Selfie with the Past

“Send me a selfie,” a trembling voice whispered through the phone, “so I can recognize you…”

I sighed but didn’t argue. You don’t argue with potential clients. Glancing around for a suitable backdrop, I saw that the café was rather dim; a few patrons sat at their tables, busily having breakfast. No one paid me any attention. I aimed my phone at my own face, smirked as if seeing it for the first time, and took the shot. The phone chimed as the message went out.

“Good,” the client whispered. “Wait…” And the line went dead.

I exhaled, nodded to the waiter, and ordered coffee and an omelet with toast. A good excuse to have breakfast.

I didn’t have to wait long. The order had barely arrived when a timid teenager—sixteen at most—appeared by my table.

“Lucas Erm?” he asked softly, showing me the selfie on his iPhone.

“That’s me,” I replied, and for a few seconds couldn’t think what else to say. He didn’t look like a client.

Thin, wearing jeans and a filthy T-shirt, he was a pitiful sight. His left palm was clumsily bandaged, and at the base of his little finger, blood had seeped through the dirty gauze.

“My name’s Bobby…” he whispered. “Uh… Robert.”

I caught myself and gestured to the chair beside me. Bobby perched timidly on the edge of the chair, his eyes glued to the plate of omelet. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. Not just lost—he wore an air of cosmic defeat.

I couldn’t take it; I called the waiter and ordered a second portion. Bobby ate as if he hadn’t seen food in a week, and I didn’t bother him with questions. Instead, I sat there gloomily wondering where I was going to find the money to cover my office rent.

“I can pay…” Bobby murmured apologetically once he’d finished, using the last of the toast to mop up the last of the jam. “I was saving it for you—to hire you… I need you to do something. It won’t be hard.”

He fell silent, as if no longer sure of that himself. Still, he pulled out a thin stack of bills and added,

“Here… it’s not much, but the job is simple…” Then his shoulders sank.

“And what exactly do you need done?” I asked, unable to keep a faint smile from my face.

“T… to be at a certain address at a certain time,” he shrank in on himself, “and, if necessary, to call the police. Then call my mother… so that…”

He trailed off, stopped. With a trembling hand, he wiped his temple. Then he froze, staring at the floor—or rather, into himself. At the picture he expected me to see when I arrived at that address.

And then I understood. A chill ran down my back. The situation was so transparent it was as if my own past had come back to life. It was me—years ago—in filthy clothes, with a bandaged finger. The past I had wanted to forget forever. The past I had run from long ago. The past you can’t run from.

To call his mother so she could identify the body.

I took a breath and pretended I hadn’t realized anything. Smiled even wider.

“All right, Bobby, it’s a deal. But you’ll give me the money later—after I’m done. For now, I just need your ID.”

“What for?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, come on. We’re going to make a contract, aren’t we?” I said lightly, pulling out a form. “I have to report everything to the tax office.”

“Oh… I thought…” He hesitated and went still. “Can we… keep it anonymous?”

“You told me to call your mother, which means you’ll give me her phone number. So how anonymous can it be?”

“Oh, right…” He gave an awkward smile. “Yes, of course…”

He shoved the stack of bills into one jeans pocket, pulled a wallet from the other, and from it, a driver’s license with an address.

I was surprised—the kid was twenty-two.

“Well then, Bobby, since you’re already a grown man, let’s toast to our deal.”

I took out a flask and poured a generous measure into the remains of his coffee, adding a splash to my own. “Let’s drink first—details later.”

He nodded, took one swallow, then another, then a third… I rambled about nothing in particular. At first, he tried to follow, but the brandy hit his worn-out system fast. I slipped an arm under his elbow and steered him toward the car, keeping up the casual chatter.

* * *

“Who have you brought this time?” Emma asked, feigning annoyance.

“My alter ego. Who I was many years ago.”

She glanced sympathetically at the sleeping boy and smiled.

“You were cute—but filthy.”

“Yeah, drawn from life. Basements, back alleys. Life in the slums doesn’t make you prettier.”

“Listen, this is a hospice. The people here—”

“I know. Let him stay a while too. Write down that he was taken out of a noose. That he’s suicidal. Let them feed him up a bit and load him with antidepressants. And don’t let him out. And take care of his finger—it looks like he tried to cut it off.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I intend to find out,” I said.

Though it wasn’t true—I already knew. He had, just as I had many years ago, either the sense to stop or the lack of courage to finish.

* * *

I stood in the middle of the room, studying the photographs on the walls.

