by Holly Brown
“So love can’t exist without sex?” I can feel it, I’m saying too much. He does this for a living. Shut your mouth, Rachel. He might not seem that smart, but you’re out of your league.
His smile goes from hot to ice cold, and that’s what happens to my blood. “There’s more here.”
He can see it in my face. There is, most definitely, more.
“You weren’t alone in Starbucks.”
“I told you that Michael and I used to meet—”
“Right. At Starbucks, before you moved here. I’m talking about the Starbucks here in town, the day Marley disappeared. The morning she disappeared. Then you went to work, and Michael went—where did he go?”
I’ve already said too much. I can’t even remember it all. I’m fuzzy. He tricked me with some sexy Jedi mind spell.
“People saw the two of you at a table, talking intensely. It looked, to some witnesses, like he was agitated and you were crying.”
“I was telling him he needs to leave me alone and focus on his own life. I never invited him here. He just showed up in town and texted me.”
“So you were in Starbucks, with Dr. Harrison, not out fixing a flat tire or drinking coffee in your car?” He doesn’t need my answer. “Michael might have left Starbucks alone that day, but you could have given him instructions.” He closes his notebook.
I can’t breathe. He thinks I’m some black widow, seducing men so they’ll rob their own wives, so they’ll harm my own child? That I’m the mastermind behind this plan and Michael’s the dupe who’s carrying it out?
“I would never ever hurt Marley. Neither would Michael.”
Strickland stands up. His work here is done.
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” I say desperately. I’ve shifted back to the distraught mother, but he’s not buying it. My little vixen act with the bedroom eyes (oh, God, I had him come see me in my bedroom) only confirmed whatever theories he might have had.
“Time will tell,” he says. “That’s one thing I’ve learned in this job. Marley has to turn up sometime. People don’t really disappear.”
He’s saying she’ll turn up either alive or dead. One way or another, he’ll get his answers. “Marley’s fine, and she’s coming home.” I sound wobbly, a stool with a missing leg.
“I hope for your sake that’s true.” His tone is mild. He could either be wishing me well, as a frightened mother, or warning me, as the perpetrator he intends to catch.
When he’s gone, I fall back against the pillows. I imagine I’m white as their cases. Paul sticks his head in and says, “You okay?,” almost like he doesn’t want to get involved, and then seeing how I look, he forces himself to come in. He perches on the bed, far away, like I might be contagious.
“I’m not okay.”
“What did Officer Strickland want?”
Oh, so we’re back to “Officer.” I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I don’t want to report any of that conversation.
“You don’t feel like talking?” Paul sounds cold. That’s how he does rage.
“Strickland thinks Dr. Michael and I have been having an affair. Do you believe that? Did you tell him that you believe that?”
He looks down at the bedsheets and then up at me. “I have no knowledge of anything you’ve done. That’s what I told Officer Strickland.”
“He thinks Dr. Michael is in love with me, and he’s right about that. But I’m not in love back.”
“Is that really what you call him? Dr. Michael?”
“No. I call him Michael.”
“Then call him that. He’s not my kid’s psychiatrist anymore. He’s the man who’s fucking my wife.”
I’m not used to that word, out of Paul’s mouth. We don’t do it much, and we say it even less. “So you do think I’m having an affair.”
“What else could it be?”
“It’s a friendship. We had coffee together.”
He narrows his eyes at me in disbelief.
“That’s all we did.”
“Was he in our house while I was away?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he sleep?”
I can’t meet Paul’s eyes. “Here.”
“In our bed.”
“Yes.” I’ve learned, too late, the value of brevity.
He shakes his head, almost like, “I knew it.” As if he always knew it would come to this someday. I don’t deserve that.
“I didn’t sleep with him!” I say forcefully. “Yes, he slept here, but we didn’t have sex. We’ve never had sex.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It should be.”
“What I mean is, it can’t be comforting because I don’t believe you. And what I really don’t understand is how you could let me go forward with the website, with the whole campaign, if you knew you had a skeleton this big in your closet. I told you everything would come out.”
“So this is all about FindMarley? That’s what really bothers you?”
He won’t admit it’s the public humiliation that bothers him, or that it’s the betrayal. No, forever the pragmatist, he has to pretend it’s all about the search. Maybe it really is. Maybe he really is that shallow.
“We’re supposed to be the perfect family,” I say. “That’s the way you get your daughter back. If you’re not perfect, you don’t deserve anyone’s help or sympathy?”
“Do you even get what you’ve done to our family?”
I should be contrite. I have exposed us to public ridicule. To ruin. Perhaps I have jeopardized the operation to find Marley. But what was it yielding, really? She could be anywhere. I can’t take his self-righteousness for another minute.
“You did all this,” I say.
“Am I the reason Officer Strickland couldn’t get a court order for the cell phone records?”
I stare at him, stunned. So that’s it, our strongest lead has been wiped out? Because of me? And that’s how Paul chooses to tell me? “It’s not my fault. He’s always had it out for me. I don’t think he even wants to find Marley.”
“You’re talking crazy.”
“You foisted the search on me! And who knows what you’re hiding.”
