Things Not Seen (12 page)

I don't know what to say. But I don't want to stop talking either.

After about five seconds Alicia says, “Bobby?”

“Yes?”

“Let's hang up now, okay? But you can call me back anytime. Or we can get together, like maybe go for a walk. Or whatever, okay? Anytime.”

“Okay.”

“And don't do anything crazy, all right?”

“I won't.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Good. Talk to you later, Bobby.”

“Okay. Good-bye.”

We both hang up, but it's like there's still a connection. I can feel it.

And it feels good.

T
he dinner is Dad's idea. He calls from work late Monday afternoon and tells Mom that he called Alicia's dad and invited their family to come for pizza at 7:30. Mom squawks, but it's already set up, so we're having a dinner party.

Except it's not really a dinner party. It's a meeting. About me. The dads finally want to talk deep science about the Bobby situation, and the rest of us will have to make the best of it.

When sets of parents get together, it's always risky for the kids. Back at the beginning of fourth grade I had this friend named Ted. We had fun messing around at school, and he came to my house for an overnight once.

Then Mom got the bright idea that his family should come for dinner. Ted's parents were nice people, just not educated like Mom and Dad. Ted's dad ran the parts department at a Ford dealership, and his mom was the secretary at a real estate agency.

It was a bad night. Mom wore a black dress and pearls, and she cooked this fancy meal. Dad wore a sport coat and tie, and he was icing down some expensive wine when the doorbell rang. Ted's folks walked in wearing jeans and matching Disney World T-shirts, and they handed Dad a cold six-pack of Miller Light to help the party along.

And that night pretty much ruined my friendship with Ted.

But tonight's different. Tonight is more like a science seminar, and under the circumstances, everybody seems pretty comfortable.

Except maybe for Mrs. Van Dorn. She doesn't really want to be here. I think she wishes I'd never bumped into Alicia. She shakes Mom's hand, and they look like they can survive the evening together, but I don't see a great friendship in their future.

Mrs. Van Dorn is only a little taller than Alicia, so Mom makes her look tiny. She's got narrow shoulders and slender arms with delicate wrists, graceful hands with long, thin fingers. She's not as pretty as Alicia, but she might have been, about twenty-five years ago. Her hair is longer than Alicia's and she pulls it back from her face with a comb on each side. It's about the same shade of brown. There's a strength in the way she carries herself, but she never seems to relax, never lets down her guard.

Alicia seems so much more self-confident than her mom. And I think Alicia must get some of that from her dad. Because the professor is way off in his own orbit—out where it doesn't matter how crazy your hair looks. The U of C has a killer astronomy department, and this guy is way out on the front edge. He's only in the door three seconds before he starts spouting some theory about spectral analysis and the refractive indices of protein substances, and he's carrying a big box full of books and papers. Dad nods as the professor talks, and then he flips out some chunks of jargon, and all the while they're both peering at the well-dressed young man who's got no hands or head poking out of his flannel shirt—which is me. I'm thinking it's going to be a long night, and the slightly embarrassed look on Alicia's face tells me she agrees.

Still, it's hard to ruin pizza and root beer and ice cream, and once the eating starts, things loosen up. During dinner everyone is careful not to talk about Bobby the missing person—or the cops, or jail time—so there's nothing to do but chat and try to be happy.

Mom and Mrs. Van Dorn—who has now become Julia—discover that they both went to Northwestern and both majored in English literature. So they're in academic heaven, talking about this professor and that course, this novel and that poem, and all of a sudden I'm afraid that they might turn into good friends after all. Because I bet that having moms be pals is almost as tough on kids as having moms who can't stand each other.

So after dinner the dads are in the front parlor with the French doors closed, leaning over a big round table, each scribbling away on pads of yellow paper, spinning out theories like madmen. Dad has his collection of books and articles spread out on a card table within easy reach. I look through the glass door, and I can see my file folder there on the corner of the card table, my time line, and the lists of stuff in my room. It looks like they've got a long night ahead of them.

