After I remembered again that my life was shattered, I reached for my phone to see if the text I’d sent in the middle of the night had garnered any reaction. Once again, though, it had gone unanswered, just as I had expected it might. Coward, I thought bitterly. Of course, he won’t answer me anymore; he knows he did something really disgusting. Stealing a dead boy’s phone or hacking into his account was an ethical line I imagined they realized now that they should never have crossed. That was when it struck me then that I could find out for certain whether anyone physically had Charlie’s phone. I simply needed to pick up his belongings from the police department.
I’d avoided going to the station. Other than my time in the hospital, I’d managed until that point to avoid places where I might be identified as one of the Cooper tragedy moms and I was nervous about revealing myself to the police. I didn’t want attention; I especially didn’t want to see sad, sympathetic eyes that somehow made me feel obligated to lie and say I was doing okay. I just wanted my son’s belongings.
As soon as I nervously checked in with the desk clerk, I realized I’d wasted a lot of worry because I’d grossly overestimated her interest in doing her job at all. I’d stood there clearing my throat to get her attention, as she’d stared down at her phone while chewing her sickly grape scented gum and was finally rewarded with a bored glance and a dry, “What do you need?”
When I explained I needed my son’s personal property, she asked his name and didn’t bother asking any more details. Twenty minutes later, I was walking out the door, my trembling hands holding a large clear plastic bag that held his backpack and a separate large brown bag. I tried to focus on the road as I drove home, but my eyes kept glancing to the backpack on the passenger seat. I’d been so paranoid about airbag safety, I’d only just started letting Charlie ride in that seat about six months before his death. Now his backpack sat there alone, a dog awaiting a master who would never return.
At home, I moved into the living room with the bags and took a deep breath for fortitude, then explored the contents. The heavy math and Spanish textbooks took up the bulk of space. Charlie had hated both math and Spanish, they were his least favorite classes and the fact that they just happened to fall on the same day had always felt like a cruel joke to him. He’d been a good student in general, but his last report card had reflected his dislike of these subjects. Despite earning A’s in every other class, math and science had been twin Cs. We’d had one of our rare arguments over that. As a teacher, I took it personally when I learned he wasn’t doing his homework or completing assignments fully. I felt like it was somehow a reflection on me as a mother, but also on me as a teacher. There’d been a slammed bedroom door, really a first hint of the adolescent pushing to emerge in him. Afterward, we’d calmed down over bowls of ice cream and a Marvel movie.
Reaching in, I next withdrew the battered-looking blue binder stuffed to the gills with handouts and notes. Opening it, I caught my breath. There it was, his infinitely neater than my own handwriting. The page I turned to was from his science class. He’d carefully drawn an example of a plant experiencing photosynthesis under a glass dome. The subject wasn’t extraordinary, it was basic middle school earth science. The drawing was breath-taking, though. Detailed, with shading and exact labels, it could have been published in a textbook or naturalist guide.
As I flipped through page after page of notes, I saw that most were adorned with doodles and pictures around the edges. Sometimes they were silly, a cartoonish rat with his own tail in his mouth. At other times they were just abstract shapes, those I could picture him absent-mindedly doodling without even looking down at the paper. Still others were detailed illustrations that offered a glimpse into Charlieworld in a way words never quite could. I could picture him sitting at his desk, trying meticulously to keep up with the lesson, but unable to resist creating a small galaxy in the margins with a pencil in his slender left hand.
After I finished perusing the binder, I dug deeper into the bag and felt plastic. A smooshed Twinkie still in its wrapper, thankfully. We hadn’t had twinkies in the house for months; there was no telling how old it was. A single glove, a wadded-up piece of paper that turned out to be a field trip form he’d never given me, and a small stash of pens and pencils completed the bounty. No phone. I opened the paper bag next and inside it was the black and red checkered shirt he’d been wearing that day over his t-shirt. I couldn’t resist lifting it up to my face, inhaling the scent deeply. I flashbacked to a similar visceral reaction to his clothing when he’d been an infant. I’d carefully laundered those first outfits in Dreft; then, when they were still warm from the dryer, I’d hold the tiny garments to my face. I’d never been able to resist giving those early, tiny, wash loads a good sniff as I folded them.
The shirt was still clean, unblemished by the horrors of that day. That confused me at first, but then I realized he must have been warm and removed it at school. I could picture him hanging it crookedly over the back of his chair. On a sunny April day, this shirt hadn’t been needed for warmth, its entire purpose had changed to simply bearing witness. I felt the front pocket, and it was empty. Digging back into the brown bag, I realized it, too, was empty.
Someone else had the phone. The thought made me feel uneasy. I pictured some grey, shadowy figure pouring through my child’s personal photographs and text messages, learning his most intimate secrets. How had he even accessed it? I’d ensured it was all password protected. I knew hackers could accomplish some scary things, though, and clearly, there had been some method that worked. The more I thought about the invasion of privacy, the angrier I got. I needed answers, and only one person could give me any. I picked up my own phone and opened the text chain again.
