I crouched over a computer in the darkness of the basement. It was still early morning, my family dead asleep.
The computer had one purpose: store video from the nanny cam placed in my son’s room.
I’d placed it one week ago while he was at Saturday’s Baseball practice. It sat on his desk, disguised inside a candy dispenser. From the vantage point it captured all but the entrance.
I heaved a breath, anticipating what I might find. I had begun to suspect, and had looked for clues, but only recently had thought of this plan. I had to know. Had to find out.
The recording began right away with me standing in front of the camera, waving my hand like an idiot. Then I duck out of the scene and wait.
Do you know how many dead moments there are in our lives? My god. They went on forever. Dead moments of no one in the room. Dead moments of listening to music. Dead moments of sleeping. Dead moment after dead moment.
It wasn’t until Thursday that the moments came alive.
Why couldn’t I use the smartphone to track his activity, you might ask? Because it’s impossible; that’s why. The kid never parts with it. When he’s showering it’s in the bathroom with him, locked behind the door. When he’s sleeping, on the other side of the bed, nearest the wall.
And even if I could get my hands on it, I expect it would be locked. Nobody these days with a secret to hide leaves their phone lying around without encryption.
Ask for logs from the cell phone company, you suggest? Not on my cell phone plan. One of the downsides of him paying for his own device.
So I had to resort to the nanny cam.
And on Thursday evening it happened.
I can’t even bring myself to write about it.
I shutdown the computer and hung my head. After several moments I heaved another sigh, this one out of resignation. I finally hauled myself upstairs, one slow step at a time. I poured myself a cup of coffee, got in the car and drove. I didn’t know where I ever intended to drive to; I just drove.
And I’ve never been back since.