Don't Try To Find Me: A Novel

by Holly Brown

  “I’m filling in for Krista,” she says. “She called out sick.” Krista runs the groups on weekends. Nadine shuts the door behind her. “Tell me. How are you really?” I’ve always thought her brown eyes are kind. They’re actually quite ferretlike. Her hair is short and flat and thin, like Harry Potter’s.

  I haven’t been at this job long, and my office shows it. There’s a bookshelf with some leftovers from the previous tenant: tomes on trauma and recovery, on the impact of abuse, on assessment and treatment and safety planning. Mostly, I lead groups where the women try to puncture one another’s denial (“Don’t trust what he says, don’t go back, he’ll never change”), and then I do one-on-ones about finding jobs and housing. I make a lot of referrals to other agencies so the women can get job training or go back to school. I tell them that their children will be proud of them someday for taking such hard steps. Sometimes I get blank stares. They don’t immediately trust me, and why should they? The world has not been kind. It hasn’t established a precedent for trust.

  They trust Nadine, though. She has credibility, because she was an abused woman herself who got her life together while her children were still in diapers. She went to night school and got her degree in social work. She’s an inspiration.

  “Really,” I tell Nadine, “I just need to get back to work. I couldn’t even wait until Monday.” I’m seated, and I shuffle papers on my desk meaninglessly.

  She doesn’t fall for it, and she’s not going anywhere. My office has a tiny window and a shaft of light crosses her face, illuminating the white scar along her hairline. Fifteen stitches from a beer bottle. It used to be that when I talked to her and the light hit her in just that way, I was aware that I hadn’t known true pain. I might have credibility now.

  She takes the seat across from me. The furniture all seems heavy and cast off, like it’s from some archaic schoolhouse. “I care about you,” she says. “But I also care about the clients here, and I need to make sure you’re in any condition to do this type of work right now.”

  “I’m in some kind of condition,” I say. I think I might be cracking a joke.

  She raises an eyebrow fractionally.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look like you’ve been crying.”

  I cry every morning. I cry in the afternoons, too, and the evenings. I don’t discriminate. “It’s how I start the day. But I’ve got it out of my system.”

  “You miss her.”

  “Obviously.” It comes out slightly barbed.

  “Are you upset with me, or are you just feeling raw?”

  Nadine and her trademark directness. It makes me squirm. If I had that quality myself, I’d confront her. I’d ask if she actually thinks I could hurt my daughter, and if she knows I never would, why she didn’t tell the police I was here on time, why she didn’t protect me like she protects all the women here. “I’m feeling raw.”

  She leans in a little. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

  I get a chill. Did Officer Strickland tell her to say that? There’s no confidentiality between Nadine and me. I’m not her patient. She could report whatever I say right back to him, and he could make it incriminating. For all I know, she and Officer Strickland are best buddies.

  “I just need to get back to work,” I say.

  “You want to act like things are normal, because they’re not.”

  There’s a lump in my throat. This was a bad idea, coming here. But I didn’t want to sit in my house anymore, surrounded by volunteers who may very well suspect me, who might be tweeting about any behavior that’s unbecoming to the mother of a runaway. I didn’t want to sit around waiting for Strickland to come back and ask me more questions. Trish’s old cell phone may be a dead end. Whoever Marley was calling, even if she’s with him right now, may be untraceable. She may never turn the phone on again. We need Strickland to come through with that court order, and in the meantime, there’s nothing else for me to do.

  “I need to tell you something,” Nadine says. “The women know.”

  “Paul has certainly been getting the word out. No thanks to the police.” I scan her face, looking to see her reaction to the word “police.” She gives me nothing.

  “The women know about Marley, but they also know that there’s been talk about you. About you maybe having something to do with the disappearance.”

  “Marley didn’t disappear. She ran away.”

  “I know that, but you know how gossip spreads. Someone reads something, and then it’s whisper down the lane. You remember that game, right?” I nod. “So I wanted to warn you, since you’re already raw. You might get some funny looks, or some rude comments or questions.”

