Lost and Wanted

by Nell Freudenberger

  “You’re babysitting?”

  Nicki glanced in the kitchen, where Simmi was balanced on a kitchen stool, in order to be at the right height for the stove. “Yeah? We’re hanging out.”

  “Can I stay for pancakes?” Jack asked.

  “We’re going to the aquarium.”

  “Can Simmi come?”

  I looked at Simmi, who was dribbling batter from a plastic ladle onto the griddle. She finished one and looked back: not unfriendly, but a little wary. She acknowledged what we both now knew, but wanted to be sure I wouldn’t say anything in front of Jack and Nicki.

  “Not today, honey. Terrence wouldn’t know where we were.”

  “You could text him,” Jack suggested.

  Simmi made an effort to flip a pancake that wasn’t ready. It fell apart.

  I went over to the stove. “You need some help?”

  Simmi glanced at me anxiously. She was standing on one of those collapsible kitchen step stools—I thought Andrea and Günter must’ve left it behind—and I imagined her toppling forward, her hand landing on the sizzling griddle. I decided that Nicki had no idea how to take care of children, that that was the reason I was suddenly furious with Terrence.

  “Can I jump on the trampoline?” Jack asked, and I gave him permission. I put my hand on Simmi’s back.

  “Careful on this stool, okay?”

  Simmi looked up uncertainly. “You’re not mad?” she said in a low voice.

  “What?”

  “About the—” She glanced at Nicki, who had sat down on the couch and was looking at her phone.

  “No,” I said. “Of course not.”

  “You’re not going to call the police?”

  “What?”

  “You said Daddy would call the police.”

  “Oh, honey—oh no. No, I didn’t mean—”

  “You said.”

  “But I didn’t know it was you then! I didn’t know until last night.”

  Simmi picked up the spatula again; this time the pancake turned, but ended up on the burner instead of on the griddle. She started to cry, silently. I put my arm around her and took the spatula in the other hand. I flipped a pancake, which was now burnt almost black on the other side. Simmi laughed at the terrible pancake, but when she looked up at me, her eyes were full of tears. I remembered Terrence saying that Simmi didn’t cry when her mother died, only when they couldn’t find the phone. Had she been struggling with that guilt, on top of everything else? And then instead of helping, I’d frightened her with the notion of the police. I wondered if Terrence’s absence last night had been the reason she’d risked taking out the phone and contacting me again.

  At that moment Nicki looked up and noticed her charge’s expression. “Simmi?”

  “We’re having some trouble with the pancakes,” I said. “It’s frustrating.”

  “Pancakes aren’t good for you anyway,” Nicki said cheerfully. “How about if we go out for smoothies, Simmi?”

  Jack came out of the bedroom. “Can you please text her dad and just ask about the aquarium?”

  “He’s surfing,” Nicki said. “He won’t see his texts. Unless he has one of those watches.” She fixed her round blue eyes on me: “Does he, do you know?”

  “No idea. But we’ll do it another day.”

  Jack groaned, but my tone prevented him from arguing. I turned off the stove for Simmi, and held her hand unnecessarily as she stepped down from the stool. Then I folded it and put it away in the broom closet. Simmi came with me to the door, where Jack began slowly putting on his shoes.

  Nicki stood up from the couch.

  “How do you know Terrence?” I asked her.

  “We met her at the coffee shop,” Simmi offered. “Nicki works there.”

  “I go to BU,” Nicki said. “I’m getting my master’s.”

  “In what field?”

  “Art history. Abstract expressionism?”

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever asked that question of anyone, and I was a little ashamed. I didn’t know where it had come from. Nicki, though, seemed accustomed to answering it.

  “I don’t know yet? I’m also in a band, so we’ll see.”

  Jack finally stood up.

  “Good luck with that,” I told Nicki. “Nice to meet you.” Then I turned to Simmi, who had the end of one braid in her mouth. “We’ll be out,” I said. “But you know how to reach me, if you need me?”

  Simmi nodded, but she wasn’t looking at me.

  6.

  Jack said he was too tired to go to the aquarium, now that Simmi wasn’t coming along. I heard Terrence come in, around eleven, and then I heard Nicki leaving. About an hour later he came up and knocked. There was nothing unusual in his manner, and I was struck by how relaxed he looked, as if he’d slept well for the first time in months. I didn’t know whether to attribute that to Nicki or the surfing, but the dark shadows under his eyes were gone. He asked Jack if he wanted to help with a project this afternoon, and Jack, who had been moping in his room most of the morning, eagerly agreed. I said that I had to prepare for a colloquium, but Terrence asked if I could come down for just a minute. There was something he wanted to show me.

  We followed Terrence downstairs, through the apartment, and out the back door, which opens onto a narrow porch. There are a few steps down into the yard, the grass yellow and patchy at this time of year. On my porch were two simple cedar planters, rectangular and at least three feet deep, four bags of potting soil, and two bags of mulch. Jack peered into the planters.

  “Did you get seeds?”

  “It’s too late to plant,” Terrence said. “The ground is frozen. But we can put in bulbs this fall.”

