Don't Try To Find Me: A Novel

by Holly Brown

  Even though it’s only Paul and me, the house feels too full. Claustrophobic. I poke my head out the back door to make sure there are no reporters out there. All clear. I step out and look at the fields in twilight. I breathe deeply, and the cold air is like nettles in my lungs, but it’s better than being inside.

  When I feel this lost, Michael is the one I want to call. But I can’t. I won’t. He’d construe it as forgiveness, and right now, his actions seem unforgivable.

  Until now, I’ve never doubted how much he cared for Marley. The first time they met, they formed this immediate bond. He made a few jokes and spoke to her in a soft, tender voice, and she was his. She was hooked. And I was so relieved. After that trip to the ER where we learned that the trouble breathing and chest pains were actually a severe panic attack, even Paul admitted that Marley needed a psychiatrist.

  I was present for that first session (Paul begged off at the last minute, claiming there was an emergency meeting at work), but thereafter, it was just Marley and Dr. Michael. He would come out and get Marley from the waiting room and we’d say hello and then he’d lead her back; she always leapt to her feet, eager to follow him. Once a month, I’d meet with Dr. Michael for the last fifteen minutes of the session while Marley stayed in the waiting room. She was always anxious when I was the one following him back, and snippy after I returned. She didn’t seem to like the two of us spending time alone.

  Dr. Michael wanted to know if there was a family history of panic attacks. I said no. But, I told him, I’m a pretty anxious person myself.

  That’s what we started talking about, in our monthly fifteen minutes: my problems. He was a calm and reassuring presence. I never felt anything untoward coming from him, never sensed an attraction. He was interested in me and my psyche, that was obvious, but that was his profession. I assumed he was helping me as a way to help Marley.

  He told me she was a “bright, perceptive girl” and that she felt things deeply. Treatment was going well, he reported; Marley was learning to manage her emotions. She was getting stronger. He always spoke of their work in generalities, but it was apparent to both Paul and me that Marley was making progress. There were no more panic attacks, and she seemed happier. She told me once that she felt “more in control.”

  But he never told me the root of Marley’s anxiety, if anything had happened to bring on the panic attack. I suppose it’s strange that I never asked. I was just following his lead, assuming he would tell me anything I needed to know. I trusted him implicitly, just as Marley seemed to. The rule was that he would tell me if Marley was in danger, if she ever talked about hurting herself or anyone else, but otherwise, their talks stayed between them.

  They worked together about a year, and then Dr. Michael declared Marley well enough—“strong enough”—to go it alone. He said that she could come back for booster sessions, if she needed them; his door was always open. But while Marley seemed to miss Dr. Michael, she never expressed a desire to meet with him again. She seemed fine. Normal.

  Until she did express a desire to see him again, and he turned her away.

  How could I have been so hands-off about the treatment? I never really even understood her problem; maybe I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to believe that Dr. Michael had solved it. I had my bachelor’s in social work, while he’d studied child psychiatry at Stanford. He told me how it was going to work, and I went along. At the time, it seemed like confidentiality. Now it seems like secrecy.

  But even Paul didn’t question it. He checked Dr. Michael’s credentials at the beginning, found them to be impeccable, and let go. But that might be because Paul was deeply uncomfortable with the idea of something being mentally wrong with Marley. Sure, he was busy at work during that time, had recently been promoted, but that alone doesn’t explain his detachment.

  We had one family session, and it was a disaster. Dr. Michael said that he wanted “to get a sense of the family dynamics,” and he asked us to talk to Marley the way we would at home. “Talk about her grades,” he said. “Talk about anything. I just want to get a flavor.”

  Paul didn’t want Dr. Michael to get a flavor, that was clear. His initial resistance obviously upset Marley, but she didn’t speak up. Dr. Michael encouraged her to express herself to Paul. So Paul relented and did the exercise, stiffly, reluctantly. It was odd for me, too, to be playing my part in front of a professional. But I have to confess that I wound up feeling relieved. I could see by the way Marley and Dr. Michael were acting that I was off the hook. Paul was being deemed the problem. Marley wanted a dad like Dr. Michael; it was written all over her face. I caught at least one “See what I mean?” look being exchanged between the two of them. Ultimately, I felt sorry for Paul. After all, he was just being himself.

