Don't Try To Find Me: A Novel

by Holly Brown

  Or maybe he got it once Marley disappeared. He wanted to pray. Or he wanted to confess right in our home, cut out the middleman. Or he’s imitating a hotel. His side of the room is just that impersonal.

  Just like Marley. Her clean room. Her scrubbed computer. Her cryptic, underused Facebook page. Her impassive, inscrutable face over the past months. Yes, she’s his daughter. Or is that what his actions turned her into?

  The fact that I haven’t found anything—the fact that Paul seems to be an automaton, with no personal possessions—is not comforting. That, in itself, seems suspicious. Paul is smart, maybe even brilliant enough to hide his secrets behind the FindMarley operation, to have driven his daughter away while being venerated for his herculean efforts to bring her back. He’s definitely too smart to leave evidence lying around.

  Unless there’s no evidence to be found, and I’m suspecting an innocent man.

  There’s a knock at the door—no, a succession of knocks, as if someone feels entitled to entry, won’t take no for an answer, and I panic. Paul’s here, I think. He tricked me. He never went on a media tour at all; he just wanted to see what I’d do alone in the house.

  I need to calm down. Paul wouldn’t knock. He’d use his key. If he says he’s in Chicago, that’s where he is. I’m not in one of those schlocky women-in-jeopardy movies. I’m not midnineties Ashley Judd.

  The knocking continues. My car is parked in the driveway, so someone can tell I’m home. Most likely, it’s Strickland, with more questions.

  Do I have the right to not answer my door? Do I have the right to remain silent if I haven’t been arrested?

  I look at myself in the full-length mirror affixed to the back of the bedroom door. I’m in sweats; my hair is coiled in a bun at the nape of my neck, no makeup on. I’m haggard. I’ve become a hag. If Strickland sees the difference in me from the woman he met ten days ago, he’ll realize I must be innocent. The guilty wouldn’t age this much in this little time.

  He’s still knocking, with no increase in volume or pace. He’s dogged. He’ll wait me out.

  I walk downstairs slowly and look out the fish-eye. Michael is on the doorstep. I feel like crying, I’m so relieved. As always, though, he comes with his own set of problems.

  “You can’t be here,” I say as I open the door. My eyes flick down the two-lane dirt road. Sure, our nearest neighbor would require binoculars to see him here on the doorstep. But Strickland could come by at any time with more questions.

  No, Michael shouldn’t be here, for his own good as well as mine. He could easily become a suspect. He was in town that day. But part of me wants him to hold me and tell me it’ll be all right. For a few minutes, I can believe it.

  “Let me come inside and talk to you.” His brown eyes are baleful. His silver hair is bushy, just shy of a pompadour. He’s going to be sixty-one in a few months. I’ve never known if I want him for a lover or a father, which is, most would agree, disconcerting.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I need to stand firm. I’ve been telling him not to call or text, so he shows up on my doorstep instead?

  “You told me that I had something to do with Marley’s disappearance. It kept me up all night, Rachel.” He does look tired. “I needed to see you in person and look you in the eyes. I need to know that you believe I would never do anything like what you described. I’d never hurt you or Marley. You know how I feel about her.”

  I do know. Marley was one of his favorite kids ever, and that’s including his own.

  “Why won’t you look at me?”

  I look at him. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with her running away.”

  He doesn’t move. His sadness—and his desire—is palpable.

  I find myself saying, “Okay, you can come in. Just for a minute, to use the bathroom.” He has an aging prostate. What choice do I have?

  I step aside and avert my eyes as he walks in. Even after all this time, it feels strange to see him in a sweater and jeans. It seems like he should be in a button-down and tie, like when he used to treat Marley. Back then, he made me feel like it really would be all right.

  Just like that, I’m crying.

  He makes a move to hug me, and I step back. “The bathroom’s that way,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the innards of the house.

  “I don’t need to use the bathroom.”

