Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (30 page)

The following late afternoon, at Georgetown Hospital, in the hallway outside the ICU, Isabel saw a young man sitting in one of the plastic chairs, bent over, cradling his head in his hands. She wondered what ill fate had befallen him or his family, when, as she brushed past him, he glanced up. “Oh, hi,” he said, his red-rimmed eyes scrutinizing her. “You're Phoebe's mom, right?”

“Yes, I am. And you are?”

“Noah. I'm a friend of Phoebe's at Georgetown.” He looked as if he might cry.

“I see.” So this was the boy she'd kept her daughter from going to the dance with. Oh, God, why had she done that? She almost broke down at the thought.

“How is she?” he asked softly.

“Not very good, Noah. It's nice of you to come.” She wasn't sure what else to say.

He grew thoughtful. “I want to help. Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Murrow?”

Coming from this boy, the name that usually caused her to wince now didn't bother her in the slightest. In fact, she welcomed it. Mrs. Murrow. Somehow it underscored and strengthened her kinship to Phoebe and Ron, despite his recent coolness toward her. Why
had
the name bothered her so much in the past?

“All right, Noah, I'll let you know.” She was about to turn away when she stopped. “Actually, there may be something. I'm trying to find out who that Shane person is. Was. Apparently he's not a student at Walter Johnson.” She thought a moment. “I can't understand why someone would prey on my daughter that way, or do such a thing to anyone, for that matter. You wouldn't have any idea who he is?”

He shook his head no, but then something seemed to occur to him and his eyes lit up. “I might be able to find out though. I'm pretty good with computers, and if I can't I know some guys who are—” he hesitated, “—well, who are even better. Would you mind?”

She looked at him gratefully. “Not in the least. You have our number and I imagine you're in the school directory?” She glanced at the ICU door. Something was tugging at her to get inside.

He nodded, then gazed up at her bashfully. “Uh, is there any chance I could see Phoebe? Just for a minute? There's something I want to tell her.” He stopped, again appearing as though he were on the verge of tears.

She felt like embracing him, but deemed such physicality inappropriate, after all, she hardly knew him, so she merely placed her hand on his arm. “They have pretty strict rules around here, but let me check,” she said softly. “Maybe we can get you in. Wait here a moment.”

Though Mrs. Murrow's departure and return took only a couple of minutes, to Noah, it seemed forever, and he worried that access to Phoebe wouldn't be allowed. Then he heard her say, “It's okay. You can come.”

Along the way, she whispered to him. “I hope you realize this is not the Phoebe you know.” He nodded, stepping carefully around an amalgam of machinery, medical equipment and IV poles that hovered like metal angels at each ICU bed. Together they threaded their way between visitors, nurses, and patients, the latter mostly appearing to be asleep or comatose.

Still, he wasn't prepared for what he saw when they arrived at her bedside. He swallowed and said a quiet hello to her father, then stood there awkwardly. Phoebe's chest rose ever so slightly with each breath the ventilator pumped into her lungs, a ghastly hollow sound. He could hardly bring himself to look at her face, especially with the breathing tube contraption taped firmly into place around her mouth. He listened to the blip and whirr of the electronic equipment that monitored Phoebe's vital signs and kept her alive. Her mother was right, this wasn't the Phoebe he knew; he just hoped the real Phoebe still lived in there, somewhere.

He'd seen a show once where someone snuck into a hospital room at night and flipped each machine off in succession, then watched the person die. That someone had loved the patient, a girl, but knew being a vegetable wasn't what she would have wanted.

Noah glanced first at Isabel then Ron, as if for approval, before speaking to the girl he'd kissed less than a week ago. “I'm here, Phoebe. It's me, Noah, your friend. Everybody says ‘hi,' and they hope you'll get better soon.” His voice faltered, and he paused to regain control. “If you want, I'll come visit you, and read to you. I'll get the books you like.
To Kill a Mockingbird
is one of them, right? Anyway, if it's okay with your parents I'll start tomorrow.”

He forced himself to look at her face with its disconcerting deathly pallor. “Maybe if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. If you can't, like maybe you're too weak, that's okay, don't worry about it.” He waited, but there was no response. Not that he'd really expected one, although he'd read that people in comas could hear – it was the last of the senses to go. Still, he had his doubts.

“Skyla said she really wants to come too, so maybe she'll bring
People
Magazine and read to you about all the latest
important
news.” A faint smile appeared on his lips because he knew that if Phoebe could hear him, she'd laugh. As he continued to hold her limp right hand, he noticed the bandages around her left wrist. He couldn't help staring at them. Then, sensing Phoebe's parents' eyes on him, he quickly averted his gaze.