  Paul never said a word about the session. No wonder he doesn’t remember Dr. Michael’s name. He’s probably tried to block it out.

  But maybe the problem with Paul wasn’t who he was but what he did.

  Marley finished therapy, and Dr. Michael vanished from our lives for the next couple of years. Then one morning, not long after Marley’s thirteenth birthday, I stopped at Starbucks on my way to work, and he was sitting at a table, reading the newspaper. There was something exceedingly awkward about him. He kept crossing his legs at the ankles, turning a page, and repeating the sequence. He didn’t actually seem to be reading. It’s like he was miming it.

  I was debating whether to approach him—he looked awkward already, and seeing familiar people in new settings often engenders even more awkwardness—when he looked up and our eyes locked. It wasn’t a romantic moment by any stretch of the imagination. It was more like, “Oh, now we’ve got to do this thing; we’ve got to have a conversation.”

  He smiled. The onus was on me to walk over, since I was already standing. Before I reached him, the barista called my name and I held up a wait-a-minute finger to Michael, raced back, and took my cup. He told me later how adorable I was in that second, that it melted the glacier that must have formed around his heart when he wasn’t looking.

  He talks that way sometimes.

  “Hi, Dr. Michael,” I said. I felt almost shy. He’d been something of an authority figure: I’d consulted him and entrusted him with the mental health of my child. Now we were out of context.

  “Call me Michael,” he said. He smiled and closed his newspaper. “Do you come here often?” I was about to answer when he laughed. “Sorry, that sounded like a pickup line.”

  Later, he swore that it hadn’t been.

  “I stop here on the way to work sometimes,” I said.

  “Who do you help these days?”

  It was nicely worded to make me feel like I was out making a difference. He was always good at that. “I do discharge planning for a hospital. It’s not very exciting.”

  “I bet you hear a lot of stories, bedside.”

  “Well, yeah. Sometimes the people are interesting. The work itself—not so much.”

  “Do you want to sit down?”

  “I should probably go.” It wasn’t true. I had a lot of extra time that day, because I’d dropped Marley off at school early to meet with her teacher. Paul said that even if she didn’t learn anything, she’d score points, and sometimes, that makes all the difference in a grade. He was always trying to teach her to work hard but also to work people, when necessary.

  Dr. Michael—Michael, I reminded myself—must have seen something in my face, some hesitation. “Are you sure you have to go?” he asked. I did want to talk longer. I liked him. He’d always been great with Marley, with both of us.

  I pulled out the chair opposite him. “Are you sure you have the time?” I said teasingly. “You looked pretty engrossed in your paper.” I guess I was flirting, but it felt so innocuous, so safe.

  He laughed. “You got me. I’m incredibly busy. If I don’t finish this New York Times by dinner, I’m in big trouble.”

  “Are you playing hooky?”

  “I’m not working Wednesdays anym
ore. I’m partially retired.” He grimaced. “I don’t really like saying it. It makes me sound ancient. I swear, I have all my own teeth. No hip replacements on the horizon.”

  I smiled. “I thought you’d want to see kids forever. You’re so good at it.”

  “I probably will want to do it forever, just fewer and fewer hours a week.” He looked slightly sorrowful. “Alicia—my wife—wants more time together. But enough about me. How’s Marley?”

  I smiled. When she had become an adolescent with no recurrence of her earlier symptoms, I thought I’d dodged a bullet. The hormones hadn’t turned her into a monster or a stranger. “She’s a good kid.”

  “I miss her.”

  “Do you miss all the kids you’ve worked with?”

  “Not in the same way.” His smile turned wistful. “She’s the kid I wish I had.”

