I Paid My Dead Son’s Phone Bill For 12 Years Just To Hear His Voicemail. Yesterday, The Number Texted Me Back. Now I’m Staring At The Man I Buried, And He’s Calling Me Dad.
A Message From the Grave
I got a text message from my dead son’s phone number last Tuesday. I know because I’ve stared at that number every single day for 12 years wondering why I still pay the bill for a phone buried 6 ft under Montana soil. The message was simple, just seven words that made my hands shake so hard I dropped my coffee mug on the kitchen floor.
“Dad is this you please respond”.
My son died on October 7th, 2013. He was 24 years old. The highway patrol officer who came to my door that night had kind eyes, but kindness doesn’t soften words like fatal accident and didn’t suffer and need you to identify the body. I identified my boy.
I looked at his face in that cold room with the fluorescent lights humming overhead. I touched his hand; it was cold. I buried him 3 days later in the cemetery where his mother rests, the same cemetery where I’ll join them someday. That was 12 years ago, but last Tuesday his phone came back to life.
I stared at that message for maybe 20 minutes. My heart was hammering against my ribs like it was trying to break out. The logical part of my brain kept saying it was a scam, someone who somehow got Thomas’s old number. Someone cruel enough to prey on a grieving father. But that small desperate part of me, the part that never truly accepted my son was gone, that part was screaming.
My fingers trembled as I typed back: “Who is this”.
The response came fast, too fast for someone trying to run a scam. “I don’t know I found this number in my phone it says D A are you my dad”.
I couldn’t breathe. The room started spinning. I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter so hard my knuckles went white. “What’s your name”.
I typed. “Jake Miller but sometimes I have these dreams where someone calls me something else Thomas Tommy I don’t know none of it makes sense”.
Thomas. My son’s name was Thomas William Reeves. We called him Tommy until he turned 16 and told us it sounded like a kid’s name. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening.
“Where are you”.
I sent the message before I could stop myself. “Billings Montana I work at Morrison’s Custom Furniture on Third Street I’m sorry if this is weird I just I’ve had this number saved for years and I don’t know why today something told me to try calling it but I got scared and texted instead”.
The Impossible Meeting
Billings. That’s only 70 mi from where I lived in Laurel. That’s where the accident happened, on I90 between Billings and Laurel. My mind was racing. I grabbed my phone with both hands because one wasn’t steady enough.
“Jake this might sound crazy but can we meet today”.
I watched those three dots appear and disappear, appear and disappear. “I guess so Morrison’s closes at 5 I could meet you at the Rimrock Diner on Grand Avenue at 5:30”.
I looked at my watch. It was 2:00 in the afternoon. 3 and 1/2 hours felt like an eternity. “I’ll be there”.
I couldn’t just sit in my house for 3 and 1/2 hours; I’d lose my mind. So I did what I always did when the grief became too heavy: I drove to the cemetery. I parked near the old oak tree and walked to Thomas’s grave. The headstone was simple black granite with gold lettering: Thomas William Reeves 1989 to 2013 beloved son forever in our hearts.
I’d been here hundreds of times, maybe thousands. Sometimes I’d talk to him, tell him about my day, about how much I missed him. About how the house was too quiet, about how I couldn’t throw away his old jacket that still hung in the hall closet.
Today I just stood there staring at that stone. “Tommy” I whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening someone’s using your phone number says his name is Jake Miller says he works in Billings I’m going to meet him I need to I need to see”.
The wind rustled through the oak leaves. A couple of crows cawed in the distance. Normal sounds, normal day, except nothing about this was normal.
“If it’s not you” I continued, my voice cracking. “If it’s just some cruel coincidence I don’t know how I’ll survive it but if there’s even a chance”.
I couldn’t finish the sentence. I got back in my truck and drove to Billings.