  “Then what do you need?” Our eyes meet, and I shake my head again. You can’t have that.

  He beelines for the window seat. The sun settles into the lines on his face. “No funny business,” he says, smiling. “See, I’m on display.”

  I continue to lurk awkwardly, and then finally, under the force of his intention and my own loneliness, I move to the window seat, the other end. We’re out in the open. If Strickland comes by, I’ll be able to say that I had nothing to hide. I was visiting with an old friend.

  “I’ve either got Ebola or bad breath,” he jokes.

  I gaze out over the fields. Oh, Marley, please walk across. “If you told me she’s never coming back, I’d kill myself.” I meet his eyes. “I would. I’ve got nothing else.”

  He winces. “That’s not true.”

  “It is.”

  “Then make it untrue.” He’s suddenly kinetic, and it’s like he’s shed twenty years. “I’ll leave Alicia. I have as much money as Paul does, and a lot more time. I’ll retire and we could go anywhere. I love you. I love Marley. I’d be a better stepfather to her than he is a father.”

  “It’s not a competition between you and Paul.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re determined to stay unhappy.”

  “You mean determined not to sleep with you.” He winces again. “I haven’t been unhappy.”

  “You were just talking about suicide!”

  “If she doesn’t come back.” I jut my chin out stubbornly. Sometimes I turn into an oppositional child around him. See, father, not lover.

  “If you would die without her, it means you weren’t making enough of your life before she left.”

  He’s got me there. He’s not as rational as Paul, but his mind makes rapid connections. He’s a doctor. Assimilating information and drawing conclusions—it’s the key to diagnosis. It’s what he’s done for thirty years.

  “You’re thinking about my age again,” he says.

  “How do you do that?” I ask with an amazement that’s not entirely pleased.

  “I’ve known you for years. I can read you.”

  “For most of that time, you knew me as Marley’s mom.”

  “No, I knew you as Rachel, who happened to be Marley’s mom.”

  His gaze on my face generates its own warmth. He does this to me, makes me feel like a real live person. An interesting person. Someone worth pursuing, worth driving a couple hundred miles to reach. It makes me want to touch him, but not that way. At least, I don’t think it’s that way. He says I’m too scared to find out.

  “You should go,” I say.

  “You focus on my age to avoid what you really feel for me.”

  “You should go.”

  “When’s Paul coming back?”

  I look out the window, like Marley might appear and save me. “Where does Alicia think you are?”

  “She knows I’m here. She knows about Marley. The whole community does.” He smiles a little devilishly. Sometimes I think he enjoys doing this to Alicia, hiding things in plain sight. Maybe it makes him feel clever. “I have a casserole in my car that she baked for you.”

  “Great. Now I have to feel guilty when I didn’t even invite you.”

  “You practically invited me.”

  I feel myself flush. “I did not.”

  “You volunteered the information that Paul was away.”

  “That was a mistake.”

  “In the Freudian sense. You knew I’d ‘surprise’ you.” He doesn’t do air quotes around the word “surprise” but he might as well have. “Don’t be embarrassed. I understand why you couldn’t just invite me.�
��

  He’s accusing me of manipulation but making it sound like a charming quirk of mine. Did my subconscious orchestrate this? Having him show up here when I’m already weak, when I really could use someone to touch me? Paul and I haven’t had sex since Marley disappeared.

  I wonder if this is how I run my life. I influence rather than control. I set traps for people.

  He’s inching forward, daring me to stop him.

  “It’s really phenomenal, what Paul’s doing for Marley. Don’t you think?” It works. Michael halts in his tracks.

  “Yes, it is. Paul’s a phenomenal man.” Again, that trace of sarcasm, almost like an aftertaste. Michael only met Paul once, in a family session years ago. Maybe they were sizing each other up even then. Michael’s older (and looks it) but is also more classically handsome. They’re both confident, both alphas. I guess you could say I have a type.

