Don't Try To Find Me: A Novel

by Holly Brown

DON’T BE CRAZY. JUST BE IN LOVE.

  I so wish I could peek at the last page.

  Day 7

  FindMarley The Willits Family

  We’re at KGO station, waiting to go on. Got to get the word out for our #missinggirl. Is there lipstick on our teeth?

  Less than 10 seconds ago

  Waiting in the wings of the TV studio, I watch Paul’s fingers fly over his smartphone. He’s holding up much better than I am, even though he stays up all night working. I’m up, too, with my mind spinning like the wheels of a stationary bike, going nowhere.

  We’ve reached a terrible milestone: 50 percent of teens come home within a week, so Marley’s crossed over into the other 50 percent. Paul would never tweet that, though. He insists on conveying purposeful optimism in 140 characters or less.

  I read over his shoulder. There’s a thread under #missinggirl.

  Hotasradiation: @littlecorey Her parents are going to be on TV. Like they’re getting off on having a #missinggirl.

  Littlecorey: @Hotasradiation Yeah, maybe they had something to do with it. #missinggirl

  “Don’t let it get to you,” Paul says. “The vast majority of people are supportive. We’re getting new Twitter followers. We’re getting a ton of ‘likes’ on Facebook.”

  “They ‘like’ that Marley’s missing?” I say dully. My head is pounding. I could use a drink. Better yet, a pill. Something targeted.

  The producer tells us we’re on next, and of course, that’s when I get a text from Michael: “Thinking of you & Marley.”

  I’m the one who’s supposed to be initiating all contact. It’s not unusual for him to breach my boundaries, though. I understand why he does it. I get confused and send mixed messages. I call one day and then ignore his texts the next. But I can’t afford this now, with all the scrutiny.

  “I’m OK,” I text back surreptitiously, hoping Paul will be too absorbed in his own activities to monitor mine. “I’m in SF, about to do a TV interview. Can’t talk now.”

  “When can you talk?”

  “I can’t talk,” I write, almost adding “ever.” Even without the “ever,” I hope Michael picks up on my firmness.

  “That’s not fair to me,” he writes.

  “I can’t be fair to you right now. Marley is missing. I need to go.”

  Paul looks up. “Who’s that?”

  “Dawn.” Dawn offered to come to the city so we could have a visit while I’m here, but I told her Paul and I need to get back on the road ASAP.

  The answer must have satisfied him because he returns to his phone. Without looking up, he says, “Remember the rules, okay?”

  He means Candace’s rules, the PR rules. But Amy Chang is starting to introduce us, and people on Twitter are maligning us, and Michael is pushing me, again, and I might faint or throw up, something that’s definitely not in the rules.

  “Go,” the producer tells us, and then somehow, Michael and I are walking toward Amy. I manage to shake her hand and take my seat. I feel my legs vibrating as I cross them.

  The set behind me is the San Francisco skyline in miniature. There’s no studio audience, thank God, but there are a lot of people on set: cameramen and producers and technicians of every sort. They watch us blandly. We’re just a job to them, which only serves to unnerve me further.

  Amy is toothier and tinier in person than she appears on TV. She oozes conspicuous compassion. She lobs some softballs that Paul fields with no trouble. As he describes the social media campaign, he uses “we” a lot and squeezes my hand.

  All I can think of is the people on Twitter, with their lies and innuendos. They’re probably watching, licking their chops. We’re putting ourselves in front of a firing squad; we’re offering them ammunition right now. Why can’t Paul see that?

  I feel sweat beading up, then rolling down the sides of my face like condensation on a soda can. That can’t be good in front of the camera. It’ll look like I have something to hide.

  Which I do. But it’s not what they think.

  I need to stop panicking and pay attention. Follow the conversation, follow the rules. What the hell were the rules again?

  Stay on message. Offer a plausible reason why Marley ran away that doesn’t point to us as bad parents. When in doubt, follow Paul’s lead.

  What else, what else? Be authentic, while following all PR rules. Be authentic, while playing our parts.