Who is this and how do you have Charlie’s phone?
FYI I am going to the police.
Do you know how fucking cruel this is?
My child DIED. You stole a dead child’s phone.
Why are you such a coward? Answer me!
I’m sorry, I’m upset. Please talk to me, it’s important.
A moment passed, and then I felt the phone vibrate in my hand. I stared down at it.
I’m sorry.
I’d known someone was in possession of the phone, but even as I’d lashed out my demands, I hadn’t actually expected a response. Now that I had one, I suddenly felt unsure of what to do next. Did I continue to encourage this bizarre back and forth or did I just do the sensible thing and report the phone stolen? It felt like nothing good could come of further communications, yet I was drawn into the fantasy of a conversation with the shadow person on the other end.
Why are you doing this? I want his phone back.
I just want to say u should stop being sad.
Someone had my child’s phone, a phone they must have stolen from the scene of his death, and now they were taunting me and pretending to care about my emotional state. The entire situation left me feeling a fury that, on the one hand, felt a little excessive but, on the other hand, was a vast improvement over just feeling crushing sorrow. I felt driven to solve this mystery. I had no idea who they were, where they were… and that’s when I realized I actually might know where they are.
I flipped quickly to my “find friends” app and waited for the map and updates to load. Finally, the familiar blue dot that had once represented my child’s location in this world revealed the phone’s location. Cooper Middle School. It was almost 8 pm on a summer break day and the school should be locked up tight. How could anyone be messaging me from it? I wondered if perhaps there was a night janitor, maybe he had been cleaning and had come across the phone. Maybe he hadn’t even intended to steal it, he just thought he’d lucked out, and now he just hoped I’d go away. Well, that was not happening.
For the third time that day, I got into my car. For over a month, I’d been unable to leave my house at all, but my anger motivated me to break free of the safe bubble. When I reached the school, I drove down the familiar drop-off byway, trying no
t to remember the last time I’d traveled that path. I spied no cars in the adjacent visitor’s lot and headed toward the back. It was empty. I didn’t trust the emptiness, maybe he lived nearby and walked there or maybe his wife dropped him off. The sun had set, and twilight was rapidly disappearing as I marched toward the back service door. I thought I heard something behind me and whirled around, but it was only a feral cat.
When I reached the door, I pushed and pulled on the knob. It was locked, and when I peered into the glass window, I could see no evidence of movement inside. Not satisfied, I worked my way around the building, peering into each set of windows I passed, trying each door handle along the way. When I reached the last one, I conceded no one was there; they’d either been spooked off by me or had left before I’d arrived. Defeated, I walked back to my car when I heard the short siren blast. Blue lights flashed, and I heard, “Richmond police department, stop and put your hands up.”
It felt like a surreal dream, but I complied with the request and turned to face the officers. The female shined her flashlight on my face, and I winced, closing my eyes. “What are you doing on school property?” she asked sternly.
“Someone stole my son’s phone. I traced it back here and was trying to catch them,” I explained, but I could see by the looks on their faces they didn’t believe me.
“Is your son a student here?” the male officer asked.
“He was a student but isn’t anymore,” I explained, “Someone else has it, and they were here tonight.”
“Ma’am, you can put your hands down now, just keep them at your side. Do you have ID on you?”
I nodded and explained it was in my purse, then retrieved it for them. The female officer went back to the cruiser with it, while I sat waiting on the curb. I looked up at the male officer and commented, “I have the find friends app on my phone, I can show you the location if you want, although obviously, he’s not here anymore.”
He shook his head. “Let’s wait for Officer Baker to come back and then discuss it.”
When she finally returned, I knew. The bright light of the streetlight shone fully on her and she wore the same expression I’d seen on hundreds of other faces at the services after the shooting. It was a look that combined pity, horror, nervousness and a tinge of survivor guilt. I knew that she knew.
“Lieutenant Morris, can you please come here for a second? Ms. Sanger, we’ll be right with you, I promise we’ll get you out of here soon,” she said, gesturing to the male officer. I saw his look of surprise at the soft tone of voice she was suddenly employing and he looked at me again curiously before following her.
When they returned, the female officer said, “Ms. Sanger, is there someone we can call for you?”
I stared incredulously. “No. What you can do is find the person who stole my son’s phone. Here, I’ll show you the GPS!”
I ignored the uncomfortable look they shared as I scrolled to the find friend app and pulled it up again. “Here. Look! They’re still inside the school.”
The male officer took my phone and looked, then said, “Ma’am, perhaps the school office has it stored for safekeeping. I’d suggest you call them tomorrow and ask. In the meantime, you can’t stay here on school grounds.”
“You’re not listening; someone has it. They were texting me earlier tonight. I’m not crazy, if that’s what you think. It’s not like I want to be here either.”
“I understand, but there’s nothing we can do tonight here. Call the school tomorrow, if you don’t feel satisfied by what you learn then here’s my card, you can call me personally. I’m the sector chief, I’m not usually out on patrol, but we do annual appraisals. I can promise you I’m in a position to ensure this is followed up on if you need it. You need to go home now, though. Are you okay to drive?”