  The lump in my throat grows. Looks I can probably handle without falling apart; rude comments and questions, I’m not so sure. “Have you spoken with them?”

  “Hmm?” She looks at me quizzically.

  “You know when you call the women together into a circle and make announcements? Did you tell them that Marley didn’t ‘disappear,’ she ran away? Did you tell them that they have no right to spread lies about me?”

  She’s surprised. I’ve generally been reserved and polite, thanking her at every turn for the most routine training. “I didn’t think you’d want me to talk about your personal business.”

  “But you said they’re already talking about it.”

  Her eyes are intent on mine. “I care about you, but those women are my first priority. Dressing them down like they’re children, telling them what they have no right to say—that’s the kind of control we’re trying to help them escape. They often feel small and demeaned. If they’re talking about your misfortunes in a way that seems cruel, you have to recognize where that might be coming from. They’re just trying to pull themselves up.”

  “By walking all over me?”

  “It’s a normal part of the process. They’re finding their voices.”

  “Maybe this is too soon,” I say, standing up. “I don’t think I’m ready. Is it okay if I extend my leave?”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve said anything to upset you.”

  Ah, the old I’m-sorry-you-feel-that-way apology. The you’re-too-sensitive apology. The nonapology.

  “I just need to go home,” I say. “I’m no good for the women like this.”

  She stands, too. I think her eyes are sympathetic; she’s on my side, more or less. “Take care of yourself, Rachel.”

  “Thanks.”

  She isn’t finished. “And in the future, when you need a little ‘me’ time, say so. No more flat tires.”

  I didn’t see it coming, that kick to the stomach.

  She’s gone, but she left the door open, so I can’t let myself cry. I don’t want to give any of the women the satisfaction, including Nadine.

  Oh, Marley, I need you to come back.

  If any of the sightings are to be believed, she’s still alive. The tips keep coming. Funny how that sounds like “the hits keep coming,” like those old Top 40 countdowns I listened to as a kid. I remember when the host—who was that? Casey Kasem? am I that old?—used to do the “long-distance dedication” segment. He would read a letter from someone to their sweetheart, who was presumably listening from afar. People requested Journey’s “Faithfully” a lot, with its lyrics about how being apart ain’t easy on this love affair and about getting the joy of rediscovery. I wish I could send out a long-distance dedication to Marley. I hope someday I’ll get the joy of rediscovering her. Or maybe I’ll be meeting her for the first time.

  A thought occurs to me. I want to dismiss it out of hand, because it seems so preposterous, so downright evil, but maybe . . . Is Marley writing some of the anonymous posts that fuel speculation about me? Is she out there punishing me for something?

  Let her. She can torture me. If the alternative is for her to be dead, or contract HIV, or be beaten up, or raped, or . . . I’m not going to think anymore about alternatives. She’s out there, having the time of her life with her boyfrien
d, reading our websites, tweeting her hatred of me, and I’m going to be grateful for it. If Marley is posting anonymously, that’s good news. Keep those hits coming.

  I look around the office. If this was a movie, I’d have a cardboard box with things like tiny cactus plants and staplers. But I never brought any of my own things in at all. I guess I always knew this was temporary. I never connected that well to any of the women. I’m not entirely sure why.

  The reality is, I don’t know what it’s like to be hit in the face by your spouse. I can’t relate to that. Is that so wrong of me? If I’d ever heard my collarbone crack like a walnut, they’d want to talk to me.

  Or it’s not them at all. It’s my own detachment. I preferred to hand them brochures about community college rather than ask, “What is it like when your collarbone cracks like a walnut?” On some level, I don’t understand how a woman can be hit by a man that first time and stay. After she’s been beaten and threatened over and over, once he’s threatening the kids—well, that’s different. But that first time, before there are any kids, why stay?