The woman was beautiful—at least in her own imagination. In every pose: in lavish gowns, in swimsuits, surrounded by admirers. But Bobby appeared only in the ones where she was playing the role of the caring mother, and where he looked like an angel. Not a single photograph of him alone. No first step, no first bike, no graduation. Only as background for her.

Technically, what I had just done qualified as breaking and entering. And, alas, I sometimes do such things. A private investigator can afford to bend the law a bit—or even sidestep it entirely. Well, actually, that’s not true. No one can, and no one should. But I do it anyway, because the alternative is messier and far less likely to get results. I just needed to be sure it wasn’t my imagination—that the situation really was what I thought it was.

Her room gleamed with pink silk and gold. His was black and dusty, and clearly he hadn’t been there in days. The place was messy, but his desk was immaculate—filled with parts from cell phones and computers, small drawers for components, sets of tools, and some gadgets I didn’t recognize…

In the basement, I finally found what I was looking for—a box of documents. But even there, nothing about their relatives. As if she’d tried to erase even the memory of her family.

I’m not that easy to stop. I’ve still got the internet, public records, government files, and plenty of other sources.

* * *

“Excuse me, may I see Mr. Dorkin?” I asked at the reception desk.

“And who’s asking?” the nurse replied.

“Family.”

“But he doesn’t have… relatives…” she faltered.

“Listen,” I began, a little irritated. “This isn’t a hospital—it’s a nursing home. And frankly, it’s none of your business who we are or why we want to see your resident. He has the right to decide for himself.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the nurse hurried to say. “I just… never mind… Sign in and go on through.”

Looking like an overfed duck, she bustled down the corridor toward the back door. In the garden, under the shade of acacias, elderly ladies and gentlemen sat in chairs and on benches, with books, newspapers, or nothing at all. The sight was rather depressing—like looking at the remnants of civilization.

“Mr. Dorkin,” the nurse bent toward one of the old men, “you have… um… visitors…”

A thin old man in a straw hat, glasses, and worn clothes raised surprised eyes to us.

“Lizzy?” he asked. “Where’s Lizzy?”

“Mr. Dorkin,” I said, “this is Lizzy’s son—your grandson—who’s been very eager to meet you. His name is Robert…”

“Grandson?” the old man looked even more surprised.

He was about to say something more, but I cut in:

“He didn’t even know you existed—that’s why he never came before. Lizzy, your daughter, kept from him the fact that he had any relatives…”

And although I didn’t mean it that way, it still came out sounding like an excuse.

Suddenly, the old man’s face lit up with a genuine smile.

“Grandson? I have a grandson?!” He took the boy’s limp hand in his own as if it were a precious treasure, and his eyes filled with tears. “Robert?”

“Just Bobby,” the boy whispered. “H… hello…”

“Elza! Mark! Stella!” the old man called out, looking around. “My grandson is here!”

The whole lawn came to life. Greetings showered Bobby from every direction; everyone wanted to touch him, to give him a pat, as if he were the common grandson of them all. And for the first time, I saw my client smile.

The surprised nurse was still standing nearby. I asked her:

“I was wondering—do you hire service staff? I noticed your ad on your website.”

“Uh… yes…” she said, stumbling over the words in surprise. Or maybe she always stumbled.

“Even with accommodation? You do have staff rooms, right?”

“Uh… yes,” she repeated, like a stuck record.

“How about a computer science student who could sort out all your tech—and at the same time look after his grandfather, as well as some of your other residents?”

“Oh! That would be wonderful! Come on, let’s go see our manager…”

* * *

A few weeks later, scrolling through old photos on my phone, I came across the selfie from the café. And there, at the table behind me, I suddenly noticed Bobby—bent over his iPhone, reading intently.

I couldn’t help but smile, though the smile was tinged with sadness. Had I done all this for the client? Or for my younger self—the unwanted street kid who once dreamed of staging his own kidnapping, sending a severed finger—just to squeeze a single tear from those cold eyes, to see even a moment of worry… to feel needed, loved.

But I stopped—didn’t finish. Now I think that was for the best. Back then, I’d walked out the door and never looked back. I wish my own youth had tied itself up so neatly. But for me, it was already damned late.

Late? I suddenly realized I’d never done such a simple search for myself. What if I had someone out there? Someone who cared? And just as suddenly, I understood that I was afraid. That it was easier not to know than to face the black wall of the word no. And yet… I was older now. I could handle it. And Bobby’s avalanche of joy had already swept me up and was carrying me along—almost against my will.

“Well,” I said, looking at the selfie with my alter ego, “maybe I should hire a private detective myself. Lucas Erm seems to handle those kinds of problems pretty well…”