Don't Try To Find Me: A Novel

by Holly Brown

  Paul rolls down the window a crack. Cold air whistles in. “I just need to know what you’re going to say. That way, I can back you up. I can give you support.”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “You need to decide.”

  I’m sick of being given orders. I should go ahead and do it. I should make the announcement. Now, that would be the definition of a clean break. Tell the world, tell Marley, and there’s no going back.

  “I’m going to talk right to Marley,” I say. “She’s the only one who really needs to understand.”

  I can practically see his frustration growing, inflating like a thought balloon. Well, I’m frustrated, too. It’s been days and he’s shown no interest in talking to me about what’s true; he only wants to know what truth I intend to tell. I don’t know this man, I don’t trust him, and he feels the same about me. Yet we’re in this nightmare together. Maybe that’s what got us here.

  Our entire marriage is a PR stunt, staged for Marley’s benefit. Today, I can set all of us free.

  I think of what Candace said, about how much Paul loves me, but I look at the set of his jaw, and I can’t see it, not at all.

  “This is no time for the element of surprise,” he says. “I need to know the truth.”

  “Do you want to know the truth or just what I intend to say?” I’m reminded of that annoying Jack Nicholson movie moment: “You can’t handle the truth!”

  “Are you thinking of lying?”

  He believes that I had the affair, and he wants me to admit it. We’ve devolved to the point where I can’t even correct him. I can’t explain my dilemma: When the lie is more convincing than the truth—when that narrative would better satisfy the public appetite for sin and forgiveness and could potentially regain enough sympathy to bring your daughter home—do you lie?

  I think about Michael and what the lie could mean to him. He’s maintained his innocence to his family and his community. This could destroy his relationships and his practice.

  Shouldn’t he have thought of that before? My lie is the truth that he wanted to live. He wanted us to have an affair. He begged me to sleep with him. “Please,” he said, “just try. See what it’s like to be with me.” As if it was a product I was ordering from an infomercial, with a money-back guarantee. He was that sure we had chemistry. He says we’re meant for each other.

  He turned my daughter away in her hour of need. I don’t owe him anything.

  “Yes,” I say, “I’m thinking of lying.”

  “Candace said—”

  “I know. But no one will believe the truth. No one wants to hear it. They want things bite-sized and salacious. They want the affair. Even you do.”

  He’s not about to touch that one. “Maybe you don’t want Marley to hear that you did this. But if she’s following the coverage, she’s already heard. It’s better for it to come from you, in your own words. It can come from both of us. We’ll say that we’ve both made mistakes and we’re working on things.”

  “We’re not working on things.” And what are his mistakes? I’d love to hear them.

  “I’m working to bring Marley home. It’s a full-time job. After that, we’ll work on things.”

  I haven’t really felt like working on things, not for years. The truthful answer to Marley’s question—“Do you think about life without Dad?”—was yes. She knew that, or she never would have asked. I wish I could know for sure what answer she was looking for. I’d let her make the call, right now.

  I was too afraid to leave Paul, so after the move, I sublimated my desire into music. I listened to my “Teen Angst” playlist and tried to reconnect with the self that wanted things, that felt things, but only for a half hour or an hour at a time. It was a type of controlled therapy, and an experiment: Could I be that person, could I want things, and still be married to Paul? I didn’t want to break up Marley’s family. I’d feel alive in small doses until she went away to college.

  But maybe she needs for her family to break up. Maybe I do.

  “Talk directly to Marley,” Paul says. “Think how to explain it to her. In the simplest terms. She knows we’re not perfect. That’s what it is to get older, right? To figure out that your parents are screwups.” He forces a smile. He doesn’t think he’s a screwup; he’s trying to make me feel better. He should get points for effort.

  “I already told you the truth, Paul. I didn’t have sex with Michael.”

  “Is that what you’re going to say?”

  “I’m going to say that it was an inappropriate friendship. I told him too much, and we got too close, but it wasn’t sexual.”