  When I was studying social work, a lot of my classmates wanted to do counseling. I was more interested in helping people navigate complex systems and bureaucracies, in being an advocate. I didn’t want to get deep into other people’s emotional muck. To be fair, I’ve never wanted to go deep into my own, either.

  I exit my office, sans cardboard box, head held high. Some of the women are near the front door, where the bulletin board is. “Good morning,” I say.

  “Good morning,” they mumble. They don’t seem to want to look at me directly. They have their own children. Maybe they’re afraid that what I’ve got is catching.

  “I’m sorry about your daughter,” Nell says, her eyes dancing around like fireflies, not alighting on me for any length of time.

  “I’m sure she’ll be home soon. It’s getting close to Thanksgiving.” I try to smile, but I’m trying harder not to cry. I’m almost to the door, almost free, and I notice out of the corner of my eye that there’s a woman standing apart, one who has never liked me. She’s got no trouble making eye contact.

  “Good morning, Yolanda,” I say to her, and I can’t hear her response, I won’t, because I’m rushing forward into the cold air, hustling to my car, wishing I had the protection of a cardboard box. I feel naked without it.

  I get in my car and pull Marley’s iPhone out of my purse. The police haven’t taken it—it’s not evidence—and we’ve got a service contract that goes until the end of time. I don’t have Internet capabilities on my own cell phone. We bought one for Marley and upgraded Paul’s, but I said no, no, I don’t need one. I don’t need to be online every second of my life. It can wait until I get home.

  Today, it can’t wait. I want to see what’s happening on FindMarley, and on Facebook, and on Twitter. I want to know if there are any leads. I want to know what people are saying about me, right now. If anyone’s insulting me, I’m going to see if it’s in Marley’s syntax. I hope that it is.

  There’s a tweet that is most definitely not Marley. It’s a friend of Alicia’s. She doesn’t say that exactly. It’s shrouded. What she does say is that I’m stealing a good woman’s husband, that he was at my house overnight while my own husband was off doing press to find Marley. “What kind of woman,” the post continued, but then she ran out of characters.

  This is about to go viral. I’m about to be sick.

  Three Months Ago

  Mar?

  Mar, where r u?

  Why didn’t u answer me?

  I feel like u r backing out, like u r backing away.

  I know u r not in class right now.

  I know u do not play sports.

  U r not in an activity.

  U don’t have friends.

  So where r u?

  Why aren’t u answering?

  Did I do something?

  Say something?

  Write something?

  Please, don’t do this to me.

  Don’t freeze me out.

  Don’t u do this to me.

  It’s been an hour.

  Do u think this is funny?

  Do u think u’r better than me?

  U don’t need to answer?

  Do u think I’m stupid?

  R u with someone else?

  If u r, I will find out.

  R u backing out of our plan?

  Have u changed ur mind?

  Don’t do it. Let’s talk.

  I love u.

  I have never loved anyone but u, not really.

  I only thought I did.

  If u r like them, why didn’t u tell me sooner?

  U, tu, Mar?

  U r supposed to be different.

  It’s OK. Everything OK. My phone died.

  U there?

  R U OK?

  U R SCARING ME.

  I’m here.

  I’m OK.

  Why were u so freaked out?

  It’s happened before. People change their mind. They stop loving u.

  That won’t happen. I’m here now. It’s OK.

  I got scared. Sorry.

  I love u, Mar. More than anything.

  I love u, too.

  We still have a plan, right? Tell me u’r with me.

  I’m with u.

  Day_19

  B. APOLOGIZED, LIKE I thought he would. He came home late Saturday night and crawled in bed next to me and there was alcohol on his breath—something heavy and smoky and sweet all at once—and he was in my ear for a long time. He talked about his childhood and the man he wants to be. He’s never loved anyone like he loves me, and he thinks he can be better with me, for me. He thinks we can “do this thing together.” No one will love me like he does. We were dealt crappy hands, crappy families, but we’re each other’s family now. He knows he let me down, but he won’t do it ever again.

