Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (11 page)

PAUL IS GONE. HE
left on his media tour this morning. First up: Chicago! He was amped up, convinced that this will be the breakthrough. More exposure, that’s what we need.

I watched him as he packed, double-bagging his toiletries, folding dark-colored sweaters as expertly as a Gap employee. I wondered if he could really be keeping a secret from me, from everyone, if he could have intentionally hurt Marley. It’s hard to fathom he’s been faking his love for her all these years or that he’s worked so tirelessly to bring her home purely for the sake of his image.

But could he have hurt her unintentionally? Then, once he realized it, tried to cover his tracks by making everyone think he’s Runaway Father of the Year?

I know I can be oblivious, especially this past year, but there are limits. There’s no way he could have done anything as disgusting as—I can barely articulate it, even to myself—touching her. If he had, she would never keep that secret for him. If she’d told Dr. Michael about physical or sexual abuse, he would have been legally obligated to call Child Protective Services. There would have been an investigation. Unless it happened after she saw Dr. Michael, once she had no adults she trusted? Because apparently, she doesn’t trust me.

No, Paul would never.

But some kind of emotional abuse, things he whispered to her
when they were alone, some form of torture that he filed under motivational speaking . . . ?

I’m so tired of sifting through terrible scenarios. After Paul left, I crawled back into bed. It’s eleven
A.M
., and I’m still here.

The house is silent. I asked for a break from all the volunteers, and Paul has them “working remotely” and “frequently interfacing” with him. But being alone isn’t helping. I’d return to work but I’m too fragile for other people’s problems.

My emotions seesaw as I’m inundated with possibilities:

Marley wanted to start over, on her own. She doesn’t think of us at all, or she thinks of us with disdain or anger. Maybe it’s with a vague and fading fondness. We could be a pair of shoes she really liked but has outgrown.

She left because Paul had abused her or was still abusing her. She didn’t think anyone would believe her, including me. I was too checked out, too stupid, too self-absorbed, to protect her. Any life seemed better than that one.

She left so she could live on the street and binge-drink and have wild times. She’s tired of being a good girl. She’s ready to enjoy herself. She is enjoying herself. Or she’s not but is too ashamed to come home.

It started as a lark, and now she really is an addict and can’t see her way out.

Regardless of how it started, she’s now being held against her will. She’s being serially raped; she’s starving; she’s someone’s property; she’s a prostitute. It’s no longer about finding her but about freeing her.

Is she with people? Is she alone? Which possibility is more frightening, really? All day and all night, I vacillate. It’s exhausting.

She could be happy.

She could be numb.

She could be hurt.

She’s already dead.

I should have let the volunteers stay. The need to look like a normal functioning person would have been good for me. I didn’t fall apart this completely when Paul and the others were around. Some sense of pride knitted me together. Now I’ve unraveled.

How is it one o’clock already?

Paul’s calling. I let him go into voice mail. When I listen, it’s nothing I want to hear. I pull the covers over my head.

My phone barely rings anymore, while Paul’s goes off all the time. The police have a tip line, but he’s the real tip line. The heart of the operation—that’s him. Me? I’m extraneous. Dawn still calls every day, but she’s the only one. I’ve got messages from Nadine, asking if I want to talk, telling me I can take as much time off as I need, but I can’t help feeling a small sense of betrayal that she told the police I was late to work. Did she really, for a single second, think that I was off
hurting
Marley? It galls me, that anyone could think that. I have moments where I wish ill on Strickland, think, Let one of your kids disappear and see how you act, and then I immediately retract that because nobody should have to live through their child’s disappearance.

I tend to do take-backs from my ugliest thoughts. I do it when I get angry at Marley. I tell God, No, no, I don’t mean it. She’s not an ingrate. She’s not spoiled or cruel. I reiterate all her good qualities, my eyes cast skyward. I don’t know what the odds are that He’s listening or would do anything at my behest. We haven’t been in touch in a very long while. My asking a favor of God is like talking to a childhood friend you haven’t seen in twenty years and saying, “Hey, do you think I can borrow your beach house this weekend?”