“I gave you my password!” His indignation matches mine.
“You gave me the password for your computer. Not your e-mail.”
“You want the password to my e-mail? That’ll satisfy you?”
I shake my head, my lips pressed tightly together. I have no idea what’ll satisfy me.
“So you’re the one who’s angry at me. You have Michael Harrison, of all people, in our bed, and you’re angry.” I don’t answer. “So you’re done talking, right? I won’t hear from you again for days.”
“There’s never been any point in talking to you.”
“I don’t even understand what you’re mad about. I can’t believe that after all you’ve done you’re questioning me. That you’re the one searching my computer.”
“And you’ve never done anything wrong. You’ve been the perfect father.”
“I’m not saying I’m perfect, but haven’t I done everything in my power to find her? I just somehow neglected to ask you beforehand”—he looks away, and I finally see the hurt—“if you were having an affair.”
“I didn’t have an affair.”
If he shakes his head one more time, I might push him out that window. Or jump out myself. Maybe both. That’ll be the moment Marley decides to walk back into our lives. She’ll cross the field and see us both lying in a heap and she’ll run toward us, shouting, “Mommy! Daddy! No!”
“Where are you?” he asks sharply. “Half the time, you’re off somewhere in your head. Be here, in this moment. Sit with what you’ve done.”
I can’t sit any longer with what any of us have done—not Paul, or Marley, or myself. I head for the bathroom, making a beeline for the medicine cabinet.
Six Weeks Ago
What will it b like?
It’ll be great. We’ll be happy.
&n
bsp; End of story?
U reading my poems again, Mar?
Sometimes.
What will I do? I won’t be in school.
U want to be in school? We’ll get u in school.
I don’t know what I want.
We’ll go on Disappeared.com first thing and figure it out.
I’m getting nervous. What if I don’t like Durham?
U will. I’ll show u my favorite café.
I’ll get u the best fried chx ever.
U’ll meet my friends. They r excited to meet u.
Will they like me?
They’ll love u.
Will I like them?
Probably. If u don’t, I don’t have to see them.
But they’re ur friends.
I’m only going to need u.
Are u going to back out on me, Mar?
Marley?
No.
I wish u typed it faster.
Don’t u think about what if? What if something goes wrong?
No. Because it’s right.
U were not meant to stay with those people.
They hurt u.
They lie.
U are meant to be w/ me.
U’ll be happier than u ever were.
Day_21
Imaginary Facebook
Marley Willits
Is drunk and disorderly
4 hours ago
1,000,000 others like this.
Marley Willits
Has never felt so alone
1 second ago
B. likes this.
I DRANK A LOT of beer today, but I started early so it would wear off by the time B. came home. I listened to the “Teen Angst” playlist. It must have been the alcohol, but it’s like I became her for a while. What I know of her, anyway: a girl with no father and a shitty mom, dreaming of California. Then when she gets there, all she does is marry Dad and live in suburbia. It’s like she was pissed already at sixteen, knowing how it was going to turn out. She already sensed the ending.
I don’t want to make her mistakes. I don’t want to wind up married to someone I don’t really love. I need a bigger life than that, and I didn’t want to wait for it. You know that whole debate about whether life begins at conception? For my parents, life begins in college. I wanted something extraordinary, now.
I listen to “To Be in Your Eyes,” and I remember how I used to feel when I heard the lyrics: “And the people with their voices / Random choices will they ever learn / To really see / Really be on fire when their spirits burn / I want the person inside me / To be someone I’d recognize / If he was in your eyes.” I was burning to be with B. I wanted the chance to see myself in his eyes, through his eyes, and now . . . I’m a housewife. A drunk housewife. Soon, it’ll be the weekend and my husband will be home, and I don’t know what will happen between us. It’s not a good feeling. I’m not having many good feelings at all.
I told him so tonight. I was scared to do it, but I thought, If I don’t, then I’m no better than my mother. I don’t want to be timid and weak and agreeable.
He came home and asked what was for dinner. I said, “Leftovers.” He hasn’t been eating leftovers. I have, every day, for lunch. I wake up and I make him a sandwich and that’s his lunch. It started when he was running late one day and he called to me from the shower, “Mar, could you get my sandwich ready?” I did, and then the next day, it seemed expected. So I made him another fucking sandwich, and that’s how it starts.
That must have been the way it was with my parents. One day, my mom says, “Yes, dear, you’re right,” almost like a joke, like she’s playing some housewife from the 1950s; then the next day, my dad expects that, and it’s too hard to fight it. Besides, it’s not such a big deal, telling them they’re right or making a sandwich. And he’s so happy; he feels loved.
I used to picture B. at lunch eating the sandwich I made, all the loving thoughts he’d have about me. But I bet B. doesn’t think about me anymore when he unwraps his sandwich. It’s only a sandwich, something I’m expected to do. It’s the same with dinner. He’s not ungrateful, he says thanks, but he doesn’t think it’s special anymore. He doesn’t think I’m special because I cooked for him. It’s like it’s my job. I didn’t think I’d be taken for granted so fast. Couldn’t I have stayed special for a whole month, at least?
