Don't Try To Find Me: A Novel

by Holly Brown

  We can move to the coast and take long walks on the beach. There won’t be any flyers. We’ll be incognito (I love that word). He can transfer colleges so he’s not surrounded by all those brats. I’ll get my new name. We’ll make friends and be normal. Not boring, just normal.

  I made sure not to get too drunk, because I needed to be sober by the time B. got home. Also, sometimes when I drink too much, I get really emotional. Like that night at Trish’s house.

  When my parents dropped me off there, it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I told Trish I was going to take a walk, and she wrinkled her nose a little. I reminded her, “I’m trying to lose weight,” and then she nodded, like, “Of course YOU need to walk.” She wasn’t about to go with me. Some friend.

  I snuck in her kitchen and took the bottle of vodka out of the freezer. I’d drink all I wanted and replace it with water and if her parents thought Trish did it, well, that wasn’t going to be my problem. I’d be doing them a favor. They needed to take a harder look at their perfect daughter and how she controls her perfect weight.

  It was just after 6:00, in summer, so there was plenty of light left. I sat by the pool for a while, swigging. Trish’s parents could have found me easily. I was thinking that if I did get caught, it would be a sign, and if I didn’t, it would be a sign of something else.

  At dusk, the water shimmered like it was sequined. Then when it was really dark and I was really drunk, I went inside. I’d passed through all these different emotions, and by then, I was sad about everything. I was sad that B. was so far away, and that I didn’t feel connected to anyone closer, and that this was my life, getting drunk alone, and when was it ever going to get any better?

  Trish was pissed because she hadn’t known where I was all that time. (My phone was turned off. It never occurred to her to get off her ass and actually look for me.) She’d been stuck inside all night when we were supposed to go to a party.

  “You went to the party without me,” she said, and I didn’t tell her otherwise. Finally, she noticed I’d been crying, that I was presently crying, and I think that put her over the edge. “I cannot deal with this!” she said, and she never did deal with me again. But I walked away with her cell phone, so really, it’s all good.

  I can’t afford to get that kind of drunk now, not around B.

  When he came home from school, his face was all pinched. “I made meatloaf!” I said. It was a little too happy, the way I trilled it out, and I’d have to bring it down if I didn’t want him to suspect. Meatloaf is his favorite. He can be really basic like that, but that’s part of what makes him lovable. In California, it would have to be vegan loaf with organic lentils.

  He tried to smile. “Sounds good.”

  “I’m sorry about the other night.” Where the hell did that come from? I had nothing to apologize for. He was the one who spent Sunday trying to make it up to me. Damn beer.

  He smiled, more genuinely. “Me too. We shouldn’t let it get so crazy. It’s you and me against the world. We need to remember that.”

  WE shouldn’t let it get so crazy? “Yeah,” I said, “you and me.”

  “I realized something,” he said, and when he stepped toward me, I flinched. Damn beer. “Are you afraid of me?”

  I shook my head. “No.” That wasn’t opposite-speak, because I really want to believe it.

  He looked very solemn. He’s handsome when he’s solemn, so I focused on that. It’s like how you can look at a painting and only notice one detail, like the color green or a woman’s hat. “You don’t need to be afraid. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

  He wouldn’t hurt me, but he’s hurt other people? Focus on the color green. On the woman’s hat. On what he’s saying, instead of what he’s not. “I didn’t think you’d hurt me. It’s just scary to see someone so mad.”

  People don’t act that way in my family, but I can’t tell him that. He might think I’m comparing and saying I’m better. He could get mad all over again.

  “Listen,” he said, all sweetness, and he walked toward me slowly, like he was giving me time to get away if I needed to. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset about all that stuff with your parents. Because I was thinking today about us, and about how when you came here, you chose me over them. So they’re nothing. Nothing that can hurt me. You know what I mean?”

  They’re nothing, and we’re family. Got it.

  “Mar?” he said softly.