  “I want hibiscus,” Simmi said.

  “We can have those in the summer,” Terrence told her, then turned back to me. “And I’m going to put some herbs in the planters this spring, if that’s okay with you? Maybe some sungold tomatoes later on?”

  “Great,” I said.

  He had even bought two spades with colorful, enameled handles, and two small sets of gardening gloves.

  “We’ll get started with the mulch this afternoon,” Terrence said, and looked over at Jack. “Your mom can help if she wants.”

  “You don’t want my help,” I said quickly. “Any plant I touch dies immediately.”

  Terrence smiled. “You’re a scientist. You can’t be that bad.”

  “Different science.”

  “She says she does science,” Jack said glumly. “But it’s really just boring old math.”

  Simmi was standing by the brick wall at the back of the yard, where there’s a rotting wooden table covered with old toys: shovels, a bucket, a rusty Tonka truck. She had found a pinwheel left over from the summer, and was blowing to make it turn. Jack went over to look.

  “We met your friend,” I said to Terrence.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, but didn’t turn around. He was wearing a down vest over a flannel shirt and a black watch cap. There was a white rectangle on the back pocket of his jeans, where he kept his wallet. I thought he might not respond, and when he did, it was in the same laconic tone he’d used the first time Simmi came over to play, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “She was just watching Simmi. I needed a little time.”

  “You could’ve asked me.”

  “Simmi told me Jack was on a sleepover.”

  “Still.”

  “I’m not going to dump another kid on you the one morning you can sleep.”

  He took a step down, toward the children, and I noticed the back of his neck, the neat line of the barber’s clippers. He was still keeping his hair very short.

  “But I mean, who is she?”

  Terrence turned sharply to face me. “We met her at the
coffee place. We chatted. She offered to babysit. Do you need any more information?”

  “Sorry. It’s just—she was wearing your sweatshirt.”

  Terrence sighed. “Look, I can’t help whatever trip she’s on. We’ve hung out once or twice. Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone who just keeps it light, you know?”

  I felt stung by this comment, and also reassured.

  Terrence modulated his voice a little for the kids. “We left Addie’s because I couldn’t deal with her questions, okay? I can’t stay here either, if you’re going to be investigating me.”

  The children had found an old Wiffle bat and were, for some reason, taking turns banging it against the brick wall. The sky was gray and heavy; it looked like it was going to snow.

  “Sorry,” I said again.

  “It’s fine,” Terrence said tightly.

  We were silent for a moment. This wasn’t the scenario in which I’d imagined telling him about the phone, but it would be worse the longer I waited. I sat down on the porch railing.

  “I think I figured out the mystery of the phone.” It felt wrong, too casual, possibly because I was attempting to sound like someone who could keep it light.

  “Charlie’s phone?”

  “I’ve been getting more messages.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, not many. A couple.”

  Terrence was squinting at me, his lips drawn in, as if he suspected some brutal joke.

  “Since it happened,” I continued nervously. “Or since we talked about it.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Random stuff. About science mostly. But then—last night—I got a picture of me and Charlie. A picture of a picture really, of me and her. And then that rhyme—‘Cottleston Pie.’ ”

  Terrence was startled. We both turned at the same moment to look at the children, who were crouching down now, their heads together, examining something in the dirt.

  “Sims,” he said quietly, almost as if he were talking to her.

  “I didn’t understand it was her—until last night.”

  “You didn’t tell me?” Terrence spoke in a lower register than normal, as if he were trying to control himself.

  “I didn’t know! And then I came down to tell you—” And Nicki was here, I was about to say. “And you were out.”

  Terrence shook his head. “I mean, about the messages before that.”

  “I did! You told me it was a spammer.”

  Terrence closed his eyes for a moment. “Okay—that first one. But after that?”

  “I thought it would—be painful for you.”

  Terrence gave me a look, and I hurried on. “And you guys were moving in—I mean, I wanted you to,” I admitted. “And what would have been the point? You weren’t going to report it.”

  “I might have, if I thought someone was using it.”

  “I thought of that. But I mean, the police don’t get people’s phones back. And I thought maybe I could convince the person—before I knew who it was.”

  “You thought you’d do a better job than the police.”

  “Well—maybe. I would definitely be more focused on it.”

  Terrence shook his head: “You guys are really something.”

  Did he mean me and Jack, or me and the Boyces? Or people like me in general—people who thought they were smart?

  The children had stood up, and were cupping something in their palms.

  “Look,” Jack called. He held out his hand, but I couldn’t see anything at this distance. “Roly polys!”

  “He calls them roly polys, but in L.A. we say pill bugs,” Simmi added. “Right, Daddy?”

  “My sister and I used to say ‘potato bugs,’ ” I told her. “I think they go by a lot of different names.” I started down the steps to join them, mostly to separate myself from Terrence, but he stopped me. We were so close that I could see the gray flecks in his eyes. His irises had dark rings around them.

  “Hey,” he said. “Where is it?”

  I shook my head.

  He looked toward the door. “But it’s here.”

