Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (29 page)

“Well, how far are you?” she insisted.

“A couple of blocks,” he said, his voice gaining an edge. And it wasn't entirely true. “What's going on?”

Isabel filled him in on the panic-stricken conversation she'd had with Phoebe, and her subsequent refusal to answer the phone.

“Okay, calm down,” he said, even though he felt like lashing out. Why
had
she called the fucking police? Even now he was tempted to say, I told you so. Goddamn it! On the other hand, he thought she was over-reacting.

“I'm heading home,” he heard Isabel say, “but I want you to know that I got, uh, stopped for running a red light.” Her voice sounded breathy, not like herself. “I left the scene before the policeman returned with my license.”

“You're kidding?”

“No, I'm dead serious.”

“Christ, Izzy.”

“I know. I'll deal with it later. But if he catches up to me before I get home, well, you'll know where I am.” She managed a little laugh.

“Christ, Izzy.”

“You already said that. Just hurry up.”

An epithet was on the tip of his tongue, but she'd already ended the call. The needle on the speedometer of his SUV edged up. If anything happened to Phoebe, he'd never forgive Isabel.

A few minutes later, Isabel wondered if Ron had arrived home yet. She'd forgotten to ask his exact location. He'd said a couple of blocks. But was he really that close?

Isabel made good progress on the parkway. A little surprising since it was rush hour. She even passed several cars, completely ignoring the solid double yellow lines, and turned off at Porter Street. Only a few more blocks. At the intersection of Porter and Connecticut she again lucked out. A place where congestion was a near certainty this time of day, she only had to wait through two changes of the traffic light, where normally she had to wait twice that long.

Less than a block from home though, she could see the flash of red lights glowing on the tall oaks surrounding her house. Of course, she should have realized the police would be waiting for her. The cop had her license, which contained her address. For an instant, as adrenalin rushed through her veins, instinct told her to flee, but in the next her rational lawyerly mind breached the wall of fear, and she knew what to do.

Still, anxiety gripped her. Her hands clutched the steering wheel. She told herself to buck up, that it was now or later, and coming home would at least illustrate that she'd been honest earlier when she told the cop she was rushing to get to her daughter.

However, when she pulled up, not only were two DC police cars – flashing lights and all – blocking the driveway in front of her house, but an ambulance also stood out front and numerous neighbors were gawking nearby. Just then the door of the house opened, an EMT backing out, carrying one end of a stretcher with a white sheet draped over a human form.

Isabel leapt out of the car. A guttural cry rose up her throat. “Noooo! Noooo!” she screamed. “Please, God, noooo!”

Light fell in patches on the floor beside Isabel. Soon fall would officially give way to winter. Though in some ways she dreaded it, there were other aspects she had always liked: the cool weather, snow floating past the solarium windows, everything frozen, in hibernation, as if you could suspend time. As if you could stop time altogether and reverse the order of things. If only she could. She would give away all their money and all her possessions; she would give up her job and stay at home; she would give her life, gladly, if only she could get Phoebe back.

As if in keeping with some inner rhythm, tears pooled in her eyes and a sob rose from the depths of her soul. She allowed herself to cry for several minutes before mindlessly drawing a tissue from the box on the small wicker table. The image that kept swimming to the forefront of her mind was of Phoebe, lying in the Intensive Care Unit, tubes extending from her mouth and arms, sheets shrouding her body, already as if only half-alive and being readied for the next world.

Then, in an almost ritualized fashion, Isabel wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and repeated a quick prayer, her mantra:
Please, God, save her. Please
.

The computer sat in Isabel's lap, waiting patiently. She was afraid to open her email account. She couldn't believe how many people had sent notes over the past two days saying how sorry they were and asking if they could help, a heartfelt one from Liz Van-Dorn and even Sandy Littleton, who'd signed hers with: “Love to you and Ron, from Sandy, Jessie and Bill.”

As much as Isabel resented her, she was both surprised and appreciative that the woman had had the graciousness to write. Though she hadn't heard from Jessie, she did receive messages, calls, and cards from Emma, Skyla, and a dozen other girls, including a couple who had been involved in the piling on of insults and taunts. She couldn't bring herself to respond to the latter, not until she'd carefully considered what to say.

Although each person had been alone at their computer during the hazing, mob mentality had ruled and drawn out the vicious, dark side of each participant. It was something she thought about constantly. Yet what could she possibly say or do?