  “I know what you mean.”

  I want this to work but I can’t help thinking, If we’re family, can we still break up, if it comes to that? Will he let me go?

  I know how to fear being left. But this is new, being scared that I might not be able to leave.

  Day 20

  I CAN ONLY IMAGINE what the women at the DV agency would say about me today, what Nadine is saying. Good thing I walked out with my head held high, because that’s the last time I’ll be able to do that. Today, I’m in my bedroom, concave with shame.

  The beret guy is outside, standing sentinel like a meerkat. Earlier, there were plenty of others, complete with cameras and boom mikes. It was our biggest turnout to date. Paul didn’t step outside to talk with them; Candace did. I don’t know what she said, but soon, they were packing up and driving out, a media caravan. All except beret guy.

  Paul hasn’t made any statements to me either, though I know he saw yesterday’s Twitter feed. He answered back: “As Marley’s parents, we’re united in finding her, and this kind of gossip doesn’t help the cause.” He didn’t actually say that I was innocent. He didn’t say I’d never do something like that, never steal another woman’s husband. There was nothing about our marriage being strong.

  Most significantly, he hasn’t asked me if it’s true. He stayed downstairs with the volunteers and when they left, he slept on the couch.

  He must be assuming it is true, and therefore, he must be furious. Not only does he look like the cuckolded husband, but he must recognize the name Michael Harrison. He’s exhibiting a superhuman level of restraint by not storming upstairs to have at me. Or maybe he thinks that’s just what I’m looking for—attention. Why else would I have an affair with Marley’s old psychiatrist, of all the men in the world? He’s not going to give me the satisfaction of a confrontation.

  Today, there have been additional tweets, more specific ones, not anonymous. It seems that a lot of Alicia’s confidantes suspected Michael and me. It’s a dog pile, of the Internet variety. Alicia hasn’t posted herself, but she must have given the okay. I’m coming off like some kind of temptress, the younger woman luring Michael away from his long and happy marriage. Michael had been leaving a ton of messages but hasn’t called me at all for the past day, so I know that he’s aware. The proverbial shit has hit the fan, and we’re both taking cover.

  This is only going to get bigger. Michael is a respected child psychiatrist, a pillar of the community, which makes it look even more sensationally sordid. No one has said anything yet about his having worked with Marley, so hopefully, that can stay under wraps.

  If Marley’s out there reading, I need to say something to her. I remember how territorial she was about Dr. Michael, how she looked at me when I came back to the waiting room with him. Like I was the competition. That was three years ago and she’s more mature now. But she obviously still remembers him. She asked for his help not that long ago.

  None of this would be happening if he’d told me at the time. If this destroys him professionally and personally, well, that’s karma for you.

  I try to snatch the thought back, but it feels too late. It’s like I’ve already sealed his fate. We’re bound up in this, so I guess we’ll go down together.

  But Marley doesn’t deserve any of this. She’s still a kid. What do I tell her, if she’s out there reading and listening?

  My phone’s been ringing a lot, people wanting to know if it’s true. They feign concern, but really, they’re jackals feeding on my carcass. All except Dawn. She really does care. I don’t call anyone else
back but I cry to her, and while she’s sympathetic, she’s always told me that I needed to be honest. I needed to tell Paul I was dissatisfied and that I wanted more of a voice. But I didn’t believe he would care, not after that day at the fair, so I never listened to her. After the move, we grew apart. Now she calls every day, around the same time. It’s a ritual for her, like thirty minutes on the StairMaster.

  “Strickland is here,” Paul says in a monotone. He didn’t knock, just pushed the door open. It is his door, so he’s entitled. I’m surprised to hear he left off the “Officer.” Did they have some sort of falling-out? “He wants to talk to you.”

  Of course he does. I thought about calling an attorney to consult but was afraid it would look guilty. I wanted to Google to see how you’re supposed to conduct yourself during a police investigation, but wouldn’t that look guilty, if they wound up searching my computer? No matter what, I look guilty. It’s inevitable.