  His eyes are fixed on the road. “Then what was so inappropriate about it?” I can feel that he genuinely wants to hear the answer.

  “I was closer to him than I was to you. He made me long for things.”

  “You longed for him?”

  “No. I didn’t long for him.” Now I’m staring at the road. “But I longed.”

  “What does that even mean?” Again, the frustration. He’ll never understand me, and we both know it. But if that’s what this is about, incomprehension rather than his narcissism, then how can I announce our divorce on TV? I can’t humiliate him like that. He doesn’t deserve it.

  I know Michael would say otherwise, but he doesn’t always get a say.

  We ride the rest of the way in silence. I know it’s killing Paul that he can’t spin this. He’s worried about what I’ll say and how it’ll affect the FindMarley operation. But that might not be all he’s worried about. He could care about me and our marriage. Even seemingly single-minded Paul could have more than one motivation.

  We pull into an underground garage and park. Paul is on his iPhone for a while, tweeting, most likely. As he begins to step out of the car, he moves to put the phone in his pocket and misses. He must be seriously preoccupied, because he doesn’t even notice as it falls to the floor in front of the driver’s seat. I snatch it and put it in my own pocket.

  It’s like a sign from God. Paul, separated from his iPhone, and now, of all times.

  “Give me a minute,” I say. “I want to compose myself.”

  “You want to stay in the car?”

  “Yes. Why don’t you go ahead?”

  He sighs and finally says, “Candace is already here. She just texted. I guess I can do a quick meeting with her. You’ll catch up with us?”

  I nod. “See you soon.”

  He slams his door and walks away, into the nearest stairwell. I don’t know how long I have before he realizes that his third hand has gone missing. I look at the phone. His e-mail is open.

  I scan the subject headings. I’m not even looking for evidence of wrongdoing anymore; I want his e-mail to be a Magic Eight Ball. I need some indication of what I should do in this press conference.

  His inbox is full of FindMarley correspondence. Even an e-mail to a good friend reads like a press release. The man doesn’t know how to share an emotion.

  But then, I already knew that.

  The Drafts folder has thirty-three messages. That seems juicy. Who has he been writing to, without ever hitting Send?

  The answer, in all cases, is me. The drafts go back months, since before the move. The first one says,

  Dear Rachel,

  I’m not the writer that you are, or that Marley is. But I can’t seem to get certain words out of my mouth. So I might as well try this.

  I’m worried the move might be a mistake for Marley. Letting up on what you call “pressure” might backfire.

  We can still back out of the move. I checked with Henry. I can keep my current job, and Marley can go to high school with Trish and Sasha. If we change our minds about the farm, all we lose is the earnest money.

  But how can I tell you this when the move seems to mean so much to you? It seems like you’re the one who really needs the fresh start.

  The e-mail ends there. I’m flabbergasted. So I didn’t manipulate him into the move after all. He saw through me, right to m
y raw need. He really saw me. And he did what he thought I needed, even though it went against his grain. I don’t know who this man is.

  There isn’t time to read every draft, but I scan a bunch. It’s enough to get the gist:

  . . . I don’t feel like things are going well for Marley at school, but I’m afraid to tell you that. I don’t want you to blame yourself for the move . . .

  . . . You looked so out of it at dinner last night. Are you okay? Is there anything I can do? . . .

  . . . You say you like your job but it doesn’t sound like they like you. You don’t have to stay there. A few years ago, you talked about taking classes, and you never brought it up again. But maybe now is a good time? . . .

  . . . I’m in this hotel room and I’m thinking about you, thinking about how sad you looked when I left. Defeated. I wish I could tell you I love you. Well, I guess I am, right now. Not that I’ll ever send this.

  I’m not good at helping you. But I think of you so much of the time, of how much you love Marley. If I can just do this, and bring her home, will you . . .