Alicia and I are sitting on the floor at the living room coffee table, and we're done with our pizza. The moms are sitting on the couch, jumping up every few minutes to pull a favorite book off the shelves, laughing and impressing each other with their deep mutual love of literature.

And I whisper to Alicia, “Let's go online, okay?” And she nods, as eager to escape as I am.

Mom glances at me as we stand up. She reads my mind—which is something she's too good at—and says, “Remember, Bobby, if you send any e-mail, erase your tracks from the hard disk when you're done.”

It's a lot quieter in the study. I help Alicia to a chair beside the desk. The computer starts humming, and I ask, “Do you use the Net much? It's pretty visual.”

Alicia pulls her legs up under her on the chair. “I've got some pretty good voice and text software, and I'm going to learn how to use those Braille readers. But sites like National Public Radio and news sites have a lot of audio. Plus music sites. But when I need to get information, I usually need a guide. At the library I can get a reference assistant. And as a last resort, my mom'll always help.”

“Last resort, huh?”

“
Very
last.”

“Does your mom work?”

Alicia makes a face. “Yeah. She works on me.
I'm
her big job. She used to work for a public relations company, did a lot of traveling to New York and LA. Now she does a little writing and a little consulting and a lot of looking after Alicia. Unexpected career change. If I get independent enough, she can go back to work without feeling guilty all the time. That's my big goal. Then maybe I can stop feeling guilty about ruining her life.”

I feel like I should say something more, but I don't want her to get mad. And she's already in a half-rotten mood.

So I say, “I've got a search engine open. Pick a topic.”

“That's easy. Type ‘invisible people.'”

I plug it in and hit return. “Jeez! You're not going to believe this!”

Alicia leans forward in her chair. “Try me.”

“The search ‘invisible people' hits on 450,623 pages!”

“No way! Read me some.”

“Okay. Here's the first one: The Invisible People Club. It's a joke site. They've got a picture here with a list of gag names, and the picture frame is empty. Big yuks. Then there's one—more like ten pages—about a tribe in Brazil called the Invisible People…. Here's some stuff about women's rights…the homeless…street people…a rock group called Invisible People, some comic books…CIA spies, computer privacy…now I'm jumping ahead about six screen loads, and…and there's stuff about UFOs, Eastern religion…and so on and so on and so on. Endless. And weird.”

“How about if you just search for ‘invisibility.'”

“Okay…here we are. Invisibility…. Fewer pages, but still a lot, like, over a hundred and eight thousand. And more interesting stuff. Here's one about scientists in Texas who are injecting fluids into rats to see if they can make skin transparent so they can do the same to people one day. They want to look at your guts without cutting you open. Nice. And it works, except the stuff they use might be poison.”

“And that's not a joke?”

“Very real. There are newspaper articles and everything. Then…there's the Stealth Bomber…ancient Hindu spells, reincarnation…Internet shopping privacy issues…more comic books…spiritualism. Here's a page called The Invisibility of God, and tons about ghosts…alien abductions…all kinds of stuff…. Whoa!”

“What?”

“This site is called Human Spontaneous Involuntary Invisibility…it's an essay by a lady, and she's serious…. She says she's talked with a lot of people who apparently just stopped being visible to others around them, sometimes for a few minutes, sometimes longer…and other people can't see them or hear them. That's so
weird
.”

Alicia giggles. “Look who's talking.”

“Right. But this stuff is all, like…mystical. What we were talking about on the phone today? I was talking about reality, real people, not a bunch of hocus-pocus.”

“And what makes you so sure that science is so reliable? Or that the university crowd has any better answers than the hocus-pocus gang?”