I’ve told Michael not to call, which means he calls once a day. He’s calling now. I shouldn’t answer. I don’t even want to answer, I’m in no shape to talk to anyone, but you’d think I was programmed. My hand shoots out, unauthorized, and I’m sobbing.

“Rachel,” he says in that resonant baritone of his. “Oh, honey. What’s happened?”

“There was a message from Paul. Before he flew out of San Francisco today, he had a police escort through all the neighborhoods where Marley was most likely to be. Where all the”—I don’t want to say it—“the junkies, the street people, the runaways, where they all go. The Haight, and the Tenderloin, and wherever else. Paul went around looking into all their faces, the faces of these sleeping kids—he said a lot of them look angry even when they sleep, and they’ve got bruises that aren’t fully healed, and cuts—and he’s peering down at them and none of them are Marley. And I think, Thank God none of them are Marley. And then I think, Why can’t one of them be Marley?”

It’s all in a burst, and I assume Michael is trying to decide which part to respond to, how he can apply comfort like a balm, and finally he says, “Paul flew out today?”

“That’s all you care about?!” It feels good, this particular explosion. I never used to let myself get this angry at anyone.

“I care about you. And about Marley.” I’m sure he wants to ask how long Paul will be gone and if he can see me. I can feel him recalibrating. My anger’s a variable he’s never had to consider before. Usually, when I end things, I’m penitent. I’m sorry that I can’t give him what he wants, that I can’t accept his love. It’s me, I tell him. It’s my problem and my fault. He has the misfortune of loving me.

No, he chooses to keep loving me. That’s why I had to be so cruel that time, a week before Marley took off.

And then he didn’t call. I kept checking my phone for a dial tone, like it might have gone dead. Was it possible? He’d finally heard me and gone away for good? I thought I’d feel calmer, but my anxiety blew sky-high. I second-guessed myself. I was perpetually bereft, feeling like I’d forgotten something. I was always checking for my keys. Then that fateful morning, he texted me. He was at the downtown Starbucks, as in my downtown. There was no turning him away, even if I’d wanted to.

I dropped Marley off and I was trembling as I walked inside the
café. I almost cried at the sight of him. He loves me, I thought, and maybe I love him. I don’t know. I can’t bear to know.

I didn’t let him hug me. There would be no touching of any kind. We sat across from each other, and I flattened my palms against the cup, even though it burned. I deserved that. Through tears, I told him, “You shouldn’t have come here. You need to respect what I say. I need to find peace.”

But I hadn’t found peace without him. It had been an awful week. I’d been jumping out of my skin.

“You miss me,” he said. “I can see it.”

“That’s not the point. You have to leave me alone. Look into my eyes,” I commanded. “If I need to move even farther, I will. If that’s what it takes, my family and I will keep going.”

“No,” he said loudly. People stared. He lowered his voice. He went on about how I couldn’t do that, he wouldn’t let me—
wouldn’t let me?
—no, that’s not what he meant, he meant he’d do anything, absolutely anything, it was about my happiness, not his, about Marley’s happiness, why couldn’t I see that? . . .

I was an hour late to work, a confused and weepy mess, with nothing resolved, as usual.

But it wasn’t usual. It was the day Marley went missing.

It’s pretty coincidental, Michael’s being in town. I don’t know where he went next. Marley would have gotten into his car. She would never say no to Dr. Michael.

He’d do anything, he said. Did that mean he was capable of anything?

“What did you do after our talk in Starbucks?” I ask him now. “Did you go to Marley’s school?”

“Are you serious?” He sounds genuinely flabbergasted.

“I rejected you again, after you drove all that way. You threatened to do anything.”

“Oh, Rachel.” Now he’s sorrowful. “I know how hard this has been on you, that you’re not yourself.”

I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me sooner. Someone’s helping her. Paul is her father; he would never hurt her. So it has to be someone else. “I’m not saying that you killed her.”

“I should hope not!” It’s such an old-fashioned exclamation. He’s so old. It’s absurd, this crush he has on me. I could be his daughter.

