Uneasy about opening it, I take my time. Inside is another white box, this one sleek.
A phone.
Not my broken phone, but the latest model, and way better than my old one. I don’t know what shocks me more—that the package hasn’t been stolen or that a new phone is waiting for me on our doorstep. The residents must’ve thought the same thing I did: that it was either garbage or dog shit. No one’s dumb enough to leave cash or gifts outside in this complex.
That was sweet of Justin, I think, holding the package to my chest.
But why wouldn’t he bring it up to the fourth floor?
There’s a small card inside with a note addressed to me.
“You can’t be pregnant without a phone. I added you to my plan, and you were able to keep the same number. XOXO, Charlotte.”
My mouth drops, and I almost feel guilty about my conversation with Justin last night.
A few nights later, I’m at the apartment helping the boys with their homework, Diane nowhere in sight. She’s probably playing the penny slots, losing her minimum wage earnings.
I make the boys shower before they do their assignments, checking beforehand to make sure there’s actually a bar of soap to scrub with. Diane’s not one to reinforce hygiene; she’s far too lenient to care if they actually get clean in the tub or just piss in it.
They’re typical boys and hate the feeling of being spotless or having shampoo lathered in their hair. They’d rather spend the few minutes it takes to shower racing their toy cars or terrorizing the other apartment kids with their toy guns.
My phone starts vibrating on the counter.
It’s probably Justin, another harebrained scheme on his mind. We agreed we wouldn’t text about Charlotte or anything that could implicate us in case something happens. Tempted to silence it, since the boys are close, I hem and haw until I notice it’s not his number on the screen.
Unknown caller.
I never answer these. In the past, Diane’s given my number to bill collectors in lieu of hers so they’ll stop harassing her.
It stops.
I stare the phone down, daring it to ring a second time, and it flashes the unknown-caller ID again. I stick my tongue out at it and turn back to the boys.
The buzzing starts again.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
Rolling his eyes at me, one of the boys looks up from his math equations. “Answer it, dummy.”
“Is it Justin?” the other one asks; the first one then chimes in, and they both chant, “We wanna talk to Justin, we wanna talk to Justin.”
After they high-five, they make faces at me.
“Shut it.” I point at the blank paper. “Answer these problems.”
They exchange exasperated sighs with each other and hunch over the kitchen table. Swiping the answer button, I say “Hello?” more aggressively than I mean to, sure it’s a pissed-off representative from the utility company.
“Hi, am I speaking with Elizabeth Laughlin?”
“You sound too formal to be a bill collector, and,” I say, glancing at the wall clock, “it’s a little late to be calling, don’t you think?”
“This isn’t an attempt to collect a debt.”
“Sure.” I bite a fingernail. “Who wants to speak to her?”
“Her, who?”
“Diane.”
“This is Officer Mahoney, calling for Elizabeth Laughlin.”
There’s silence as I process this information. The police have my number. How’d they get it so fast? Frantic, I scan the kitchen. Did Justin really plan to mug Charlotte?
I stammer, “Okay . . .”
I drop to a chair, my legs shaking in fear. Shit, he must’ve got caught. Am I an accomplice? Did he name me as one of his coconspirators, or whatever they say on television?
“Can you confirm you’re Elizabeth Laughlin?”
“Yeah.” My palms start to perspire as I wipe them on my knees. “Is everything okay?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
I clench the phone, waiting for him to say arrest or jail with the name Justin Pence attached to it.
But I remember that Charlotte doesn’t teach a class tonight, so it could as easily be Diane. She isn’t home, and she was trashed this morning. I can’t imagine she’s sobered up any. How am I going to get her home? I wonder.
If she gets a DUI, we’re screwed. Maybe she finally got caught.
Or it could be related to your father.
Taking a deep breath, I ask, “Does Diane need help?”
In the background, Officer Mahoney whispers to someone, a female. “Does she want to talk to me?”
I wince, my nail bed starting to bleed in protest.
“No,” he says. “No one named Diane is present with me. The name’s Charlotte. Charlotte Coburn.”
Did Justin roll over and tell on us? I didn’t commit to anything, I fume.
My blood stops cold, turning to ice. “What happened?”
“Charlotte asked me to phone you.” There’s a lull as he waits for me to confirm I know the woman he’s talking about. My lower back is now clinging to my shirt, damp with the sweat of trepidation. I wait for him to continue. When the silence lingers on, he speaks. “She’s had a bit of an accident . . .”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s all right, just shaken with minor injuries, all superficial.”
“Did you mean to call Noah?”
“Who?”
“Her husband,” I say. “Why did you call me instead of her husband, Noah?”
“He’s out of town. She said you were the second-best person to contact.”
“Oh.” The boys are starting to lose interest in their assignments and are taking the liberty of throwing pencils at each other. Narrowing my eyes at them, I make a throat-slitting gesture and head into their bedroom for privacy. The officer waits for me to bombard him with questions, but I hold my breath, unsure of what I’m supposed to say or do.
“We’d like you to come down to the station.”
“What for?” My tone clipped, I say, “I mean, I’m babysitting tonight. Can I help from here? Does Charlotte want to talk to me?”
“Certainly, but we’d prefer you come to the station. She’s shaken up, and we can fill you in when you get here.” Another hushed side conversation between them ensues before I hear a rustle. Or is this a trick? Their sneaky way of getting me down to the station so they can interrogate me?
Officer Mahoney replies, “Here she is. Charlotte’s getting on the line.”
At first, only pitiful sobs come through the line. Any words drown in her hiccups. “Charlotte?” I plead multiple times. “Charlotte, please calm down. I can’t understand you.”
She tries to tell me what happened but seemingly can’t force the words out. She is stuttering incoherently, and Officer Mahoney finally interrupts a wail after three failed attempts. “Elizabeth?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s having a rough time. Let’s let her gather her thoughts and calm down first.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a license?”
“Like a driver’s license?”
“Yes.”
Flustered, I say, “I don’t have a car.” Even though I took drivers’ ed, I have no one to practice with, and Diane trusts me to drive only when she’s too drunk. Justin’s piece-of-shit Camaro’s almost twenty years old and has a new leak every week. Plus, it’s a stick shift.