  “Did you ever have another patient go missing?” I ask. If Michael was warning me through veiled case studies before, maybe I can get him to do it again.

  He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he says, “You know, the police haven’t come out to see me yet to ask about Marley.” He holds my gaze.

  “Are you saying you’d have something to tell them? Have you been holding out on me? Is it about Paul?”

  Who’s manipulating now?

  The crying starts up again. Big, ugly, little-kid sobs. He knows something. Marley has more secrets, lurking, waiting to be revealed. Maybe they involve Paul; maybe they’re worse than that. Maybe it’s me.

  I can’t take it anymore. I just want her to be my sweet baby girl again.

  His arms are around me, holding me together, and I wish it didn’t, but it feels so good to let go.

  Six Months Ago

  Twitter

  BBGun22

  #Somegirls can’t be trusted.

  BBGun22

  #Somegirls can be cruel.

  BBGun22

  Do I sound like I’ve been burned? OK, you got me.

  BBGun22

  But those girls—they don’t know my girl.

  BBGun22

  She’s loyal above all else.

  BBGun22

  She never strays, has nothing to confess.

  BBGun22

  Singular, unique, hand on Bible.

  BBGun22

  Clean, pure, never liable.

  BBGun22

  She comes to me and says, “I’m yours, 100%.”

  BBGun22

  And I’m hers.

  BBGun22

  No questions asked.

  BBGun22

  Case closed.

  BBGun22

  End of story.

  Day_12

  Imaginary Facebook

  Marley Willits

  Thought love would be different

  1 second ago

  SOME PART OF ME still can’t believe it really happened. I’m not a virgin anymore. I look at B. and think, He’s the one who did it, the one I’ll never be able to forget. The first time is, unfortunately, memorable. You don’t hang on to the twelfth time or the twenty-fifth. At least, I wouldn’t think you do. Check back after I’ve gotten there.

  I’m up to two. We did it again the next morning in the motel after a really bad night’s sleep. Even when I squeezed my eyes shut, I kept reliving the first time. And I wasn’t even able to write about everything, because on Sunday, B. was around me, like, every minute. I just had to act normal. No, happier than normal, because that was how he seemed. It was opposite-speak on overdrive. The saddest part was that he couldn’t even tell.

  I expected that the first time someone was inside me, I’d feel like he loved me, and it hadn’t been like that. Maybe I was expecting too much?

  When I was in California, I felt like B. absolutely loved me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have done all this.

  The second time was a tiny bit better, though. He didn’t seem so urgent. That must have been it—it wasn’t violent, just urgent. He wanted me pretty bad. He’d been holding out for a while.

  I wish I could talk to someone, ask if all this is normal. Is urgent just how guys are? Do a lot of people have second thoughts? I know Trish didn’t. Her boyfriend at the time was totally in love with her. He was sixteen, and he got this expensive hotel room for them in San Francisco. She said she was staying at my house. But I bet that’s not typical. I know of other girls who did it and the guys went around bragging and laughing, even posting things online. B. would never do that.

  Afterward, he seemed to feel closer to me. It was almost like he was drunk. He was twirling my hair around his finger and talking in this giddy way. He called me beautiful, and his drawl was more like slurring. I tried to follow his lead because I didn’t want him to feel bad.

  But I don’t feel closer to him. I feel farther away, in part because he seems so oblivious. I’m either a really good actress, or he isn’t paying attention. It’s almost like he notices when I cry, but the whole rest of the emotional spectrum can pass him right by.

  Was he always like this, and I’m the one who never noticed? I used to feel like he got me totally, like no one had ever gotten me more. No one except Dr. Michael, and I was only a kid then. It’s not that hard to understand a ten-year-old.

  With B., I pictured moving here and us finishing each other’s sentences. It was probably pretty unrealistic. Maybe I’m not ready to be in an adult relationship, but I am trying. While he was at school today, I spent an hour and a half making lasagna. The cookbook was there, and all the ingredients. He’s right about my needing to occupy myself. But lasagna is a huge pain in the ass, all that layering, all the symmetry. It’s possible that I’m not cut out for the responsibility of taking care of someone.

