The crash echoing up the stairs startled me from my intense focus on the book on my lap. I listened but didn’t hear anything more. Remembering that my 14-year-old brother Brian had kitchen clean-up duties tonight, I decided that he must have left something precariously balanced on the drain board and gravity had taken its toll.
I turned back to the American history textbook I was studying. With a major test on the period following the War Between the States looming, I needed all the study time I could get. The rest of the family had headed out to watch brother Bobby play basketball, but I had begged off. I could accomplish a lot of reviewing in the quiet house. Three younger siblings kept the place so filled with racket that I could hardly think most of the time.
“1870 – ratification of 15th Amendment” according to my notes. Now, what was that amendment for? I had a terrible time keeping the numbers straight. Couldn’t the legislators have given these things a name instead of a number?
A crunching sound…what in the world? Then I picked out the rhythmic sound of footsteps, slow and careful, moving quietly through the house. None of my brothers, certainly; they always charged through the house at full tilt and high volume. Who could it be?
I tried to focus my listening on the sounds from downstairs. A muffled cough echoed in the otherwise quiet house. I was torn between calling out and hiding. If this was one of my brothers trying to pull a fast one, I’d give him what for. But what if it wasn’t one of them, or one of their friends? Maybe I had seen one too many police shows on TV, but something told me to keep silent.
My cell phone was on my bed next to me. I slid the book aside and thrust the phone into my pocket. As quietly as I could, I rolled off of the bed and down to the floor. There was no room to hide under the bed – a single bed with a trundle bed under it. I crawled to my closet and opened the door just far enough to climb inside. I pulled the door closed behind me.
Even through the closet door, I could hear the familiar creak of the fifth step as someone climbed the stairs. It seemed to go on for a long time, not the quick squeak of teen-aged boys pounding up to their rooms. Somehow, that sounded scarier to me than the earlier crash.
“Get hold of yourself, Jessie,” I told myself. “Remember what Daddy says: stay calm and make good decision – panic causes mistakes. Use the phone and call for help.” I pulled the cell phone out of my pocket and punched in 9-1-1 followed by Send. Nothing! I had no signal in the closet. I tried moving my arm around in the closet, hoping to see those friendly bars register, but I only got a single bar to even flicker. Not enough signal to call for help. Merciful heaven, what was I going to do?
Footsteps traveled up and down the hallway. I heard bedroom doors open and close. They were getting closer to my room. Suddenly my chest hurt and I realized I was holding my breath. No good! “Shallow breaths, girl, shallow and quiet,” I cautioned myself. “No panic allowed. Panic makes mistakes.” I backed into the deepest corner of my closet and pulled the blanket stored there in front of me. Poor camouflage, to be sure, but better than nothing and I hoped it would be enough.
There it was, the “click” of my bedroom door opening. Several sets of footsteps walked around in the room and it sounded as though they were heading to the closet.
“A real girlie room. Ought to be some good stuff here.” The low voice sounded pretty young. “Ain’t that cute? She left the lamp on.”
“Look for jewelry and electronics and quit admiring the decorating.” The second voice seemed a bit testy. Nervous, maybe? Please, God, don’t let them be nervous. Nervous was just a step away from panic and I didn’t want them to panic.
“Ps-s-s-t, here’s a jewelry box,” I heard a third voice call in a loud whisper. From the noises I heard they must have pushed my history book on the floor and dumped my jewelry box out on the bed. I fought down a wave of indignation over strangers pawing through my belongings.
“Grab the ring and those earrings and that music player over there and let’s check out the parents’ room so we can get out of here,” whispered the second voice. That edge to his voice made me realize that he was probably as scared as I was. What would he do if he found me hiding here? “Panic causes mistakes.” And mistakes could include going from breaking into a house to rob it up to hurting somebody and the “somebody” would be me!
The footsteps receded as they left my room, but I was afraid to move. I hadn’t heard my bedroom door close and I didn’t want to find out the hard way that it was open. I didn’t want to scare them into doing something worse than robbery. Please, God, don’t let them come back to check the closet.
I heard noises of glass breaking and things falling coming from my parents’ bedroom. I felt helpless, there in the dark, but I couldn’t think of anything realistic to do. What could I do against at least three intruders?
Then I remembered a trick my friend Kathy had showed me. Sometimes if the signal wasn’t strong enough to make a call, you could still send a text! It couldn’t hurt to try, if I could find that one bar again.
“Help. Somebody in house. I’m hiding in BR closet.” Once I got the message typed in, I moved my phone around to search for the bar. When I found it, that one precious beautiful bar, I sent the message. It went to my mother, my father and Kathy. I also added Billy and Brian. I didn’t figure Bobby would have his phone with him on the court. I prayed at least one of them would see it and send help. Some goofy thought made me turn off the ringer on my phone. It would be just my luck that a signal would get through from someone trying to call me and give away my hiding place.
So now I’m waiting here in the dark of my closet. Waiting and praying harder than I think I’ve ever done before. Please, God, let somebody see my message. Please send the police. Please keep me invisible to whoever is out there. Please get me out of this in one piece. Please…