a time to stick together. What would she do without him?

As she headed downstairs she wondered where he was; perhaps he'd gotten stuck with a last minute deadline. These things happened routinely. Maybe traffic had been bad.

Ron had found himself feeling particularly unsettled after his riverside tryst with Sandy. He really hadn't expected things to go that far. To distract himself, he'd returned to the
Post
and fiddled around at the computer for a while, then for the purposes of the social networking article and to assuage his guilt, he'd looked up Shane's Facebook page, only to find that it was no longer there. He frowned at the screen, certain the guy had folded up shop, hoping to disappear.

He felt his reporter instincts kick in and began doing some research, going to a few sites on cyber-bullying. That's when he ran across the Megan Meier case, the poor little thirteen-year-old who'd hung herself after Lori Drew – a mother! – had pretended to be a fifteen-year-old boy on MySpace, gotten her to like him, then turned against her! What a horrible thing. So horrible, he couldn't bear to read more than one article.

Over the next couple of hours, he kept thinking he'd go over to the hospital, but repeatedly he delayed facing Isabel, hoping to regain a semblance of calm and composure.

As night painted his windows black, he knew he'd have to go home sooner or later. But the thing that kept him glued to his chair was the look Sandy had given him before she'd left. At five o'clock, he was still trying to interpret that last moment with her. Why had he asked that stupid question?
You'll keep this quiet, right?
For reassurance, he told himself, though she hadn't given him any, had she? With that doe-eyed look was she saying, of course I will, why are you even asking? Or would she get angry with him and out of revenge tell someone? There were women like that, though on this front he'd been lucky in the past.

On the drive home, he wasn't exactly filled with remorse, but something like it. Regret? In any case, he wouldn't do it again. And that gave him some courage, plus a moment in which to relish the memory. She was a good fuck, he had to admit. And tomorrow he'd call her. Flirt with her a little. Just enough to keep her quiet.

“Where have you been?” Isabel asked when Ron walked into the kitchen.

“Where do you think I've been?” he shot back, a little surprised by the vehemence of his response. He slipped off his coat and dropped his briefcase onto a chair.

About to give Ron's testiness a nasty retort, Isabel caught herself. Don't argue, she told herself. “I just thought you were coming to the hospital? I was surprised not to hear from you.”

“I'm trying to make a living, Iz. I just got hired and now I have to at least show up.”

“Okay, sure. But didn't you say they told you to take off as much time as you needed?” She stopped and studied him. He was uptight, no denying that. “Never mind. I know you're doing what you have to do.” She could hear him suck in a deep breath.

“Look,” she went on, “I've heated up some dinner, so why don't you stay home tonight and relax with Jackson while I go back to the hospital?”

“I thought I should go,” he said, though without much enthusiasm.

“You look beat. Go tomorrow? Anyway, I was almost out the door. I—” she hesitated, “—I'm going to read
Harry Potter
to Feebs.” She peered at him sadly.

“How is she?”

Isabel swallowed. “The same.” A mournful sound bubbled up. “Oh, Ron.”

In two long strides he bridged the gap between them and held her. “She'll be all right. You'll see.”

Her eyes brimming with tears, she said, “She will?”

She could see that his eyes were uncertain, but nevertheless he nodded, and she was grateful for that. It was then that he mentioned the disappearance of Shane's Facebook page.

At the hospital she encountered Emma and Noah sitting outside the ICU having what appeared to be an intense conversation. Their countenances lightened at the sight of her. Both jumped to their feet, and Emma shook her hand. “I'm really sorry, Ms. Winthrop, I truly am. I can't imagine how you must feel. This is so, so awful.”

In an instant, Isabel could tell the sincerity and maturity of this girl with all the piercings. How much she cared about Phoebe. Why hadn't she realized this before? “Thank you, Emma, thank you for being Phoebe's friend.” When she'd read the stream of horrible things people had written on Facebook, Isabel had noted names, and Emma's had been absent. For that matter so had Jessie's.

“Phoebe's easy to love,” Emma went on. “I don't know why all those kids said that stuff. It's really depressing. But there are lots more who are really worried about her. We made her a card.” She held out a huge piece of cardboard with a collage of her classmates' images crisscrossed with their words of concern and love. The card was titled:
In the Moon of the Falling Leaves
, which Emma explained was a Native American reference to fall. “Would it be okay if I went in to see her?”

As Emma awaited her answer, Isabel thought she noticed Noah cast a meaningful glance in Emma's direction.

“Yes, I'm sure Phoebe would love to hear your voice.” She explained the theory of how hearing was the last to go and first to come back. “Let's go in.”

As she began to walk toward the ICU doors, Noah called out, “Do you think I could talk to you a minute while Emma's with Phoebe?”

She looked at him curiously, then said, “Sure, let me just escort Emma inside.” Isabel's heart rate sped up. Had he discovered something about Shane? Did she really want to know? Of course, I do, she thought.