  I was surprised, but flattered, too. Someone who’d seen a ton of kids throughout his years in practice thought Marley was special. “Do you have children yourself?”

  “Two. Both grown. I know it’s not a common opinion, but I love the teenage years. To raise another . . .” He trailed off. “Not in the cards, I don’t think.” Perhaps feeling too vulnerable, he changed the subject. “You work part-time, right?”

  “I do.”

  “Tell me: What’s the drill? How do you fill your time?”

  We talked easily about my life and his. I found him charming but almost paternal. “Almost” now seems like the key word. But like I said, it certainly wasn’t some immediate romantic connection. He was a man on the cusp of retirement; I was turning forty.

  I ran across him again a week later, same time, same location. It didn’t occur to me that he was there waiting for me. Marley continued to struggle in math, continued to need Wednesday-morning suck-ups with her teacher, and Michael and I started meeting weekly. Initially, it was all talk. Then we were texting throughout the day. He was funny and sweet, and I still didn’t think of him romantically. But I did think of him, a lot.

  I still do.

  I see a cop car driving slowly past the house, and the chill that slices through me has nothing to do with the cold air. Strickland’s cruising our house. Looking for what? Did he see Michael’s car here the other day?

  I go back inside the house, blood loud in my ears. As I pace the living room, trying to discharge some of this terrible energy coursing through me, my eyes fall on Paul’s black computer bag. He took his carry-on upstairs but not the laptop.

  The house is quiet. He must be taking a nap. I may not get another opportunity any time soon.

  I unzip the bag, remove the laptop, and start it up. It thrums against my thighs. I’ve seen Paul entering his password before and know it’s a combination of letters and numbers, but that’s all I know. When the password screen appears, I try a commingling of his name and birth date, then Marley’s. Too many attempts, and I could be locked out. Maybe he’ll be notified on his smartphone, I don’t know. So I need to make this next guess count.

  I’m deep in concentration when Paul says, from behind me, “A-twenty-six . . .” I don’t catch the rest.

  I turn, mortified, but somehow electrified, too. It feels like a pivotal moment in our marriage—the illusion of trust has been fully dissolved. It occurs to me that I haven’t really trusted him for years now, not since the day at the fair.

  Neither of us speaks for a long moment. Then Paul goes to his bag, takes out a pen and Post-its. He writes on the top one and hands it to me: A26G37B. “Do what you want,” he says, not looking at me. “I’m going out for the next couple of hours.”

  I notice that he’s wearing jogging pants—black, with a metallic stripe down the side—and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. I haven’t seen him run in ages. Is he putting on a show in case the reporters are still outside?

  “No one’s out there,” he says in a sudden burst of telepathy. Before I can think how to answer, he’s grabbed his keys from the hall table and is gone.

  He doesn’t deserve this. He’s been killing himself for Marley. And obviously, he’s innocent or he wouldn’t just hand over his password like that.

  No, he’s daring me. It’s a game of chicken. He thinks I won’t really have the guts to search his computer. And if I don’t do it now, he can come home and go through every file and delete anything even slightly incriminating. This is my one chance.

  So I take it. I search all his Word files, flipping past all the work detritus. There must be a zillion megabytes (gigabytes? Whatever) of efforts to find Marley. He’s archived notes on every conversation he’s had with Strickland, Candace, police in other cities, the private investigator from LinkedIn, everyone who ever called in a tip. His browsing history is completely Marley-centric.

  My name appears occasionally on to-do lists: “Remind Rachel of the rules.” “Ask Rachel to write letter.” “Remind Rachel about letter.” “Update Rachel on the search.” It’s clear how peripheral I am to the operation. It’s also clear how ceaselessly he’s worked, and here I am, searching his computer, doubting him.

  I feel abashed, but somehow, what I don’t feel is reassured. Yes, everything looks kosher—no, better than that. Based on his hard drive, he deserves a medal. But that might be why he gave me his password.

