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.

Face to Face at the Diner

I arrived at the Rimrock Diner 45 minutes early and sat in my truck in the parking lot watching every person who walked by. My phone buzzed.

“Running a few minutes late be there by 5:45 sorry”.

I typed back a shaky, “No problem” and went inside to get a booth.

The waitress, an older woman with gray hair and a name tag that said Dolores, brought me coffee I didn’t drink and asked if I was waiting for someone. “Yeah” I said. “My someone”.

At 5:52 the diner door opened and a man walked in. I felt like I’d been punched in the chest. He was taller than I remembered Thomas being, broader in the shoulders. He had a beard, something my son never wore. His hair was longer, pulled back in a short ponytail. He was wearing work clothes, jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, work boots covered in sawdust.

But the eyes. Dear God, the eyes were exactly the same. That specific shade of blue green that his mother had. The same slightly crooked nose from when he broke it playing high school football. The same way he stood, weight on his left leg, right hand in his pocket.

He scanned the diner and when his eyes landed on me he hesitated. Then he walked over. “Are you” he started, then stopped. “You look familiar I don’t know why”.

I couldn’t speak. I just stared at him, at this man who looked like my son would look if he’d lived 12 more years. Older, more weathered, but my son. “I’m Jake” he said, extending his hand. “Jake Miller”.

I took his hand. His grip was firm, calloused from woodworking, real, solid, alive. “I’m Robert” I managed to say. “Robert Reeves”.

Something flickered across his face when I said my last name. “Reeves” he repeated slowly. “Why does that sound”. He shook his head and slid into the booth across from me.

The Missing Years

Dolores came by and he ordered coffee. His hands were shaking slightly. I noticed he was nervous too. So he said after Dolores left, “This is weird right I mean I text a random number in my phone and it turns out to be… what I don’t even know what this is”.

“How long have you had that number saved” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“I don’t know years as long as I can remember having this phone I have almost nothing saved in my contacts just this number that says D A and my boss’s number and a couple co-workers I don’t I don’t remember much from before about 6 years ago”.

“6 years”.

“Yeah I woke up in a hospital in Great Falls 6 years ago”. “The doctor said I’d been in some kind of accident severe head trauma no ID on me no one came looking for me they tried to figure out who I was but nothing came up eventually they just let me go a social worker helped me get a new ID new social security card picked the name Jake Miller because it sounded normal I’ve been working odd jobs since then ended up at Morrison’s about 3 years ago”.

My throat felt tight. “What year did you wake up in that hospital”.

“2019 June I remember because they told me I was approximately 30 years old which would make me born in ’89 they guessed based on bone density tests or something”.

89. Thomas was born in ’89. “The phone” I said. “Where did you get the phone”.

“It was with me in my pocket when I woke up screen was cracked battery dead but it still worked after I charged it the only thing saved on it was that one number your number”.

I pulled out my own phone with trembling hands. I found a photo, one of my favorites: Thomas at his college graduation, cap and gown, huge smile, his whole life ahead of him. “Jake” I said quietly. “I need you to look at something”.

I turned the phone toward him. He stared at the photo. His face went pale. “That’s that’s me” he whispered. “How do you have a picture of me I don’t remember that I don’t remember graduating I don’t remember any of this”.

“His name was Thomas” I said, and my voice broke. “Thomas William Reeves he was my son he died 12 years ago in a car accident on I90 between Billings and Laurel October 7th 2013 the police said he died instantly I identified his body I buried him”.

Jake was shaking his head. “No no that’s not I’m alive I’m sitting right here”.

Connecting the Memories

“I know you’re saying I’m your dead son”. “I’m saying you look exactly like him you have his eyes his nose his mannerisms you were born the same year you woke up with his phone number you were found after some kind of accident in Montana the timeline”.

“Jake what if the accident you were in was that accident what if you didn’t die”. “Then who did you bury”.

That was the question, wasn’t it. Jake ran his hands through his hair, pulled the ponytail holder out, ran his hands through it again. It was something Thomas used to do when he was stressed.

“This is insane” Jake said. “You’re telling me I’ve been living with the wrong name for 6 years that somewhere I have a father who thought I was dead”.

“You have a father who’s been visiting your grave twice a week for 12 years” I said, and I couldn’t stop the tears anymore; they just came hot and fast down my cheeks. “A father who kept your room exactly how you left it who still has your jacket hanging in the closet who answers your phone number when telemarketers call just to hear someone say your name”.

Jake was crying too now, silent tears running down into his beard. “I don’t remember you” he said. “I’m sorry I don’t remember any of it but when I look at you I feel something like I should know you like somewhere deep down I do know you”.

“That’s enough” I said. “That’s more than enough”.

We sat there in that diner booth for 3 hours. Dolores kept refilling our coffee and didn’t ask questions. I told Jake everything about his childhood, about how he loved building things with his hands even as a little kid, about how he wanted to be an architect. About his mother Elizabeth who died of cancer when he was 19, about how close we’d been after that, just the two of us.

I told him about the accident: how the police said he’d lost control on a curve during a rainstorm, how the car went off the road and rolled multiple times, how he was ejected through the windshield. How I’d gotten the call at 2:00 in the morning. Jake listened to all of it, sometimes closing his eyes like he was trying to remember, trying to pull something out of the darkness in his mind.

“The furniture” he said at one point. “You said I liked building things”.

“You built your mother a jewelry box when you were 12 spent weeks on it it had these intricate inlay patterns”.

“I know how to do that” Jake said quietly. “Inlay work it’s one of my specialties at Morrison’s I just I always knew how I never questioned it”.

“What else do you remember even small things”.

“Dreams” Jake said. “I have these recurring dreams there’s a house white with blue shutters a porch with a swing inside there’s this big kitchen with yellow walls and a woman I can never see her face clearly but she’s humming something while she cooks and I feel safe happy”.

I couldn’t breathe. “Our house is white with blue shutters Elizabeth painted the kitchen yellow because she said it was cheerful she hummed while she cooked always hummed”.

“Oh my god” Jake whispered. “What else what else do you dream about”.

“Working on a car an old truck red the engine keeps stalling and I’m frustrated but also laughing there’s music playing classic rock”.

“We restored a 1974 Ford F100 together” I said. “Red your 16th birthday present spent a whole summer on it we listened to the Eagles and Credence Clearwater Revival while we worked”.

Jake put his head in his hands. “This can’t be real but it is isn’t it it’s real”.