  Taken together, they form a document of Paul’s uncertainty. They make it look—is this possible?—like he’s been scared to talk to me for months. But they stopped on the night he was in the hotel in Chicago. It seems like he’s done trying to reach out to me, even in draft form.

  I can’t process this. There’s no time. I’m late for the press conference.

  WE STAND IN FRONT of the reporters and the cameras, and Paul’s right, it’s chilly but not raining, and the building is very official-looking and gray—gray is the new black—and he kicks it off. He thanks everyone for all they’ve done. That includes the various police departments, our own Officer Strickland, all the people who’ve put up flyers and forwarded links and sent in tips. I can feel the restlessness in the crowd.

  “As you know,” he says, “there’s been some speculation of late about my wife. There’s been gossip and innuendo. So we’re here to set the record straight. We’re here to tell the truth. When it comes to Marley and her disappearance, we have absolutely nothing to hide. I repeat, nothing to hide.” The cameras are trained on us, and I can imagine how well Paul will play on TV. I wish I felt the same confidence about my performance. “All evidence points to the fact that Marley ran away. My wife and I are united in our desire to bring her home, and we hope that you’ll all continue to aid in that effort. Everything else is just a distraction. We hope that by addressing the rumors, we can move forward with the search efforts.” He nudges me slightly. “Rachel, maybe you could say a few words.”

  I smile nervously. I wish I had three-by-five cards, some sort of prop, but there’s nothing. We have no lectern. I don’t know what to do with my hands. “Marley,” I say, right into one of the TV cameras, “I hope you’re out there watching. If you are, then you’re alive, and that’s what I want most.” Tears spring to my eyes. Those are good for TV, as long as I don’t completely lose it. “I also want you to come home. We miss you. We love you very much.”

  I push my shoulders back. I have my own rules to follow: Project strength. Fake it till you make it. Take full responsibility. No blaming Paul. In Marley’s treatment, just because Paul looked bad didn’t mean I looked good. I need to be someone Marley can respect, the kind of woman who owns her choices.

  “I’ve made mistakes,” I say. “They are mine alone. Some of those have been made public. I got too close to someone.” I won’t say his name, though I’m sure the reporters will. I don’t want to give away Marley’s connection to him, which, thankfully, hasn’t come out yet. “It wasn’t an affair, we weren’t together like that, but we were more than friends. It was a gray area. There were feelings involved, but nothing physical . . .” I take a deep breath. I should have brought three-by-five cards. “I know people will want to believe that more happened, and if it had, I would admit it. It would be easier that way, because it would make more sense to everyone. But that’s not the truth. And I wasn’t in love with him. I’m not in love with him.” I stop myself again. Shoulders back. No excuses. “But we were very good friends, and I was disloyal to your father. I got closer to this other person than I was to your dad, I told him things I shouldn’t have . . .” What was my point? It’s unnerving, all those people, all the cameras. All the scrutiny.

  I’m drawing a blank.

  “I’ve made mistakes, too,” Paul says, rushing into the void. “I didn’t listen like I should have. I worked long hours. I should have realized that your mother wasn’t as happy as she deserves to be.” He may have practiced that line. “I know now that our marriage needs work, and we’re prepared to do what it takes. Just come home, honey. Please come home, Marley. So we can be a family again.”

  At least I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t sob. I was honest, wherever that may lead. People must be able to see that I really love my daughter. Most important, she’ll be able to see that.

  But I’m not sure I’m finished. Contradicting Paul, saying no, we’re not going to work on things, that, in fact, our family is going to change forever—it would definitely show I have a backbone, that I’m my own woman. Maybe that’s what Marley needs to hear to come home. If she’d heard it sooner, she might not have left.

  I look at Paul, and while I’m sure he’s well rehearsed, I believe that he does want to save this family, the one we created together. I know what Michael said, about Paul being a narcissist, but those draft e-mails tell a different story.