In the two days since the nightmare event, the number of email messages had mounted to the point that she'd stopped reading most of them, much less answering them. In that time she'd discovered it was far easier to use Phoebe's Facebook as a means of communicating to the world of well wishers, nosy neighbors, annoying problem-solving control freaks, the outright unabashed voyeurs, and to some extent even her friends and Phoebe's.

She stared at Phoebe's Facebook photo. The curve of her full lips, wavy hair tucked behind tiny ears, the bashful smile. Such innocence, such vulnerability, such naiveté. That in contrast to the cruelty of the girls and boys who'd bullied and shamed her, and the horrible twisted Shane, who'd led the charge, whoever he was.

Yesterday, she'd called Walter Johnson High, only to discover that no one with his name was registered at the school. When she spoke with the principal and told him what had happened, he immediately promised to do what he could. Not long after sending him a copy of “Shane's” photo, he confirmed there was definitely no such student at “Walter J.”

As words began to form in her mind, Isabel typed a note on Phoebe's Facebook wall:
This is Phoebe's mother, Isabel Winthrop, writing this. Ron and I want to thank all of you for your concern, your notes, and prayers. We remain in a state of shock and disbelief at what happened, as you can imagine, and we do appreciate your desire to help. What would be most helpful is to contact us if you know anything about Shane, the boy who initiated the bullying against our daughter. If you do, please call us at our home number and leave us a message if we don't answer. We check regularly
.

An update on our Phoebe: she's still in a coma in Georgetown University Hospital
. She hesitated, trying to determine what else to say.

Without fail, at moments like this, she was catapulted back into the hospital waiting room. Reliving each horrible moment. Sitting and waiting, pacing and waiting. She and Ron in a state of limbo. In purgatory. When Dr. Bailey had finally entered the room, surrounded by a coterie of interns and residents, consternation had been etched across her brow and Isabel's stomach sank. She was sure Dr. Bailey was about to pronounce the time of Phoebe's death.

“Phoebe's condition is very, very serious,” she said. “Blood loss, as you can imagine, was extensive. We've transfused her with several units of blood, stitched up and bandaged her wounds, and put her on an IV, but so far she's unresponsive. In other words, she remains unconscious. She's in a coma. As far as how much damage was done, either to organs, like her kidneys, liver and so on, or to her brain due to lack of oxygen, that's hard to tell right now.”

Isabel and Ron stood there mutely. For once, neither of them had control over events. It didn't matter how smart or rich they were. “What might be reasonable to expect, Dr. Bailey, I mean in the way of recovery?” Ron had managed.

“It's hard to know, everyone responds differently.” The doctor gazed at each of them. “Young women her age and in her state of health, with comparable blood loss are revived a majority of the time.” Then she lowered her voice, and Isabel noticed that people had turned to stare at them. “The question we can't answer is how long her brain was deprived of oxygen… about how long she was in an unconscious state before the emergency medical team arrived. That would have a bearing on recovery.”

Isabel tried to do a mental calculation of how much time might have elapsed between her last call to Phoebe and when she'd entered the tub. She assumed some minutes had passed after the call and Phoebe's last Facebook entry, but she'd have to check Phoebe's computer for that. Then several more minutes before the idea even occurred to her, more time to fill the tub, and then how long until she entered the tub and cut herself…she could hardly bear to think of it.

“It couldn't have been very long,” Isabel said tearfully, “but I can get a more accurate measure after we go home and check her computer.” Not only that, but she'd compute how long it took to fill the tub and find out the exact time when Ron called 911. One statistic she knew: she'd arrived home almost 20 minutes after last talking with Phoebe. For some reason, she'd checked her watch.

The following day, among other things, she'd determined that Phoebe could have been unconscious anywhere from a couple of minutes to seven or eight, which really wasn't very helpful, since each minute counted in the most horrific fashion. She knew that the longer the time without oxygen to the brain the worse the prognosis.

Now she thought,
Oh, dear God, please let it have been a very short time
. Then, after staring outside at the barren trees and sodden sky, she continued writing the Facebook message, but first adjusted the part she'd already written about Shane:

We welcome any assistance you can give us to find “Shane,” who we discovered does not attend Walter Johnson High School, as he claimed. Please pass along any ideas or leads you might have. All will remain confidential. Finally, I want everyone to know that we will not rest until we have found Shane and he has been exposed for his cruel and vile behavior, and that he is brought to justice. Thank you, Isabel Winthrop and Ron Murrow
.