“Maybe she wanted a break from our family, or she wanted to make us worry for a while. She confided in you. Maybe you thought that if she was gone, if I went through something horrible, it would bring us back together. I’d realize that I need you.” I’m making it up as I go along, and I desperately want it to be true. Marley’s holed up in a hotel, with Michael footing the bill. She’s safe, and he can tell me where she is.

He’s quiet. That means I could be onto something. He’s thinking of telling me where she is.

“Or,” I continue, “you were really mad at me. You wanted to get back at me for hurting you, so you and Marley came up with a plan together. I can understand that. I said some awful things to you. I was trying to make you hate me. You get that, right? If I was cruel enough, it would set you free.” Still nothing from him. “I think I’ve been punished enough. Could you please tell me where she is now? Please?”

“I love you, Rachel,” he says carefully. “You’ve hurt me more than I can express. And I do want to be with you. I’ve said that many times, and I still mean it. But I’m not insane. And that, what you’ve just described, is insanity.”

He’s right. It is insane. He’s a psychiatrist, and a parent himself. That would violate the ethical sense of every person in every profession, but especially his.

“You do believe me,” he says, half statement and half question.

“Yes,” I say sorrowfully.

“I’m not upset with you for wanting to think that.”

I don’t care whether he’s upset with me or not. For months I’ve been trying to close the door and he’s been jamming his foot in it.

“I’m following the websites,” he says. “It sounds like they’re getting a lot of attention. You must be getting tips.”

“The tips are things like ‘Saw a girl who looked like your daughter at the mall in Walla Walla, Washington.’ Or at the car dealership in Detroit. Or eating a Subway sandwich in New Orleans. What are we supposed to do with that?”

“Get her pictures out to the police in those areas and wait for more tips.”

“We’re doing that. Of course we do that. Do you think they’re going to do anything? She’s a runaway. Unless Paul can make some personal connection with someone in those police departments, nothing is going to happen. And believe me, he does his best to make that connection.” I shouldn’t even be talking to Michael, when Paul is working his ass off. Yes, that’s what Paul does for Marley, because he loves her. He would never, ever hurt her. Not then, not now.

“I’m sure Paul does his best,” Michael says, but there’s an undercurrent of snideness.

“Why did you say it like that?” I want to add: What do you know, really? What did Marley tell you years ago?

“Paul needs to validate himself through other people’s good opinions. It’s his narcissism. You know that.” When I don’t respond, he says, “Your letter to her was beautiful.”

It was sanitized for Marley’s protection, PR approved. “She didn’t read it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Then she read it and she didn’t care, or I would have heard from her.” I don’t know which is worse at this point. There is no better. There’s only worse. “Tell me something from your treatment. Something that will help.”

“It’s not my treatment. It was hers. You know I can’t do that.”

“But there are things you could tell me that would help. That would give me hope.”

“She loved you, Rachel. She loves you.”

“Did she love Paul?”

He hesitates. “I can’t answer that.”

Is that a no? If Marley didn’t love her own father, then . . . ? “I should go.”

“Where are you going?”

My answer surprises me. “To synagogue.” I need to pray for my family, as I never have before.

“I suppose,” he says, “religion can help in times like this. But what can I do—”

“It’s not a good idea, Michael. But thank you.” I hang up.

I’m not stringing him along. He’s pushing his way in. It’s become our dynamic and is part of why I’m five hours away now. I thought geography could speak more emphatically than I can.

Still, it’s good that he called. It stirs me enough to get into the shower and afterward, I Google the nearest synagogue. On the way, I stop for a bagel and cream cheese to get into the spirit but then I find that I can’t choke it down.

A one-story, no-frills building on a quiet residential street has a small sign announcing it as Temple Beth Shalom. Blink, and you’d miss it. There aren’t a lot of Jews in this area, so I imagine they’re not trying to stand out. But it is a fairly liberal college town so there aren’t any death threats or carpet bombings or anything. In this area, it’s live-and-let-live. The college kids will get drunk on Manischewitz if it’s all that’s available.

I walk into a tiled foyer. On the wall, there’s one arrow pointing toward the office and another toward the sanctuary. It would be more convenient to be Catholic and head straight for the confession booth. The ritual of cleansing and forgiveness, the illusion of it, would be reassuring right now.