Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (19 page)

Paul nods and gives me a smile, and I feel like we’re in it together, maybe for the first time. After he hangs up, he says, “He’ll get back to us.”

Somehow, we survive the next hours. Paul goes back to monitoring the websites and communing with Candace and the other volunteers. I sit in the kitchen, staring at the walls, the ceilings, the windows, the whiteboard. I’m not seeing anything. I wonder if this is what catatonia feels like. I’m sure this is what it looks like.

Strickland finally calls Paul. Sound travels easily from the dining room to the kitchen, and I can tell it’s Strickland by the tone Paul
uses: ingratiating, deferential, and collegial, all at once. It’s like balancing on a beach ball while juggling. I snap to attention and enter the dining room. I hope that Paul will put Strickland on speaker but he doesn’t. Paul starts “mm-hmm”ing. “We really appreciate your efforts,” he says. “Please let us know if anything changes.”

This is not an encouraging sign-off. “Let’s go upstairs,” he tells me, and that doesn’t feel encouraging either. He doesn’t often feel a need for privacy when it comes to the volunteers. He seems to trust them unquestioningly, though I’m not positive that he should.

But then, I haven’t tried to get to know any of them. I cast ambiguous smiles and “Good morning” or “Hi” in their directions. I feel like one of those reality TV stars with the motto “I’m not here to make friends.” I know I should appreciate them—they’re doing all this out of the goodness of their hearts, presumably—but that’s not the vibe I feel when I walk through the room. They don’t have any personal connection to Marley. They want to be one step away from tragedy, or from fame. They want to be close to the action. That’s all we are to them. We’re news.

Please, let there be news.

Paul shuts the bedroom door behind us. “Officer Strickland says they haven’t been able to locate the phone. If it was turned on, they could see which cell tower it’s connecting to, and that would narrow the location, but it’s off. The phone is too old to have a GPS tracker, and unfortunately, Trish’s parents never added one.”

“They must trust her,” I say bitterly. I remember what that felt like. “So is that it? That’s all he can do?”

“Marley or her friend might turn the cell phone back on. And Strickland said he’ll try to get a court order for the older phone records; he might be able to locate the cell tower that way. Since it’s already pretty late on Friday, he said not to expect anything until at least Monday. In the meantime, I’m going to put Jason on it.” The private investigator. Another person Paul trusts, without any visible progress.

“This is the biggest lead we’ve had. We can’t let this go!” I’m on the verge of tears.

“We’re not letting it go.” Paul steps forward like he’s going to touch me but stops short. “Plus, we’re getting leads all the time. There’s a new one out of Durham, North Carolina. It’s a college student who gave Marley a ride to a pharmacy. She doesn’t sound like a nut job. She saw Marley up close, talked to her. It’s not some mall sighting at fifty paces.”

“What was ‘Marley’ wearing?” I ask, dispirited.

“Ugg boots and a button-down.”

“That’s what they all say. That’s what we said on the flyer.”

“It was ninety degrees. Durham was in a heat wave. And Marley was fanning her shirt, like she was airing herself out.”

That is a classic Marley gesture. “Did she say it was hot as balls? I hate when she says that.” But I find I’m smiling. Durham, North Carolina. It could be something.

“The woman said they didn’t talk much. She asked Marley if she was okay when she dropped her off at the pharmacy, if Marley knew how to get home, and that was about it.”

“What did Marley say?” So much for smiling; I’m doing the opposite. “Did she say she knew how to get home?”

Paul traverses the last few feet between us and takes me in his arms. It feels awkward to both of us. Neither knows when to let go. It’s the ballet of what our marriage has become.

But we’ll worry about that later. Right now, it’s all about Marley, and that cell phone confirms that she isn’t in this alone. Either she’s been plotting with the new owner of Trish’s phone, or she’s with him right now.

I don’t know if I should be more or less scared for Marley now that I know she has company. I’m going with less scared. Two heads are better than one. They can protect each other if they’re on the streets. Yes, it’s better that she’s not alone.

But who is it? Her friend, her boyfriend, or the prime suspect?

Imaginary Facebook

Marley Willits

Is weaker than she thought

1 second ago

B. likes this.

IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT, AND
I’ve been crying for a while now. I want so bad to call someone, but who? Sasha, maybe. She’d be nice, at least. All those other people, the ones on the websites, talking about how I should come home—none of them are for real. They’re acting for the cameras.

I can’t go home. I won’t, no matter what. It’s too much of a defeat. My first original act, my first big decision, and it’s a disaster.

I cannot go home to those people. They didn’t even care enough to post a reward.

Besides, it’s not a disaster. He was just stressed out. He didn’t handle it right, and when he comes home, he’ll apologize.

No matter how he looked at me, I know it’s not my fault. That’s what’s so unfair. I didn’t make the websites. I didn’t put up flyers.
Sure, I took some walks. Maybe the pierced girl or someone from the dog park or the redneck contacted my family, but I didn’t. It could be a total coincidence that the flyers are up in B.’s neighborhood. It doesn’t have to be my fault.