“Thank you for coming, Noah. It really means a lot to us,” Mr. Murrow said. And Isabel added, “Please let Phoebe's friends know how grateful we are for thinking of her. We truly appreciate it.”

With determination etched into his youthful brow, Noah said, “We'll find who did this, Mr. and Mrs. Murrow. I promise.”

After he left, Isabel sat down beside Phoebe and wept. Noah's visit had reached into the softest part of her and reignited all the guilt she'd experienced the past two days. Had it been all her fault that Phoebe had done this? Had she been too hard on Phoebe? Should she not have grounded her, or at least let her go to the dance with Noah? Should she have refrained from calling the police on the Littletons? This bothered her most as it seemed to have unleashed Shane's hatefulness. Why? It didn't make sense. But then, when had bullying ever made sense?

Isabel second-guessed herself on a dozen fronts and struggled with these thoughts as she began massaging her daughter's right arm and fingers. Though logically she knew Phoebe's suicide attempt hadn't been
all
her fault, the answer to the other questions seemed to be yes. And that placed the blame firmly at her feet.

She rubbed Phoebe gently and vigorously, in part because the nurses had informed her and Ron that it was important to keep stimulating Phoebe's circulation, and also to move her limbs to inhibit muscle atrophy. Then again, she'd overheard a resident whisper that it gave parents something to do. Real muscle atrophy took months before it became serious. Still, it made her feel useful and allowed her to touch her daughter.

Ron looked haggard and spent, his eyes red from lack of sleep and his own bouts of crying. He remained beside Phoebe opposite Isabel. Though he hadn't said anything, Isabel sensed his anger and resentment toward her. She wished he'd just speak plainly, but mostly he was silent. “Christ,” he said, “this sucks.”

Isabel nodded. “Poor baby,” she said, as she continued to massage Phoebe's left leg.

“I'll be all right.”

“I didn't mean you,” she said, an edge in her voice.

“Right. Guess not.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, though she wasn't. How could he possibly think she was referring to him? And yet she knew his behavior wasn't entirely out of character. Plenty of times Ron had acted childish and self-centered, though perhaps not unlike many men, she decided.

To stanch the flow of such negative thoughts, Isabel turned her mind to the only thing she cared about now besides her baby getting better, and that was to develop a strategy for her latest case: finding her daughter's predator. “Look, we need to find out what laws exist that can be used to prosecute people for doing what he did. Have you run across anything for that piece you mentioned you were working on?”

Ron scowled at her. “What piece?”

“The one on social networking,” she said, glad to have something to occupy her mind, even if only momentarily.

“Are you kidding? How would I have had time for that?”

“Well, I would have thought—”

“Thought what? That I'd be hard at work investigating the pitfalls of social networking while our daughter is…is lying here…like this? Jesus, Iz.”

Her finger shot to her lips, indicating he should keep his voice down. “Let's not argue. I just think we owe it to her to find out who this Shane person is and bring him to justice. I, for one, will not rest until we do.”

“A lot of good that does.” His lip curled in disgust.

“What are you saying?”

“I just think we need to stay focused on her. We can deal with that later. Anyway, it won't change what's happened. Why are you so intent on that? What does it accomplish? Where does revenge ever get anyone?”

“I can't believe you're saying that. Anyway it's justice, not revenge. Doesn't Phoebe deserve that? Maybe you'd better go pick up Jackson,” she said brusquely.

Ignoring Ron's heavy sigh as he lifted himself out of his chair, she turned her attentions back to Phoebe, listening to the steady blip, ping and whirr of the machines that were keeping her daughter alive. The mechanical sound of her breathing.

After he left, she grew teary-eyed because they'd snapped at one another exactly when they needed to be supportive, and then she experienced a growing inner steeliness, a quality she'd always possessed, but now it felt like a hardening shell that would protect her from the feelings that threatened to drown her in self-pity and guilt, that threatened to immobilize her. She couldn't afford that, not when so much was at stake. She would find Shane and bring him to justice. And she'd do it with or without Ron, with or without the justice system.

Ron drove slowly, following the road that wound through Rock Creek Park, noticing the thinning canopy and the increased light that always came with November. He knew homeless people roamed and even lived in the park and wondered if the lack of foliage gave them fewer places to hide. He had an insane desire to hide too, but in his case it was from people's glances and stares. He'd barely started at the
Post
and already he was the source of water cooler gossip. The kind of notoriety no one wanted. It was human nature for people to talk, but he couldn't help wondering what they were saying. All the wrong things, he was sure.