  “Send him in,” I say, resigned.

  “You’re going to talk to him in here?” Paul glances around the bedroom dubiously.

  “He can sit there.” I point to the overstuffed chair opposite the bed. I’m sending a message by letting him into the inner sanctum of my bedroom: I have nothing to hide.

  “Get out of bed, Rachel. This isn’t the way to handle things.”

  “How am I supposed to act? I’m a suspect.”

  This time, Paul doesn’t deny it. “It’ll be better if you get out of bed. You can talk to him in the kitchen.”

  That went so well last time. “He can see me in my natural habitat.”

  Paul wants to tell me again to get up, to do it his way, but instead he says, “Okay.” He must think I’m a lost cause. He leaves, and a minute later, Strickland is in my bedroom.

  “You’re not feeling well, Mrs. Willits?” he asks.

  “No, I’m not.” I gesture toward the chair.

  He eyeballs it, like there might be explosives under the seat cushion, and then sits down. He pulls out his trusty notepad. “You probably know why I’m here.”

  “Because you’ve found an exciting lead about Marley and you wanted to let me know personally?” Sometimes I make bad jokes when I’m nervous. That one was in especially poor taste. It underscores how little he’s actually done to find Marley, while he’s spent his time investigating me. Where’s that court order? I want to ask.

  “I’ve been following up on every viable lead,” he says.

  “I know you have. Sorry. I’m nervous.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You said I probably know why you’re here. It must be about Michael Harrison, and all the talk on the Internet.” I study his impassive face. “Am I warm?”

  He consults his book. “You haven’t been honest with me, Mrs. Willits. And that impedes my investigation.”

  “I’ve answered all your questions honestly. I haven’t volunteered personal information that isn’t relevant.” If he thought Marley’s past psychiatric history was relevant, for example, I would have given him Dr. Michael in our first meeting. He can’t say I didn’t offer.

  “Did Marley know about you and Dr. Harrison?”

  “Know what about me and Dr. Harrison?”

  “Did she know that you had a personal involvement with her psychiatrist?”

  Wow, that was quicker detective work than I thought Strickland capable of. How soon will he leak it on the Internet? “I don’t want that getting out.”

  “What?”

  “The fact that Dr. Harrison was Marley’s psychiatrist. The fact that she had a psychiatrist at all. Can you keep that between us? It’s Marley’s business, no one else’s.”

  “Everything stays between us, Mrs. Willits.” Am I going crazy, or did he sound a touch flirtatious when he said that?

  “To answer your question, there’s not much to know about Dr. Harrison and me. We used to have coffee together occasionally. But it was strictly professional while he was treating Marley.”

  He nods and does a scrawl in his notebook. “Did Marley know you were friends?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Would it upset her to know that you were friends with her psychiatrist?” He’s stopped writing but is still looking at the notebook.

  “If I knew what my daughter felt, or what she would feel, things would be very different.” Don’t cry. Not in front of Strickland.

  “Did Dr. Harrison recently spend the night here?”

  Nice that Twitter does his investigating for him. “Yes. He was checking on my welfare while Paul was away. That’s all.”

  “And would that bother Marley?”

  I rub my forehead and remember how Marley looked in that waiting room. The answer, undoubtedly, is yes. “I don’t know.”

  “But an involvement with her psychiatrist, had she known, might have upset her. Enough for her to run off?”

  “No.” Marley ran off to be with her boyfriend. She didn’t do it because of me or my relationship with Michael. I need to believe that to get through the day.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because she doesn’t like her father all that much. Because the prospect of our splitting up would not be upsetting to her.” I’ve said too much. I should be pleading the fifth, if that applies here.

  “But what about the idea that her mother is having an affair? Would that matter to her?”

  “Her mother hasn’t had an affair.”

  “The world runs on appearances. Marley wouldn’t know what’s true and what isn’t.”