But that’s part of what scares me. It’s like B. knew I’ve been walking around, even though I never told him. Even though I purposely didn’t tell him. With the way he acted tonight, I was right to keep it a secret.

B. and I were supposed to go away today but he changed his mind suddenly. I was kind of relieved, given our last trip to a motel. Instead, we had a mellow day, just watching movies and hanging out. It felt good, comfortable. Then he went out to run some errands and when he came home, his mood was completely different. I’d cooked dinner but he didn’t want to eat. He didn’t want to sit. He was pacing around and firing questions at me. It took me a few minutes to even figure out why he was so agitated.

Then I got it: The flyers you can download at FindMarley.com are up in our neighborhood. My parents are getting close, like a dog that’s picked up my scent. Or maybe I’m the dog. The lost dog on the posters—I hate that picture they picked. It makes me look sweet and dorky and innocent, like the daughter they wish they had. I guess I used to be her. I’m not so innocent anymore.

“See,” B. said, “this is why I was holding off on that Disappeared.com shit.” He doesn’t usually curse at me. He doesn’t raise his voice either, and it wasn’t that he was yelling. It was only one decibel higher than normal, but it vibrated with suppressed rage.

It’s hard to believe he’d been holding off on Disappeared.com because he knew my parents were launching a nationwide search. He was just trying to justify himself. He’s the one who told me about Disappeared.com in the first place, months ago.

Unless he’s known about FindMarley.com all along and kept it from me?

“It’s not my fault that my parents are looking for me,” I said.

He stared at me coldly. “How do you know your parents put up the flyers?”

I felt myself quaking a little. I’d deleted my Internet history after I looked up all the FindMarley stuff. Was that what tipped him off, that the history had been cleared? Is the apartment bugged? Maybe he has a friend spying on me and he really does know about my walks? A neighbor? Not that I’ve ever seen a neighbor.

If he’s so worried about getting caught, why did he bring me here at all?

Okay, so I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Not when he was already pissed off. But I didn’t anticipate his reaction. He started to advance on me, and then it seemed like some invisible person jumped in and pulled him back. It was like he was physically wrestling with himself.

It could be that I really don’t know him. Months of e-mails and texts and even having sex with him—it all amounts to nothing. He could be capable of anything.

Then he stopped talking. He stood at the kitchen counter with his laptop open in front of him. I didn’t know what to do. Stay where I was and ask what he was doing? Come up behind him and see for myself? No, I wasn’t going near him.

“FindMarley.com,” he finally said. “Your fucking parents. And you should see their Facebook page. And their tweets.” He was getting more disgusted with each word. He nearly spat out “tweets.”

I wanted to ask how long he’d known about the websites, how long he’d been keeping the information from me. I felt like screaming and crying, but I’m a Willits, at least for a while longer, and that’s not what we do.

“Durham’s not that big,” he said. “It looks like they’re closing in. Is that what you want?”

“No. If I wanted to go home, I would have gone already.”

“You’re still calling it home.” He shook his head. There was this expression on his face that I couldn’t place for a second. Then
I realized it was pity. “You don’t get it. Your parents only want you back because they don’t actually know you. They don’t know what I know. They don’t know what you’ve been doing here. If you go back there, they’ll never look at you the same way again. You get that, right?”

I couldn’t say anything.

“Look, this whole thing, their whole search, it’s not about wanting you back. It’s about their image. They want to look like good parents, like the best parents. Isn’t that just like your dad? And your mom—she’s a conniver and a half, man.” He shook his head again. More pity.

I couldn’t defend them. He’s right about them, and about me.

He started reading my dad’s tweets out loud in this really mean voice, like a parody. “We thank you all for the continued support,” he said mockingly. “Somewhere, Marley thanks you, too.” He lasered in on me. “Is that true? Do you want to thank whoever papered our neighborhood with your face?”

“No.”

His gaze turned imploring. “We’ve got a good thing going here. We’re each other’s family. And they’re going to ruin it.”

“What do you want me to do about it? I can’t call off the search.” I suddenly realized: I have no power at all. Not over my parents or over B.

“I need to go out for a while.”

“I made dinner.” As if chicken marsala was going to fix things between us.

To be honest, I don’t even think he was mad that my parents were going to ruin us. I think he was mad that my parents would do all this and his never would, no matter how many times he raced over to fix his dad’s fence.

“I need to get out for a while,” he repeated. “I just—I need a drink.”

“Then have a drink.” But there was no alcohol in the house. I
knew because I’d gone through every cupboard and cabinet, looking for some. I almost drained the Robitussin earlier today, but I don’t want to be that person. I’m not going to start huffing the oven cleaner, either. It hasn’t come to that.

“I just don’t see how it can work now,” he said. He sounded more normal, sad instead of so angry. Not that the anger had completely dissolved. It was more like a balloon that’s semideflated, the string dragging on the ground. “They’re attracting a lot of attention, your parents.” The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “People think your mom might have something to do with it.”