On Friday he'd stopped in for a few hours, grabbed a cup of coffee and in the hallway overheard someone saying, “Hey, d'you hear that awful thing about Murrow's daughter?” He fled to his office, a little stunned and off-kilter, and turned to his voice mails, hoping to regain his bearings.

The first message caught him off guard: “Hi Ron, this is Sandy Littleton. I'm sorry we won't have a chance to talk today.” That's when he remembered they'd planned to meet. “I just want you to know how sorry I am about Phoebe.” She spoke in a soft baby doll voice. “How is she? Anything I can do just let me know. Can't imagine what you're going through, so if you need a break, a shoulder to cry on, call me.”

The moment he'd finished listening to her message, all he could think about was meeting up with her and literally crying on her shoulder. Since the
event
– he didn't know what else to call it – he'd felt like a fish without oxygen, trapped in a house that provided only dark, somber reminders of what had happened on the third floor. And seeing Isabel only seemed to make matters worse. Then, being in the hospital, a stark depressing place filled with sick and dying people, he could hardly stand it. He needed a break, he deserved one, he told himself, and now after a long weekend he was counting on Sandy for a breath of fresh air.

Finding a place to park on this slightly remote stretch of road alongside the Potomac, especially at this time of year, offered little challenge. Many spaces were available. At the last moment before exiting the car he grabbed his shades and slipped them on. Of course the sun shone, but it was a protective maneuver, in case someone passing by knew him.

Jack's Boathouse was empty, as he'd imagined. Being early, he sat down on one of several benches to wait. Lanterns of various colors were strung along the small wooden structure, a thriving, fun establishment during the season when it was open. Both a place where you could rent a paddleboat or a canoe and also have a drink. Ron had brought the kids here to go canoeing. And he and Isabel had ridden bikes on the nearby Crescent Trail, which began just a few yards further down the road.

He wished he hadn't thought of Isabel just then. She was the last thing he wanted to think about. What had happened to Phoebe, more or less, could be traced back to her. Several times, he'd come close to saying so, but it would be cruel and at the last second he'd stopped himself.

Sunlight danced on the river, a sight that today did not stir him. Instead it reminded him of the stained water in the bathtub, Phoebe's body floating there; he'd been sure she was dead. His little girl. Dead. A sob erupted from deep within.

He startled when a hand gently caressed his shoulder. Instead of swallowing his tears, Ron turned and buried his head in Sandy's midriff. All the pain he'd choked back erupted into an endless stream with Sandy stroking his head and muttering, “There, there, it's all right. I'm here. I'm here. Let it out.”

Georgetown Academy's modern, high-tech performing arts center had been constructed a few years earlier with the generous $200 million donation of two dozen donors, all of them alumni. On days when there were guest speakers or special meetings it alternated as an assembly hall. While normally going to and from such events served as an excuse for incessant chatter among the girls and rowdiness among the boys, today's assembly featured a subdued group of students. Almost funereal. They trudged into the large, expensively-furnished auditorium and took their seats without being chided.

There was Skyla and her troupe of friends looking appropriately downcast; Dylan and Noah and Emma, though she was without her usual sidekick, Jessie, who had not been seen or heard from in several days; and the rest of the ninth grade, minus a few absentees. In other words, all the kids who knew Phoebe, and all of them aware of what had transpired.

Noah was lost in thought about Phoebe when he noticed Jessie plop down into the chair on his right. He frowned. In his mind, her hair-brained logic around the dance had caused Phoebe to lose faith in him. But even more than that, on hearing of the exchange that led to the attack on Phoebe, which revolved around some supposed thing Phoebe had said about Jessie, and then blaming her for the police thing, well, he really wanted nothing more to do with her. The whole thing was so lame. She was bad news and he turned his head away. He almost got up to switch seats, but just then Ms. Kendall cleared her throat and tapped the microphone on the stage, imploring a few last stragglers to “grab a seat, any seat, and listen up.”

Alison Kendall, neatly dressed in a navy blue pantsuit and white silk collarless blouse, stood behind the lectern, adjusted the microphone, and began. “We are here to discuss an awful event that occurred a week ago. Actually that's an understatement. It was a horrific event.” She scanned her audience to secure everyone's attention. A few students shifted in their seats.

“First, let me give you a brief update on Phoebe Murrow's condition because I know that you are all concerned, as are all of the teachers and staff at Georgetown Academy. At the present time, she remains in a coma, and the doctors have no way of knowing whether or not she will survive, and if she does, whether or not there will be brain damage.

“I imagine this is difficult for you to hear, but I tell you this bluntly because it's important that you recognize people's behavior has consequences. Extreme and disastrous consequences even.” She stopped and allowed her eyes to sweep from one side of the large room to the other.