His voice wasn’t unkind, but I heard the firm “no” in it. I pulled the card from his hand, perhaps a little too violently, but he didn’t react. I reminded myself I’d only been released from the hospital’s psych ward the previous morning. I needed to chill in front of these officers or I might end up back there quickly. Biting back my frustration, I said, “Thank you. I know this all sounds crazy. I’m fine and am headed home now.”
I returned home, slamming my front door behind me. Tingling with angry adrenaline, I looked at the scene around me. Shit was everywhere. It was barely inhabitable. I bent down and picked up clothes and trash. Charlie’s backpack went into his room, with that old familiar drop I’d employed a hundred times before when he’d left it in the middle of the living room floor. I spent almost an hour washing dishes, scrubbing counters, and mopping the kitchen floor. Finally, exhausted, I walked down my now-clear hallway and paused at Charlie’s door, then turned and walked into my own bedroom. As I lay in my own bed, plotting my next move with the phone situation, sleep came quickly.
20
We need to talk.
I started my morning with a text, and then moved on to making actual calls. These were difficult calls I’d put off long enough. My mother was obviously relieved to hear from me, and even more relieved when I mentioned I’d gotten out of the house and had coffee with Ben the day before. I felt some guilt at that I, of all people, understood how badly a mother wants to see her child thrive. Mom not only had to grieve the loss of her grandson but also feared for the future of her daughter. I wanted to give her reassurances I was healing, I was okay, I would come out of this stronger in the end, but those lies were too heavy for my tongue to bear.
I avoided mentioning the mystery of Charlie’s phone. I was certain she wouldn’t approve of my efforts; she’d tell me to let it go and move forward after canceling his line. I redirected the conversation away from me quickly and for the first time since he died, it occurred to me to ask her how she was doing. She, too, was struggling, she revealed. They all were. She had her faith, though, and her church family was giving her a lot of support. For her, her faith offered comfort, shoulders to lean on and a promise of eventual reunion with Charlie. My father, she confided, had a much harder time handling this loss. He was angry at God and felt abandoned. He didn’t understand how God could have let this happen.
Religion had always been a sticky wicket between us; my parents were regular churchgoers, pillars within their church really and I was of the less convinced tribe. I had some vague, shadowy idea of who or what God was, but most days I was pretty sure I didn’t actually believe in him. Usually, when religion came up in discussion, I quickly steered us toward some safer topic. This time though, I listened. I could hear the pain in her voice, as she described my father’s conflict. Despite her concern for him, she was optimistic he would find peace with God sooner rather than later. I found myself wishing I could experience that kind of peace too; I knew that such a wish was folly. This was my own personal onus, one that could not simply be shed.
“All right, Mom, I have to go now,” I said, after our conversation drifted into more casual territory.
“Oh… I hate to be pushy but are you sure it wouldn’t be a good idea to come home for a while? I think it might be nice for all of us.”
Not that Michigan didn’t sound appealing. Maybe leaving Richmond was exactly what I needed. I’d always loved Michigan in the summer, I had many happy memories on that lake from both before Charlie came into our lives and after he finally existed. I couldn’t wrap my mind around leaving him, though, the trace of him anyway, that still existed somewhere here in Richmond.
I rejected her idea in as soft a way possible and then promised to call again soon. Taking a deep breath, I moved right into my next call. My sister Sarah had borne the brunt of my immediate pain during the darkest weeks and I felt nervous dialing her number. She answered on the first ring, “Nell?”
“Hey, sis.”
“Oh my god, how are you doing, are you okay?” she asked in a rush.
I assured her I was, as okay as someone in my position could be anyway. We chatted a little about my parents, and she reassured me they were managin
g as well as possible. Finally, I said, “Look, I still feel bad for the way I treated you. It’s been on my mind.”
“I wish it wasn’t. Just let that shit go, girlfriend. I certainly have. I understood then and I understand now,” she reassured me.
“So, how are you doing?” I asked her.
I meant how was she handling the loss of her nephew, but she lowered her voice and replied, “Not so bad actually, you’re not going to believe this, but I met a guy on tinder of all places and I seriously think he may be the one.”
I closed my eyes and reminded myself that I, too, had once been young. I thought about meeting Narek in those days. I’d been so self-confident back then, so aware of my own feminine power and so utterly unaware of what everyone around me was actually dealing with. I remembered a few months after we’d met, a waitress I worked with lost her husband to a sudden heart attack. We’d taken a collection up at work, and I’d dutifully donated because I knew everyone else expected me to. I felt sorry for the woman, someone I didn’t know very well but spoke to regularly, yet I’d resented handing over that measly $20. It had taken the birth of Charlie to disrupt the trajectory of the earth’s orbit in my head.
I finally interrupted her story and explained I hated to go, but I had an appointment I couldn’t miss. She sounded so relieved and happy to hear from me, I forgave her silently for not being perfect. We reassured each other we would talk again and then said goodbye.
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