I ignored his last comment and the pleasure he seemed to take in it. “The attention’s going to die down. It’s just a website and some tweets.”

He looked over at me sharply. I wondered if I’d given myself away, given away the fact that I’d already known. But I was only referencing what he’d said. Still, there was suspicion in his face.

It’s too late to come clean. I can’t tell him about the walks and the pharmacy and the dog park and the redneck and how I Googled myself. He already felt like he couldn’t trust me, without knowing any of that. That’s why he was holding off on Disappeared.com. He probably thought I’d use him to get my new identity and then move on. Leave him like the other girls have, like Staph. But he doesn’t have a dog anymore. That’s if he ever did.

“I’m going out for a drink,” he told me.

There wasn’t anything to say, since we were two people who didn’t trust each other and had good reason not to, and he left.

I could have left, too, just like the others. I could have said screw him and this whole stupid mistake. Instead, I cried and cried. And I hoped. I’m not ready to give up.

I know B. loves me, deep down, and no other guy ever has. All right, he shouldn’t have gotten so mad. But he was scared. He saw those flyers and thought they’re going to blow our chance at having a life together, which is what he really wants.

He’s going to come back and apologize. I’m sure of it. So why can’t I stop crying?

Maybe it’s because I’ve always been scared of being left, of being the kind of person no one would really miss. When I was really little, I used to climb inside my mom’s laundry basket. It felt so safe in there, hearing her calling my name. I liked being looked for. And I liked being found—the way she smiled at me, how tight she held on as she lifted me out.

As I got older, things didn’t feel so safe. I had butterflies in my stomach a lot, and not the good kind. Sometimes, out of nowhere, my heart would race and it would be hard to breathe. I hated myself when that happened. Why are you so stupid? I’d think. Nothing’s wrong! But knowing that made it worse. It meant that what was wrong was inside me.

I was embarrassed so I kept it to myself. But then there was that day at the fair. My parents were arguing in the car, really quietly (my mom kept saying, “Not now,” and my dad didn’t care what she said), and after we parked, they just walked away. Like they didn’t even remember I existed. It was terrifying, being so forgettable, even to your own parents. It was my biggest fear coming true.

I hid behind this pile of hay and I made myself really small, cradling my knees to my chest. I just started rocking, and it helped a little. I must have looked crazy, but no one even noticed. I really was invisible in a sea of people.

Then, suddenly, it was like everything got very still, and I wasn’t there anymore. I was floating outside my body. I watched myself get up and sit down on the pile of hay. I watched myself waiting to be found.

I’m not sure how much time went by. Finally I saw my mother coming toward me and I opened my book to some random page, as if I’d been reading the whole time. She didn’t even seem very worried, or sorry. I wasn’t in my body the rest of the day, and no one could tell.

That whole next week, I kept flitting in and out. Dr. Michael
later told me there was a name for it: dissociation. He said it’s a way for people to cope with trauma. He explained what trauma is, and I was confused, because I didn’t think I’d ever been through one. He said that actually, I had. But I’m jumping ahead, as usual.

A week after the fair, my parents and I were at Bertucci’s, where we’d eaten a million times. Out of nowhere, the room started to spin. I couldn’t breathe, and it was like my chest was being squeezed by giant hands. I’d never been so scared, and my parents were freaked out, too. They drove me to the ER. After a whole bunch of tests, the doctor said I’d had a panic attack and I needed a psychiatrist. Dr. Michael was supposedly the best; my dad knew somebody who knew somebody and I got in fast.

Dr. Michael realized my parents were the cause of a lot of my problems: my mom being so nervous and my dad needing to be in charge. “If your father treats your mother like she’s weak and incapable, then you’re going to grow up fearing you’re weak, too,” he said. “You’re going to doubt yourself.” He said my parents were modeling an unhealthy relationship, and living through that, as their daughter, was traumatizing.

That was why I liked Dr. Michael. He talked to me like I was an adult. He had theories about my parents, especially after we had a family session. Now I look back and I realize that he was way easier on my mom than my dad. He felt bad for her, you could tell, but not for my father.

I didn’t have much sympathy for my dad, either. He’s rigid and hard to please, and it was cool that Dr. Michael seemed to agree. You could tell that he thought I deserved a better father than the one I had. I deserved someone like Dr. Michael.

He made me feel strong and capable and brave, but by feeling those things, eventually I lost him. It was like a punishment for getting better. He told me not to think of it that way. He said I outgrew him, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

“My job is to make myself obsolete,” he said.

“What’s ‘obsolete’?”

“Not needed anymore.”

Sometimes, like now, I feel like I still need him. I miss him, especially the way he’d repeat things back to me but it sounded different from him, like an echo that made my own voice sweeter. He said he’d always be there for me, but that turned out to be a lie. I lost him for good.

No, I didn’t just lose him. She stole him.