  He said everything he was supposed to, like we were in a movie, and something inside of me loosened, but under the pillow, my fists stayed clenched.

  That smell, the alcohol, it did something to me. I was practically salivating. I could almost feel the oblivion taking hold, and I wanted that, so bad. I couldn’t write on Sunday because B. was glued to me, and I couldn’t relax. I still can’t. That’s why I need a drink.

  I’m not an alcoholic by any stretch. I have limits. There are loads of things I haven’t even tried, lines I decided never to cross. I won’t inhale glue or spray paint or nail polish. I’ve never stolen my mom’s benzos (though they’re right in her medicine cabinet).

  By the way, how hypocritical is it that she’s on medication but has never been in therapy? She’s a therapist, sort of. In the mental health field, I guess she’d say. She tells me she doesn’t like talking to people about their problems; she likes to hand them potential solutions. She probably didn’t realize how funny that sounded. She meant she gives them “resources,” but it made her sound like a drug dealer. I don’t think she’s any good at talking about her own problems, either, not unless it’s to MY therapist.

  I also don’t snort Ritalin like Trish did sometimes. I don’t take cold pills (or B.’s Robitussin) for the high. I never stole my parents’ alcohol. When I wanted something, I stood outside the supermarket and found someone to buy it for me. I wouldn’t drink that much either—just enough, never more. It wasn’t often after we moved. Only the weekends, mostly, when the loneliness or the boredom got to me. When I couldn’t silence my mind. When texting wasn’t enough and all I wanted was to see B., face-to-face.

  That seems like so long ago.

  I really wanted to drink the Robitussin today. I was having all kinds of what Dr. Michael would have called “irrational fears”: that the redneck had figured out where I live and was coming to kidnap me; that the police are going to break down the door and drag me back to my parents; that B. really is some psycho and my life is on such a terrible tangent that I’ll become one of those sad people from the bus, like Hellma.

  I was afraid I’
d go right past stir-crazy to actual crazy. So I went out to the supermarket next to the CVS and found someone to buy me beer. (I was hoping for vodka but supermarkets in North Carolina don’t sell the hard stuff.) I guess I wasn’t as scared of the redneck as I was of myself.

  Along the way, I passed six posters with my face on them, but I was wearing one of B.’s hoodies and my flip-flops rather than Uggs. I was careful. I kept craning my neck, looking for the redneck and his truck, but I didn’t see either.

  I walked home superfast, clutching my beer in a brown paper bag. My attempt to be inconspicuous was, I suddenly realized, very conspicuous. If I got picked up by a cop and sent home because of some beer, my parents would put me in a rehab program. They wouldn’t care that I’ve been gone almost twenty days and I didn’t have a drink that entire time.

  My dad wouldn’t, at least. I don’t know about Mom, but Dad would win. If he said rehab, that’s where I’d be, and he would say it, no question. He loves rules and protocols, and that’s what rehab is, isn’t it? Follow these twelve steps, and all will be right with the world. I’m surprised he didn’t become an addict himself, just for all that order.

  I thought about calling Dr. Michael today. I’d had four beers (warm—I need to get used to that because I have to hide them in the back of a cabinet that B. never opens). I could practically hear Dr. Michael telling me how worried he’s been, that my call is the answer to a prayer.

  Even my fantasies are dull now. Too much TV, I guess. It’s what I stare at when I’m not staring at nothing.

  I probably would have called Dr. Michael if I could have found Trish’s cell phone. But it wasn’t anywhere. B. must have taken it with him, or he got rid of it.

  I drank another beer, and what I figured out was this: B. and I need a complete reboot. We need to put all this distrust behind us and have a clean slate. Start over somewhere new, together. It should be a place neither of us has ever been before.

  Because the thing is, he’s spent his whole life in this town, close to his family who shits on him. Of course nothing good can happen for him here in Durham. It all gets corrupted. B. needs a change of scenery. We both do.