  It occurs to me that this line of questioning is actually good for me. He thinks that my affair drove Marley away. It gives her a motive. Her mother’s a lying whore. In this scenario, I’m only guilty of being a lying whore.

  Except that technically, I’m not.

  Should I disabuse him of that notion? What’s the right strategy here?

  “No,” I say, looking Strickland right in the eye, “Marley wouldn’t know what’s true and what isn’t.”

  He nods, seeming satisfied. We’re done here? That’s all? That wasn’t so bad. “So you’re saying that there was no affair with Dr. Harrison. Only a friendship.”

  “Correct.”

  “A friendship that your husband didn’t know about.”

  So he did talk to Paul. “Correct.”

  “It’s a friendship that he deliberately kept from his wife as well. She believes that he was secretly meeting with you over more than a six-month period. Starbucks personnel have confirmed that it was at least once a week. Not, as you said, occasional.”

  “How can it be secret if we were out in public? I already told you we were at Starbucks.”

  “Some of the time”—he’s looking down at his pad—“you were at Starbucks. The rest of the time is unaccounted for.”

  Is he combing area motels, showing our picture? Well, that’s fine. It’ll only waste his precious police resources and exonerate me.

  “Dr. Harrison has declined to answer any questions.” He looks up from his notes. “At some point, he might not have that option.”

  “But Alicia talked to you?”

  “She talked to a local officer, who then briefed me.”

  All those years of marriage, and that’s what Michael gets. She makes Paul look like the most loyal of spouses. Of course, I don’t know what Paul actually told Strickland.

  “Dr. Harrison’s wife believes that he is in love with you.” Strickland studies my face closely as he speaks. “She believes that he’s been moving money around into various accounts, something of a shell game, in order to finance a life with you.”

  It’s his money, I want to say. Alicia hasn’t brought a cent into their marriage.

  “You seem angry, Mrs. Willits.”

  I dislike his use of my name. He’s baiting me. That’s probably how they get people to talk too much. “You didn’t ask a question.”

  “True.” He almost smiles, like for the first time, he thinks I might be a worthy adversary. It occurs to me th
at it’s strange that Paul didn’t want to be here. You would have thought he’d want to protect me from Strickland, and from myself. “My question is, were you and Dr. Harrison planning to leave your respective spouses and start a new life?”

  “No,” I say. “We were not planning that.” Whatever Michael was doing, it was on his own.

  “Are you and Dr. Harrison in love?”

  “No.”

  “Are you having, or have you ever had, an affair with Dr. Harrison?”

  Ask the same question five different ways, try to trip up the suspect. Even I can see through that. “No.”

  “Would you say that he’s in love with you?”

  “I’d say that he needs to speak for himself.”

  “Which he’s declined to do.” Strickland gives me his “touché” look. I have the feeling he likes me better than he ever has. “Hypothetically, if Dr. Harrison were to leave his wife, with whom he already has grown children, would he want to raise another child? The child of another man?”

  He means: Would Marley have been a nuisance in this hypothetical new life? He’s shooting in the dark, and we both know it. He’s not looking for my answer. He’s looking at my expression.

  I can’t help it; I almost smile myself. My fear has evaporated, and I realize it’s been overtaken by another feeling. It’s sexual tension. There’s also the recognition that Strickland, at this moment, has nothing but speculation. He’s shown me his cards, and it’s not much of a hand. Michael’s protected me. It’s entirely possible—no, probable—that Michael’s already contacted an attorney. He might have had one all along, advising him on how to do his shell game.

  “Michael treated Marley for a year,” I say. I’m feeling frisky, I guess, volunteering anything at all. Marley’s not a nuisance in Michael’s eyes; if anything, she’s a bonus. “He cares for her.”

  “Or does he only love her mother?”

  “You’d have to ask him that.”

  “Right.” Still smiling. “A love like that, it’s hard to imagine that it came from a friendship.”