  We’re supposed to handle ourselves with a composure that’s aspirational. We’re what parents like to imagine they would be if their kids disappeared. We’re the Restoration Hardware catalog of runaway families. Candace wants to turn us into a cause, a brand. I hear how she pitches our story: Successful father and a mother who works part-time so she can still devote plenty of time to Marley; we made the choice to move to a smaller town so that Marley wouldn’t have the pressure to grow up too fast. Ha.

  That’s not the real reason we moved. Even Paul doesn’t know the real reason. Some part of me still can’t believe that he went along with my plan, especially when it involved Marley going to an average high school instead of one of the best in the state. But maybe I’m just that convincing, when I need to be.

  Don’t lie. That’s actually the most important rule, next to letting Paul do the talking.

  I’ve been quiet too long. Spaced out. I can tell by how Amy is looking at me. I have to say something. Something authentic. I have to show the people on Twitter how much I love my daughter.

  “We need more people searching for Marley.” It comes out feverish. I’ve cut Amy off in midquestion, but she recovers well and blinks at me with concerned, heavily lashed eyes. “Download the flyers from our website, FindMarley.com, and put them up everywhere in the country. Because she could be anywhere.”

  I realize, too late, that I have no idea what Amy and Paul were even talking about. I’ve got the distinct feeling Paul already mentioned the flyers.

  “This has been hard on both of us,” Paul says, explaining me away. “It might be hardest on Rachel. She’s the closest person in the world to Marley.”

  Does he really believe that? He must. He wouldn’t break the cardinal rule.

  “Do you have any idea why Marley would run away?” Amy asks. “You’re obviously a very loving family.”

  “I wish we knew for sure,” Paul says with the right touch of ruefulness and heartbreak. “We moved five months ago from the Bay Area to . . .”

  As I listen to Paul spin our story, I try to look simultaneously distraught, calm, and brave; it’s a balancing act I couldn’t manage on my best day, let alone when Marley is now in the other 50 percent.

  Amy’s watching, her eyes shrewd beneath the veneer of sympathy. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”

  “No,” I say, “you can’t imagine.” It comes out cutting.

  “We never could have imagined ourselves,” Paul adds. “The things that go through your mind, your fears about where she could end up if she isn’t found soon—I don’t even want to repeat them.” I’m surprised. I don’t know the things that go through his mind.

  I feel for Paul in a way I haven’t all week—no, it’s been much longer than that. He’s done more than his share, and I need to play my part. I need to salvage this. Whatever the next question is, I have to respond, correctly.

  “What has your relationship with the police been like?” Amy queries.

  I can see Paul is about to speak. I squeeze his hand: Let me have this one. He does. “The police have been incredibly helpful,” I say. “They follow up on every lead we give them.”

  I can tell instantly that it’s the wrong answer. Paul leaps in. “The police are doing a fantastic job. Everything we’re doing is to supplement and support their efforts. I especially want to thank Officer Strickland for his dedication.”

  My face burns. I blew it. I stare at a cable snaking along the floor, wishing that, like Marley, I could disappear.

  A text comes in. It has to be Michael. I’d forgotten I was holding
the phone, yet I can’t keep my eyes from straying to it: “It’s not fair to only call when you need something.”

  I don’t respond, I can’t, so he goes on: “When you need me to be Dr. Michael.”

  He’s right. It’s not fair. I called him yesterday and begged him to tell me if there was anything from Marley’s past, anything she revealed in her treatment, that could explain this. “You said she was going to be fine,” I accused. He stayed calm, relying on his therapeutic skills. He won’t break confidentiality merely for my reassurance. He never has. I know that other child therapists tell the parents a lot more. But I think it was part of why Marley trusted him so deeply, why he was able to fix whatever seemed to be broken inside her. But did he really fix her? Is she broken, still?

  Marley loved Dr. Michael. Now he loves me.

  Nine Months Ago

  Facebook

  U changed your photo! Cute dog.

  Hey, Marley. That’s because it’s the anniversary.