  But then B. came home and saw what I’d done and he was so happy. He relished every bite and gave me lots of compliments. We snuggled on the couch and he kissed the top of my head while we watched a movie. I didn’t feel completely comfortable because I was a little afraid he’d want to have sex again and I didn’t feel up to it yet. It stayed cuddling, though, and once I got past the fear, it was really nice.

  This might sound weird, but I had this sense memory of being a little girl again, and the way my mom held me. I loved to be under lots of blankets and quilts with her, and I’d rest my head just above her heart. She has a very loud heart.

  She said I probably liked that because it reminded me of the womb, when I could hear her heartbeat all the time. “You’re used to my rhythms,” she said. “It’s the music you swam to.” She claims I was an excellent swimmer, that she could see me clearly on one of the ultrasounds, doing the backstroke. I couldn’t tell if she was kidding, and I didn’t care. I pressed my ear to her heart and listened.

  Day 12

  I WAKE TO FIND Michael huddled on Paul’s side of the bed, talking to Alicia. I bet he’s telling her some version of the truth: I was drunk and distraught and he didn’t want to leave me. He didn’t know what I’d do. I was talking about suicide, after all.

  I wasn’t drunk; I was wrecked. I didn’t fall asleep so much as pass out. It’s entirely possible that I wanted to give my conscience a night off. See, I don’t manipulate other people, only myself.

  But Michael’s a stand-up guy. He doesn’t want me under those circumstances. He wants us to be staring into each other’s eyes while the stars align and angels take flight and true love is affirmed forever, amen. We would have had to make love, and since I was in no shape for that, I’ve got on a pair of pajamas that I don’t remember changing into, fully buttoned.

  Would I really have gone through with it, if he’d been a willing partner? I don’t know. I won’t find out. He’s headed home today. Even Alicia isn’t naïve enough for him to be able to stay another night.

  They recently celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary. It seems like you should be entitled to some naïveté at that point. You should be able to trust implicitly.

  I feel sad for Alicia, but not nearly as sad as I feel for myself. My da
ughter is missing, while one of Alicia’s kids is in graduate school and the other is in his residency at Johns Hopkins. It’s all turned out just fine for Alicia, come to think of it. Meanwhile, I’m so sure that Marley isn’t coming home that I can get rip-roaring drunk and have another man sleep in my marital bed.

  (That’s not exactly true. Part of me thought this was the thing that might summon her home, that the only way Marley would come back would be if I was in a horribly compromised position from which our relationship might never recover. God would give while simultaneously taking away. I’d be more than willing to pay that price for her to cross the field in her Ugg boots. For her to be here, safe.)

  Michael’s still murmuring to Alicia. How do they find so much to say after forty years of marriage? Paul and I have exhausted our conversational reserves and we’re not even halfway there.

  I stand up and stretch noiselessly. Michael’s eyes are on me, on my braless chest. I’m mad at the universe, at him and his happy, healthy, grown kids, and so I’m teasing him. I can’t believe I’m able to tantalize, looking and feeling as crappy as I do, but that comes with a twenty-year age difference. Also, I’m mad at him for worming his way into the house, and for getting me to blubber on his shoulder, and for making such a show of being a good guy while I finished off a bottle of wine with a vodka chaser. I’m mad at him for not loving me enough to break confidentiality, for refusing to give me what I need most. If I don’t get some answers soon, I’m going to lose my mind.

  I remember pieces of last night’s conversation, shards, really. I confided my fear that Paul is somehow involved in Marley’s leaving. “I know he would never hurt her intentionally,” I said, looking up at Michael, wishing that he’d drunk more alcohol to loosen his tongue. He offered me this: “Our intentions and our actions are two different things. People don’t always have complete control of themselves.” Paul does, though. Doesn’t he?