“Me? Sure? I'm not sure about anything. I'm just saying that this stuff I'm reading about here is all chat, it's people telling this lady what happened to them, and then she writes about it, and wonders out loud. She's not saying she ever actually saw anyone in that condition. Like my dad, the scientist, says when he points at me, ‘This is an event!' I'm right here, and my matter isn't reflecting or refracting any light. What's happening to me isn't hearsay or rumor or theory. So I guess that's why I'm not into the abracdabra scene. I'm an event.” And out of the corner of my ear I hear myself. I'm being very logical. Like Dad. Pretty scary.

And the logic is working, because Alicia's agreeing with me. “So apparently no one else who's had an event like yours is advertising it on the Net tonight.”

“That's the way it looks. But invisibility is an idea that's out there in a big way. People are into this. This hypnotist, the one who's writing about these people who claim they've gone invisible? She says people have been working at becoming invisible since about 700
B.C
. Listen to this from some ancient writer in India: ‘…concentration and meditation can make the body imperceptible to other men, and “a direct contact with the light of the eyes no longer existing, the body disappears.” ' That's what's happening to me, except I didn't sit around chanting or praying. I just went to bed, and when I got up, all gone.”

The computer keeps humming and the two of us sit there, silently thinking. Thinking together.

“Bobby?! Emily!” It's Dad, yelling.

Dad's tone of voice makes us all rush for the parlor. Mom and Mrs. Van Dorn get to the front of the house before Alicia and I do.

Dad's on his feet, pacing, and when Alicia and I get there, he stops and looks at me.

“I feel really stupid, Bobby. I didn't pay enough attention to the information about your room. And then five minutes ago I mention it to Leo, and he takes one look at your data charts, and bingo!—he hits on something!” Dad's beaming at me, but he's too excited to stop for more than a second. He turns to Mom. “Now, Emily, I'd like you and Julia to go up to Bobby's room and get his electric blanket, the blanket itself, and the controller and all the wires. And don't bang the controller or drop it, all right? And Bobby, I want you to go down to the basement and find my old oscilloscope. Leo and I will try to find something else we need, which I think is in the kitchen. Okay? Let's go!”

And everyone scatters for the treasure hunt.

Find Dad's old oscilloscope. That's not a job. It's more like a career. Because of our basement. Alicia follows me halfway down the stairs.

“You'd better stop there,” I say, and she does. “Okay, the oscilloscope is a boxy thing about as big as a small suitcase. Has a round green screen on one end, and there are wires and knobs and switches all over it. In most basements, not a problem to find. Down here, big problem. This basement is the kind of place archaeologists dream about. I'm looking at a twenty-year history of the technological revolution in America.”

Alicia sits down on the steps. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, our basement is a high-tech junkyard because my dad can't bear to throw anything away, especially not something electronic. That's because, if you're smart enough, you can look at anything and think of twenty or thirty possible ways that it might be useful at some point in the future, so you just keep it.”

Now I'm picking my way around the heaps and piles and sagging shelves. I look around and I see about twelve different generations of CPUs, three or four black-and-white monitors, two old color monitors, an original Macintosh, six different computer game systems, an ancient tube radio, a little box of broken Walkman tape players and radios, three fax machines, a bin of outdated telephones and cell phones and beepers, and four TVs. And hiding here behind the shipping box for an ancient IBM wheel printer—the oscilloscope.

“Got it!” It's heavy, and as I move to the stairs with it, Alicia gets to her feet, and I follow her up to the kitchen.

Dad and Leo are pawing through a mound of paper on the breakfast table, the contents of three or four fat folders from the cabinet above the wall oven. That's where Dad sticks the information sheets and the instruction booklets and the warranty information whenever we buy something. So there are instruction manuals in there for everything from the garbage disposal to the new ink-jet printer to the bike I got for Christmas when I was seven.

And Leo grabs something and holds it up. “This is it!”

It's the information that came with my electric blanket when it was new.

Leo's excited now, flipping through the stapled pages. “…And we're in luck! Here's the schematic diagram!”