  I go to the screen for his e-mail. His log-in is already there; all I need is to type in the password. I consult the Post-it and enter it. It doesn’t work. I type slower this time. Still nothing.

  His e-mail has a different password. Of course. That’s where anything incriminating would reside. And he has his iPhone with him. He could be somewhere right now, deleting e-mails or moving them into a different account. If I ask him later for the e-mail password, he’ll have no problem giving it to me. After all, he’s got nothing hidden in there—anymore.

  I don’t like that I’m thinking this way, but it’s hard not to. What Michael said about intentions versus actions keeps ringing in my ears. It feels like a riddle from the Sphinx. Because if Michael knew Paul was innocent, wouldn’t he just tell me that outright? He wouldn’t torture me like this.

  Intentions versus actions. It’s not what Paul intended; it’s what he did.

  Maybe it’s not something Paul did to Marley. She might have stumbled on a secret, and the pressure of keeping it was enough to bring on panic attacks. No eleven-year-old should have to live with that kind of responsibility and with the fear of her family splintering apart.

  Maybe it’s something Paul did to me.

  Day_15

  Imaginary Facebook

  Marley Willits

  Needs an imaginary friend

  1 second ago

  0 friends to like this.

  I NEVER TOLD B. about the redneck with the gun rack. I mean, it’s not like he could have done anything anyway. And I’m not even that scared right now. I just need to stay inside, like B.’s been telling me since the beginning, and it’ll all be okay.

  I took a really long bath today. It was nice to have new acoustics. I sang. I told myself stories.

  They’re similar to the ones I used to make up with Dr. Michael when we’d play our games. He’d give me the first line, something like “There’s a little girl who’s stronger than she thinks.” Then I’d have to come up with the next, and we’d alternate until the end. The little girl (me, obviously) would go off and have adventures. She’d have to fight enemies or she’d find out her friends were really her enemies; she’d become an orphan or she’d be adopted by a new family. It was a duet. I miss his voice.

  Sometimes I can hear it, like he’s right in the room with me. Does that seem psycho? He had a great voice. He believed in me, and not just in my potential, like my parents. He believed in my actual.

  No, he didn’t. It was all bullshit. I have to get that through my head.

  I found something out, something that is truly crazy: I have my own YouTube channel. People who barely talked to me are lamenting my disappearance and begging me to come back. Trish is saying she wishes we never stopped b
eing friends; she misses me ALL THE TIME. There was a moment of silence for me at a football game.

  It was funny, having my life flash before my eyes. All these people sharing their memories of me like I’m dead—you know, only saying the good stuff, leaving out the rest. Wyatt talked about how I “really came through for him,” which I guess was referencing the cheating. How could I ever have been into that guy?

  I don’t want B. to know about the YouTube channel or about the search; it would only stress him out. But I saw that Wyatt had posted other videos, ones of him playing his guitar and performing, like, John Mayer songs. It got me thinking about B. and Wyatt, and gave me an idea.

  I probably shouldn’t have done it. I’m not supposed to be second-guessing, and things have been going okay. Not perfect, but okay. I shouldn’t have tried to rock the boat, or wake a sleeping dragon, or any of those expressions my dad uses. I just wanted to know if B. really knew Wyatt or if we started out on a lie.

  Anyway, back to the YouTube channel, which is just the beginning. My dad has launched this major search operation out of our house. When I Googled myself, the first things that came up weren’t about me at all; they were about him. He’s apparently the world’s greatest dad.

  He’s managed to get all these people to donate their time to try to find me. It’s so like him. Why pay for things when you can get them for free? He’s got ways of conniving people into doing his bidding. He even has a term for how he handles his bosses. He calls it “managing up.”

  It makes me want to stay lost longer, so he can’t take any credit for finding me.

  Wait a minute. If Dad was in Boston and New York, on my coast, then maybe that redneck guy really had seen me somewhere before. When he said I was from California, he wasn’t guessing. He’s out of luck, though: There’s no reward. My dad will build websites but he’s not about to part with a chunk of cash.