She continued. “Nothing can change what has happened to Phoebe, but we
can
take steps to prevent something like this from happening again. So…let it be known that online bullying, or any bullying for that matter, is absolutely unacceptable at this school and we have zero tolerance for such behavior. There are and will be repercussions.”

A chill air sucked all noise out of the room, a place normally so friendly and full of life that it almost seemed as though the entire group was collectively holding its breath. No squirming, no whispering, nothing, not even the rustle of paper, a nervous cough, titter or giggle as they waited for Ms. Kendall to resume.

“I know that news travels fast, and so you may already be aware that several of your fellow students have been suspended for what happened last Monday. We are taking time to examine each person's involvement on a case-by-case basis before taking further action.” She allowed the words to sink in, and as she did, she thought of the pushback she'd gotten from two of the students' parents. Not only had they cursed her, but they'd threatened to withdraw considerable financial support pledged at the beginning of the year. More importantly, they asked her why the school was involved at all since no laws existed to prevent cyberbullying.

Alison couldn't believe they'd taken such a stance, but then both of those parents were attorneys. Sadly, they were right. No laws existed, so no law had been broken. Which meant there was no way to bring law enforcement to bear on the situation, as she'd learned in her brief conversation with Isabel Winthrop.

Furthermore, she knew this incident had the potential to make or break her career here, but she was willing to take that risk. She refused to be indecisive in a situation as dire as this. Not only was every parent and student watching her, not only was the board discussing this and advising her, but the community at large and even the media had her actions in their crosshairs. Word had spread quickly about what happened to Phoebe Murrow, and her phone had been ringing nonstop. She needed to be stern and unwavering, and above all else she needed to do the right thing. Furthermore, a private school, one as elite as Georgetown Academy, had much greater latitude in its involvement in the activities of its students, on or off campus.

If the decision had been hers alone she would already have expelled the students known to have participated in the online intimidation, an incident that might, in fact, turn out to be the cause of Phoebe's death. But the Board had insisted the students get a fair hearing before taking such final action. Yet it wasn't about fairness. If the child came without the vestige of wealth, he or she would probably get the boot.

From everything Alison knew, Jessie Littleton was not involved, and she hoped it remained that way because she was another student whose expulsion would be complicated by the fact that her father had committed over a million dollars to the capital campaign, a sum to be doled out over the next four years. Clever, she now thought. But she also liked Jessie, who she'd noticed had entered the assembly late.

Actually, Alison Kendall relished a good fight. Especially for a worthy cause. It's what she was trained to do. She looked out over the attentive student body.

“I will end with this final note,” she said. “Though all of you are probably aware that someone by the name of Shane initiated the Facebook attack on Phoebe, it has come to my attention that this person, if I may call him that, is not a student at Walter Johnson High as he claimed to be. If any of you here know anything that might be helpful in discovering who he is, and where he can be found, please report it to me.

“It will be much appreciated, not only by us here at the school, but also by Phoebe and her family,” Alison Kendall continued. “Furthermore, I will look favorably on anyone who is truthful and comes forward to take responsibility for his or her actions. As you know, that's a basic tenet of our school, and we take it seriously. Being ethical, honest, and responsible.” She cleared her throat.

A few students shifted in their seats. Noah felt Jessie's eyes on him, but refused to glance her way.

“There is a reward being offered by Phoebe's family for anyone providing information that might lead to the person behind this. Regardless, I encourage you to reveal anything you know that might shed light on this…well, this entire awful situation. And please, students, don't think of it as tattling, because it isn't. Know that you're being a responsible citizen who refuses to give in to peer pressure. That's all I have for now. Any questions?”

She was about to dismiss them when an arm cloaked in a black sleeve went up. It was Emma. Alison admired her for being such a little rebel, in style and substance. “Yes?” she said.

“I want to announce that a group of us are getting together today to form a support group for Phoebe and her parents. I thought we could start by making her a card and getting everyone to sign it?”

“Excellent idea, Emma. I'll let you organize that…if you need my help, just let me know. Maybe the art teachers would like to help? Anyone else?”

A little self-consciously, Noah raised his hand. He suggested the idea of coordinating students to visit Phoebe and read to her. “I've already checked with her parents.” He mentioned the constraints of ICU visits – two visitors at a time – and also received Ms. Kendall's blessing.

She glanced around for any further hands, and seeing none, dismissed them.

Sandy continued to murmur soothing things in Ron's ear. “It'll be all right. You'll see. Ph…ph…Phoebe,” she said, stumbling over the name, “she'll come out of the coma and she'll be good as new.” She sat beside him, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other caressing his leg, his hand, his cheek. “It'll be all right,” she whispered, telling herself the same.