  Anniversary?

  Of my dog dying.

  Sorry! So sad.

  Yeah, well. It has to happen sometime, right?

  What happened to him?

  Her. Her name’s Grace. Gracie, that’s what I used to call her.

  Grace is a pretty name. Like a person, more than a dog.

  U’r right. She was more than a dog to me.

  What happened to her?

  Did u ever hear that song by Slobberbone, “Gimme Back My Dog”?

  No.

  Great song. I’ll play it for u.

  Coo.

  Coo?

  = Cool.

  That’s what all the coo kids say in CA?

  Ha ha. Are you going to tell me about yur dog, or what?

  OK, ADD.

  ADD?

  Attention Deficit Disorder.

  Is that what all the cool kids have in NC?

  Ha ha. You wanna hear about my dog or not?

  Maybe.

  JK. I want to hear.

  So I had this girlfriend, Stephanie. Steph. My friends called her Staph.

  Like staph infection?

  Yeah. U can tell, they loved her.

  Was she a bitch?

  Oh, yeah. But I couldn’t see it. I never used to be able to tell bitches from good girls before.

  Before me?

  Before u.

  Staph killed ur dog?

  U’r one of those people who jump to the end of the book, right?

  I’m ADD, remember? U just diagnosed me.

  I found Gracie before I ever met Staph. So she was my dog first. But Staph fell in love w/ Grace. Way more in love than she was w/ me.

  Ouch.

  Yeah, it sucked.

  And u were in love with her? With Staph?

  Like out-of-my-mind in love. I was young and dumb.

  When was it?

  Two years ago.

  No sarcastic comments from ADD.

  None.

  So I’m in love with Staph, and she’s in love with Grace. It’s a real love triangle. Staph treats Grace great, and she treats me like a dog.

  Did u get jealous of Grace?

  A little. But mostly, I loved them both. I wanted Staph to love me again. To be one big happy family.

  Awwww.

  But it was getting worse. She would call me names. She called me a loser like every night.

  U got a scholarship to a great college. How can u be a loser?

  Ask her that.

  I will. Is she one of your Facebook friends?

  Def. not. So I found out she cheated on me.

  Grace, or Staph?

  Ha ha. You want to hear the end or not?

  Def.

  I confronted her, and she got mad at me. She said it was over. She was moving out.

  U were living together?

  Yeah.

  When you were only 20?

  I moved out of my house at 18, Mar

  I kind of like that. No one calls me Mar.

  I was about to type “ley” but I accidentally hit Send.

  U can call me Mar. I’ve never even had a nickname before.

  I want to call u lots of things. Sweet things. But that’s for RL, not FB.

  Are we ever going to meet, do u think?

  I know we are.

  How do u know?

  I can just feel it.

  Mar? Still there?

  Yeah.

  So Staph moves out, and she takes Gracie with her. I’m calling everyone, trying to find her. But she’s nowhere.

  She moved far?

  Back to Texas. Where her family was. I never saw Staph or Gracie again.

  My friends and I have this saying. Like, no matter how bad a breakup is, we say, “At least she didn’t take the dog.”

  And today is the day Staph moved out?

  The day it was like Gracie died.

  That’s so sad. How could Staph do that to u?

  Some girls have no heart. They think they’re untouchable, like it’ll never come back to them. But I believe in karma. Do u?

  Yeah.

  One of these days, I’m going to write some Twitter poetry about it.

  About losing Gracie?

  About some girls. About karma. Or maybe I won’t bother. I’ll just write all my poems about u.

  I liked the last one. It was so sweet, and funny, too. Did I tell u that? Thank u.

  Thank u for being worth writing about. I like to make u laugh.

  But I have to tell u something.

  What?

  The real story. There was a Staph. But she never took Gracie.

  No?

  No. My dad didn’t tie Gracie up tight enough. She got loose. She ran away and never came back.

  That’s sad, too.

  Why did u lie?

  I thought u’d like the other story better.

  I think my dad did it on purpose.

  What?