  It was as if the phone’s full potential was hitting him only now, as if the months it had been missing had somehow decreased the possibility of finding it: he couldn’t quite believe it was really happening. The letter that promised to vindicate him with Charlie’s parents wasn’t even the majority of the device’s significance. It was instead the simple fact that those words she’d written had to be close, steps from where he was standing. The essence of magical thinking, that it could be stripped of its magic—that this time, the beloved will actually walk in the door—was visible on Terrence’s face. It was almost as if he and Charlie had a future together again, of whatever brief duration.

  He turned back to me reluctantly. “She must’ve hidden it in the play kitchen. Right?”

  The oven, I thought—of course that was the oven Simmi had meant. I looked at him. “How would you know that?”

  Terrence stepped back, and smiled faintly. “If I’d known she had it, I would have found it right away,” he said. “It’s not rocket science.”

  * * *

  —

  My hands were trembling a little when Jack and I got upstairs, either from the cold or from the conversation. I worried that I’d somehow betrayed Simmi in the way I’d told Terrence about the phone—would it have been better to encourage her to tell him? That of course would have been difficult to do this morning, in front of Jack and Nicki. I regretted bringing up Nicki with Terrence at all, although in the moment it hadn’t felt so far out of line. Terrence was my dead friend’s husband, and he was living in my house. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure whether it was loyalty or jealousy that had made me react to Nicki the way that I did.

  I had thought the plans for the garden might improve Jack’s mood, but he clearly hadn’t gotten enough sleep. As soon as we were back in our apartment, he began a familiar argument about how much less fun I am than other parents. Leo had a bowl of M&Ms in his room; Dylan had an iPad mini, loaded with all kinds of games—not math games, he clarified; and Miles, as we had often discussed, had three siblings. I had little patience for the fight he was trying to pick. I told him I was going to make some coffee, and that he could play in his room, or read, or even lie down and take a nap.

  “Can I watch a movie?”

  “Didn’t you watch movies all last night?”

  “So?”

  “So it’s enough.”

  Jack was suddenly tearful. “I bet every other kid on the whole planet is watching a movie right now. I’m tired. It’s not going to rot my brain or something—just watching one movie.”

  “Jack, I love you. But you’re being very difficult right now.” I was proud of myself for remaining calm.

  “Oh, so now you think I’m difficult? That’s nice. That’s very nice. Everyone in my class except me has a phone.”

  “I know that’s not true.”

  “It is true.”

  We had been standing in the entryway, and now, instead of going toward his own room, Jack ran up a few steps toward mine, then stopped and turned around.

  “Simmi has one.”

  I hesitated for a moment. “Her iPad, do you mean?”

  “No,” Jack said. “You think I don’t know the difference? You’re stupid!”

  “Jack! You don’t talk to me like that.”

  “She has a phone and an iPad. She has everything.”

  I was filled with a kind of furious rage. I climbed the stairs to him, grabbed his shoulders.

  “ ‘She has everything?’ How can you say that?” I wasn’t screaming, but I wasn’t in control any longer. I was right in his face. I could see that he was scared, but I couldn’t stop. “She lost her mother.”

  Jack broke free of me and ran up t
he stairs. He slammed the door, but the walls are so thin that I could still hear him.

  “I wish I could lose you!”

  * * *

  —

  I went down to the kitchen and made coffee. I was thinking about my parents, who had spanked me only once or twice, with little conviction. I had never hit Jack, but sometimes I wondered if what I did was worse. I got angry, then apologized and tried to take it back. And what had been the point of it? Technology? My restrictions and his access to it? What other kids were allowed to do? Did it really have to do with the devices, in all their seductive power, or was it Terrence he wanted—a father?

  I drank half a cup of coffee, then went upstairs and found Jack where I knew he’d be, in the closet. He was holding a porcupine quill that my parents had brought back from a trip they took to Kenya, a photographic safari in 1979. It had been their biggest splurge, the only time they’d ever left us with our grandparents and gone somewhere together. They were both passionate about animals, and especially touched by any suffering creature; growing up, my sister and I had cared for abused dogs and cats, as well as rabbits, guinea pigs, and a pair of rats from the school’s science lab. My father would help my sister and me design mazes for them out of blocks.

  Jack was frowning, using the quill to draw a pattern in the wall-to-wall carpeting that I’d always meant to tear out. There were nice wooden floors underneath it.

  “I don’t want to talk,” he warned me.

  “Okay.” I sat down and he glared at me. “I just wanted to tell you sorry for getting upset.”

  Jack didn’t say anything.

  “Are you still angry about the phone?”

  I waited, but he remained silent.

  “What do you want a phone for?”

  “To play Minecraft.”

  “You can play that on the computer.”

  “You never let me!”

  I was about to argue, and reconsidered. “And Terrence does?”

  Jack hesitated. “He doesn’t know.”

  “That Simmi likes Minecraft?”

  Jack sighed. “She doesn’t. I mean, he doesn’t know that she has a phone.” He stopped suddenly, put his head on his knees.