She studied what she'd written before making it final. The birthday party had been cancelled; she didn't need to mention that, did she? After a few minor edits, she struck the “enter” key, releasing the message into cyberspace. The good and evil of social networking.

The previous day she had contacted Facebook and reported that a “cyberbullying episode” had occurred on their site, the main points of which she outlined then detailed. She went on to explain that she was an attorney and Phoebe's mother, attempting to find the culprit, the leader of the pack, someone with the Facebook name of Shane, whose real identity she hoped to uncover, and that she would appreciate their assistance in this regard. Though the day would come when she'd demand they remove or ban “Shane” from Facebook – it shocked her that he hadn't yet disappeared from the site – for the time being she explained it was a convenient way to send “him” messages and hopefully track down the real person behind his page. They agreed to help in any way that “did not violate privacy laws.”

When she read this response, her eyebrows shot up. Screw your privacy laws, what about my child? After they acknowledged reading the awful things that had been said to Phoebe, “the verbal exchange” as they called it, she'd made a copy and erased the hateful posts that had led her daughter to attempt suicide.

Having digested every word on “Facebook Safety,” she now knew that she could remove any of Phoebe's “friends” from her Facebook page if she wanted to, but for the time being she left them. She was sure the minute a post went up from Phoebe (or in this case, from herself), everyone would be reading it and then talking about it, though most likely through private messaging. No one could keep people from gossiping, and she thought that perhaps this now worked to her advantage.

Before ending her session, she placed two fingers to her lips, kissed them, then touched them to Phoebe's image on the computer screen. Her poor baby's life hung in the balance. Tears began to form in her eyes again, and she had to take several deep breaths to keep from breaking down for the hundredth time that day. In a few minutes she'd go to the hospital and relieve Ron so he could pick up Jackson at Woodmont. She had come home earlier to change clothes and gather a few books and magazines to take with her, though she suspected they'd go unread.

Her life now consisted of maintaining a 24-hour vigil at Phoebe's bedside and saying silent prayers around the clock. Though she attended church rarely, Isabel believed in God, in a higher force. That and one other thing fueled Isabel's ability to keep going: Justice, with a capital J. She would make whoever did this pay.

Sandy panicked when she read the post from Isabel. Her body literally quaked with fear. She stared at Shane's face. “You fucker,” she said aloud. “You fucked me again. Goddamn it, I hate you!” She wanted to throw something at his stupid face. Her hand landed on a paperweight perched atop an unwieldy stack of papers and folders, but she knew destroying her computer solved nothing and that she needed to keep her wits. Her mother's haranguing voice rattled about in her brain.
Hope you're happy with what you've done, you little harlot
. Sandy ran her fingers through her hair, grabbed a fistful, and tugged it back. Hard. She released a feral groan.

How was she going to remove Shane from Facebook? It terrified her that somehow someone would be able to trace his page back to her through the separate e-mail she'd set up. She needed to erase that trail. But she was no more capable of that than fixing a gourmet meal. What could she do? Jessie would refuse to help and she couldn't hire someone, for who could she possibly trust? Her thoughts gyrated like images in a kaleidoscope, each one scattering in a dozen directions. She sat transfixed, unable to make a decision. Could someone really discover she was behind Shane?

The need to destroy all evidence was paramount, to the point that she barely gave Phoebe a thought. Nothing beyond: how could that stupid girl have done such a thing? Provoking suicide certainly hadn't been her intention. That counted for something, didn't it?

Sandy wanted to call Bill, but knew that was a non-starter. If he found out about what she'd done, he'd be furious. He'd kill her. Well, not literally. But he might divorce her and she really couldn't handle that. Which reminded her. She was supposed to have a date with Ron on Friday, the one they'd made while she was saying all those mean things to Phoebe. She couldn't imagine he'd remember, though maybe she should write to him. But what would she say? She toyed with a few variations of the same email until she heard the front door.

As she expected, when Jessie came home, she again resisted helping her. The painful session was not without recrimination. “Mom, you're totally unbelievable. You know that, right? You're the worst, you really are,” she said, a disgusted baleful expression on her face. Sandy kept a deaf ear to her reproach.

“What if people find out?” Jessie said in a whiny tone.

At which point, Sandy swore her to secrecy. Well, not exactly, but she pointed out the downside to people knowing it was
Jessie's
mom who had perpetrated this. Emphasis on Jessie.