  Tied her up too loose. Didn’t tie her up at all. Because I was bad. Because he was teaching me a lesson.

  Is that the real story, or r u messing with me?

  It’s a little bit of everything.

  U’d better tell me the truth.

  I always will, eventually. Can’t we have a little fun first, though?

  Don’t be mad.

  GTG.

  I love u, Mar.

  That is the absolute truth.

  U still there?

  How?

  How what?

  How can u love me? It hasn’t been very long.

  U’r very lovable. U just don’t know it. My job is to show it.

  Accidental poetry.

  Are u for real?

  I am very real.

  Day 8

  I’M CLOISTERED IN THE bedroom, working on the toughest homework assignment of my life. Paul wants me to write a letter he can post on FindMarley.com. I need to write something that will be personal enough to connect, to make her want to rush back into my arms, but not so revealing that I can’t bear the idea of a whole nation potentially reading it. Paul told me not to worry so much because Candace is going to edit it before it’s posted to “ensure maximum impact.” The fact that he imagines this will buoy me seems to support what Michael always said: “That man barely knows you.” I’m not entirely sure whose fault that is.

  The good news is, FindMarley is going viral, as intended, with links being sent all over the country. Paul assures me that this will soon amount to a solid lead, instead of just vague, unverifiable sightings; none of this is in vain.

  That’s easy for him to say. He’s become something of a celebrity, a poster parent. Right now, he’s in the living room with Candace, doing a “blog tour” of widely trafficked sites. He’s been contacted by other parents of missing kids who want to emulate his efforts. He answers everyone; he’d rather tweet than sleep. A week in, and already he’s made himself an expert.

  Most people are well-wishers. But the ones who are negative focus on me, not Paul. I was trending on Twitter after my “bizarre behavi
or” on the morning show, with speculative tweets about what I could be hiding and who had been texting me mid-interview. I tell myself these are the kind of people who like being contrary, who enjoy imagining the worst in people. They can’t really see through me. Sure, I have secrets, but they don’t have anything to do with Marley’s leaving.

  If she knew, though . . .

  She doesn’t.

  Please, don’t let her know. Please, don’t let her find out on Twitter.

  Paul’s asked that people write messages to Marley on their Facebook pages and have links to take them to our page. Marley has her own channel on YouTube, and people are recording video messages where they reminisce and encourage her to come home. It’s really caught fire. The cheerleaders got into their pyramid formation, exhorting Marley to “C-O-M-E H-O-M-E!” Tonight, there will be a candlelight vigil in front of the high school. The local news will be there to film, and Candace is trying to get people from the San Francisco stations to show up, too. I have to make an appearance, but I’m dreading it. Despite Candace’s coaching, I don’t know if I can look appropriate, and the last thing I need is for any new Twitter trends to sprout.

  We got Marley’s devices back from the techies, and there were no clues. She downloaded programs that swept them clean. Her thoroughness actually reminds me of Paul. No question whose gene pool she’s swimming in.

  Paul throws himself into protocol and appears to achieve some peace of mind, but I’m besieged by interrogatives: why Marley left; how I failed her; where she went; what could be happening to her out there, as sheltered as she’s been. She’s unprepared for the real world. She thinks she can start trying at any time and the world will bend to her will. She posted something like that on Facebook a couple months back, something like, “When I turn it on, it’ll all turn around.” I was surprised by her hubris, by her un-Marley-like bravado. Maybe it was false, but I can’t know. It could have been what helped her board that bus.

  There’s so much I can’t know. I should have been reading her Facebook regularly. Then, when she first posted something out of character, I could have asked her about it. That’s one of the places where I failed her. I’m starting to think relationships are like Rube Goldberg machines: Nothing is simple, and we’re always setting off chain reactions.

  It’s why (to return to that word yet again) I’m having so much trouble getting anywhere with this letter. I want to apologize for all the unanticipated consequences of my actions and inaction; I want to promise to do better. But one of the PR rules is that we can’t look like we’re to blame. We have to be the perfect family, except that one member up and ran away.