  Or did he drop his phone on purpose, with his e-mail visible, knowing that I’d be lured to the Drafts folder?

  “We’ll take questions now,” I say.

  Candace steps forward and begins calling on the reporters. It’s almost exciting, like a presidential press conference in the Rose Garden.

  The first reporter is asking Paul if he knew about my relationship with Dr. Harrison before it was revealed online. No softballs here. Well, if Marley’s been following us, she already knew it was Dr. Michael.

  “No,” Paul says ruefully, “but I should have.”

  “And did Marley know?”

  Paul takes that one, too. “We don’t believe so, but she probably does now.” Same rueful smile, the one that lets all the viewers at home put themselves in his shoes. “Look, we never said we were a perfect family. Rachel and I have both made mistakes, with each other and with Marley. But we love our family and we’re prepared to fix all the mistakes we’ve ever made. Please give us a chance, sweetie.”

  First “honey,” and now “sweetie.” Marley has never liked when he calls her those endearments. To our ears, he sounds disingenuous. But to everyone else, I have a feeling he sounds like the world’s greatest dad.

  We get a couple of easy questions about the website and how the search is going. Then a reporter says, “While the case is still technically classified as a runaway, there’s been some investigation as if it’s a missing persons. And Rachel seems to have become a person of interest, given that her relationship with Dr. Harrison could provide a motive. Also, some unaccounted-for time on the morning of Marley’s disappearance might provide opportunity. Care to comment?”

  I’m about to say, “No comment,” but Paul is quicker. “Rachel had nothing to do with Marley’s disappearance. Nothing.”

  “I’m hearing some defensiveness there,” the reporter rejoins.

  “Have someone accuse your wife of something this heinous and see how you sound.”

  For a second, I’m touched. Paul has come to my rescue. But it’s not impossible that was planned, too. Righteous indignation can be seen all the way in the cheap seats.

  “Also,” Paul says, “I think you have your facts wrong. I work closely with Officer Strickland and he has never stated that my wife is a person of interest. Standard procedures are being followed, and Rachel and I have been nothing but cooperative and supportive of the police’s efforts.”

  Candace indicates a tiny blond woman with a pageboy, fighting her way through the throng. “Mrs. Willits,” the wom
an says, “you said there was no affair. ‘Nothing physical,’ those were your words.”

  “Right.” I smile, like she’s my friend, like I’m not quaking at the thought of where this might go.

  “Were you aware that Dr. Harrison was making arrangements to leave his wife? That he’d told at least one close friend it was to be with you, because he was in love with you?”

  “You’d have to ask him that.” My smile grows brittle. Stay strong. Be someone Marley can respect. But can she respect a husband stealer? Especially when that husband is Dr. Michael?

  “I’m asking if you were aware.”

  Paul looks at me and nods, as if to say, “Go ahead, honey. We’ve already gone over all this at home. It won’t hurt me.” But we haven’t gone over it.

  “I was aware,” I say slowly, each syllable crushed glass in my mouth, “that he had feelings for me. I was not aware that he was making any arrangements to leave his wife.”

  “So you weren’t making arrangements to leave your husband.”

  “No, I was not.” A thought is not an arrangement.

  “And the state of your marriage now?”

  I look at Paul. He looks at me. I assume he’s going to take this, but he’s waiting on me. There’s a vulnerability in his face that I barely recognize. I say, “We’re working on things,” and his relief is palpable.

  Paul is asked about our collaboration with the police, how he’s felt about the outpouring of support, the most promising leads, if he has any media stops arranged in any new cities or if he’ll be returning to Boston or New York. I feel like things are winding down and the hardest part is behind us.

  Candace says, “Just a few more questions,” and then calls on the reporter with the beret. Somehow, in my nervous scanning of the crowd, I didn’t even notice him. But he’s the most fearsome, the one who’s clearly been most dedicated to our story. He says, “Mrs. Willits, what can you tell me about the pills?”