When he asked about dinner and I told him it was leftovers, he stared at me, and I made myself stare back. I wanted to drop my eyes, but that’s weak. What’s the worst that could happen? I repeated to myself. So he’ll get mad. So what? B.’s not one of those monsters like from my mom’s work. He gets mad sometimes, and he apologizes. It’s only a big deal if it stops me from speaking up or doing what I want.
“We need to talk,” I said. “Do you want to eat first, or can you talk now?” I was channeling someone else. I think it was my dad. I was being someone who knows how to get her way.
B.’s eyebrows scrunched a little and he said, “Let’s talk now.” He took a seat on the futon, all alert. His body was this taut wire. I realized: He’s kind of scared. He thinks I might be leaving him.
Then I realized: I have power.
I felt good, really good, for the first time in days. I sat next to him and I told him everything. Well, not about the beer, or the trips outside, or the fact that I knew about my parents’ websites before he said anything. But I did tell him that everything’s turned out differently than I thought, and that I’m cooped up every day and I’m not happy. I might even be depressed. I have no one to talk to, and he’s not even leaving me Trish’s cell phone anymore so I can text him. It’s not only that, though. He can’t be the only person in my life. “I need to hear other voices, you know?”
“Like your parents’ voices?” He was trying hard to listen without getting mad. I could see him working at it as he cracked his knuckles, slow motion, one at a time.
I reached out and held on to one of his hands. It felt like the right gesture, so patient and kind. I was proud of it. I can do this, be a supportive girlfriend. This whole thing doesn’t have to be a mistake. “No, not my parents. I don’t want to go home.”
I could feel him relax, like he’d done a big exhale right down to his hands. “You want to stay with me?” He looked so hopeful.
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Well, how do we make you happier?”
I smiled back. “I’m glad you said that. It helps already.”
He squeezed my hand, a little roughly. That’s how he is sometimes, rough around the edges. It’s just because of his childhood. “You don’t want to make dinner anymore?”
“I can make you food. It’s not that. I just want to be appreciated, or something.” It seemed so lame, spoken out loud.
“I can appreciate you more. I do appreciate you. I love you.”
I smiled bigger. He doesn’t usually just come out with it like that. “I’ve got an idea. I know you said we can’t start doing the Disappeared.com steps in Durham, with all the flyers everywhere, and that makes sense. But maybe we could move somewhere together. You know, start over.”
His brow got so furrowed that it was like his face was collapsing in on itself, like a building being demolished.
“You don’t even like it here,” I said. “You don’t like your school.”
“It’s home.”
“Well, I left my home. And my parents.” I shouldn’t have said that last thing, about my parents. I know he’s touchy about his. If we keep living here, I wonder if I have to meet them someday. “You’re a good son. But they can’t expect you to stay in Durham forever just because they’re here.”
He seemed to be thinking hard, which was a good sign.
“We could be really happy somewhere else. My ID will say I’m eighteen, and everyone who meets us will think we’re just a regular couple. We can have friends. We can have a life.”
He was silent. My heart was going race car fast.
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
Day 2
1
I DON’T KNOW HOW to withstand this level of stress. Yesterday, I took some extra pills—not to overdose, but because I need more to get any relief. Most people would agree my situation is pretty extreme: Your daughter is missing, and you might have driven her away, and you’ve got no way to really explain yourself to her or anyone else, and you’ve become the prime suspect in her disappearance, along with your alleged lover. If you had a whole lot of Klonopin and Ativan in your medicine cabinet like I do, you’d take extra, too.
Paul hates me. The volunteers hate me for what I supposedly did to him. My house is filled with people who think that I’m guilty. They all believe I’m a liar and a cheater who’s married to a saint.
The last time I went downstairs, Paul and Candace were sitting close together in the living room and they clammed up instantly. They must have been talking about me. It was damage control, or he was crying on her shoulder. He could be having an affair with Candace, for all I know. She might not be the first woman either.
I hadn’t eaten all day and was on my way to the kitchen but I couldn’t continue. I turned around and went back upstairs. I was shaking so badly that I needed another Ativan. As needed, that’s what it says right on the bottle.
I’m not built for this. I’m not strong like Paul. I look at myself in the medicine cabinet above the sink and it seems like a funhouse mirror. I open the cabinet and take out both bottles of pills and try to decide how many to swallow. Enough to end all this? It’s tempting. It’s never been so tempting.
But if Marley’s still out there, alive, if there’s any chance she might still be found, any chance she might come home, then I can’t do it. She’ll need a mother. Pathetic as I am, she’ll still need me. I can only hope she’s stopped reading the coverage, if she ever was.
I’m sure Paul is getting lots of sympathy. Smelling like a rose through all this. But he’s not innocent. For one thing, he must have seen the pill bottles. They’ve been in the medicine cabinet for months. He never once asked. If he looked at the label, Michael’s name is right on it. I’ve always paid cash for jumbo bottles, never gone through my insurance. Paul should have known. Was I hiding the pills in plain sight or begging to get caught? I don’t know anymore. I can’t remember. I’m just so tired.