Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (10 page)

“NOT YOUR TYPICAL RUNAWAY.”
That was the title of the post Paul ran across all our different media. He meant it to be provocative and knew it might draw fire as well as support. It worked. We got an insane number of posts, reposts, hits, tweets, likes, comments, buzz—the whole Internet enchilada.

Paul talked about how Marley wasn’t a drug addict, wasn’t pregnant, wasn’t bullied, wasn’t failing school, wasn’t feeling unloved. She wasn’t a lesbian (or at least, wouldn’t be afraid to come out as one), wasn’t depressed, wasn’t cutting herself, didn’t hate the world, didn’t hate us. (
How do you know?
many screamed in answer, and Paul responded calmly to every single one about how he knew.) “Marley’s mother and I have a strong marriage,” he wrote, “and Marley has been given every advantage.”

Yet, he wrote, she had chosen to leave of her own accord. There were no absolute answers so far, only rule-outs, and not knowing is the hardest thing for any parent. He wrote about how your kids go to parties, and you can’t know for sure what happens; they date, and you can’t know; they Facebook and text and you can’t know. You try to have open communication, but in the end, you have to trust and hope. Trust, but monitor—the latter being our failing (the only failing he was prepared to admit, I noticed), and we don’t want others to make the same mistake.

But in our current situation, the uncertainty gives rise to all kinds of terrifying scenarios. With a child possibly out on the streets, he wrote, time is not on our side, and we need every last person reading to send this to everyone they know, in order to end the not-knowing.

It was well written and persuasive. It was even emotional, something I wouldn’t have expected him to achieve. (Candace might have had a hand in it.) And it seems to be working. Paul’s been invited to do TV shows in Chicago, New York, and Boston. I assume the invitation included me, and Paul and Candace decided to cut me out. I’m simultaneously relieved and insulted.

At the moment, I think I’m considered a liability. Even though I said practically nothing at the vigil—the new rule was “Let Paul do all the talking”—and overall remained composed and non-bizarre, there were some unflattering pictures posted to Instagram, among other sites, of me biting my lip and otherwise looking shifty. It’s disturbing, imagining people at the vigil surreptitiously snapping photo after photo of me, intent on making me look guilty of something.

Strickland was at the vigil, fixing me with hard, appraising stares. I’ve got the feeling I’ve become a person of interest, though he denied that when Paul asked him. Strickland said that Marley’s case didn’t fit the usual profile, so he was making more inquiries, doing follow-ups. Perfectly normal, he assured Paul. He said he’d talked to Marley’s classmates and teachers and her old friends and us; it didn’t add up. Marley “isn’t your typical runaway,” Strickland said, and that was when the lightbulb went off above Paul’s head. Paul cooked up the post, which he knew might anger the parents of typical runaways but would also hopefully hook the parents of potential atypical runaways. In essence, he was inviting parents of all teenagers to see themselves in us, and, like I said, it seems to be working.

A strong marriage. I think Paul really believed that when he wrote it. He’s not lying, though I tacitly lied by allowing him to “we” his way through and then sign both our names. I let him speak
for me, as he has so often in our married life. But a number of our followers out there (well, Paul’s followers) don’t seem fooled. They caught the linguistic tells, like Paul saying “My wife and I.” The audience that’s speculating about me—why I’m so uninvolved in the FindMarley operation, whether I might be negligent or part of the reason Marley ran away or the one who did away with her—is still relatively small. But it seems to be growing.

I was negligent. For the past months, I’ve taken a lack of overt misery on Marley’s part for happiness. She was a car in neutral, and I called that being okay. I called it good enough. I told Paul, “Let’s not nag her about extracurriculars; let’s give her a break from the pressure and see how she does.” To my surprise, he actually agreed. And how was she doing? Obviously, rotten. What did I do about it? Nothing.

About a month ago, she wasn’t feeling well and stayed home from school. I took off from work, though I didn’t need to. It was an opportunity to baby her, and I hadn’t had many of those of late. I brought her soup, and lay across her bed, and stroked her forehead. Otherwise, she’s so hard to touch. It’s like, no matter how close she’s sitting, she’s too far for me to reach. I don’t know how it got to be this way with my own daughter. We used to cuddle all the time. It was one of my favorite things when she was young, and hers, too. Back when she wanted to climb in my hamper, when she wanted to climb all over me and breathe me in.

That day, she was in bed with quilts piled high. She wore men’s flannel pajamas, and her breathing was congested. I was lying next to her, trying not to exhale too loudly for fear that it would jar her and she’d reassert ATM distance. I didn’t want her to say, “I’m really tired now, Mom,” and I’d have to leave. Then the illness would pass, the spell would be broken, and there’d be this confounding, unbridgeable chasm again.

“Do you think about life without Dad?” Marley asked.

I thought for a long minute before I lied. “No.”

“Seriously?”

“We’ve been together almost twenty years.” Like that’s any kind of answer. I think back now, and she was trying to connect with me. She wanted to have a meaningful conversation, and I stopped it cold. I didn’t realize until now how rarely she showed a desire to talk to me, as opposed to mere tolerance.

Marley used to ask lots of questions when she was younger. She seemed infinitely curious about me and would request her favorite anecdotes from my life over and over, turning them into bedtime stories.

I never lied, but I did tell her a sanitized version. She knows my life wasn’t always so privileged. She knows my dad died when I was little, that he had an accident on a job site, but she doesn’t know about the alcoholism. I probably should have told her. Maybe she wouldn’t have gone off and gotten drunk that weekend at Trish’s; she would have known how destructive alcohol can be. Addiction’s in our bloodline. Maybe I should think about that more myself.

My dad had no life insurance, so my mom had to go out and get a job. She only had a high school education, so she became a “sales associate” at a pet store. We had to move from a solidly middle-class neighborhood in Pittsburgh to a working-class one. Teen pregnancy and drugs were rampant. I always knew I needed to go to college. To her credit, my mother did hammer that into me, even if it was in her inimitable self-absorbed way, looking at me sadly: “Don’t be like me, Rachel.” Then she’d go back to reciting all the ills in her life, from the ones she experienced living with my dad to the rude customers that day at work. She wasn’t one to ever ask a question. I existed to listen to her travails, it seemed. I swore I’d never be that way with my daughter. Maybe I erred in the opposite direction.

I went away to college in DC. I was at a decent school with a good financial aid package; Paul was going to Georgetown, paid for by his parents. We met at a bar, of all places, and for a while, life got easier. First he bought me a drink and then dinner and then flowers
and then jewelry. But I didn’t only love him because of the escalating gifts. I loved him because he let me know he’d always take care of me, and in a way, he has. I loved him because his mind was so different from mine. And he could be funny. Self-deprecating, even. I haven’t seen that side of him in a long time.

Once upon a time, we had chemistry. Or maybe it was evolutionary biology.

But is that what Marley wanted to hear? Did she want to hear the unvarnished truth? Did she want to know my present-day uncertainty? I thought it would only cause her more anxiety herself. But maybe it would have made whatever she was feeling seem normal. People struggle. People have to find their answers, and their happiness.

If only I’d seen that moment, Marley’s question, for what it could have been. My instinct was to try to protect her from an unpleasant truth. Yes, I’d been thinking about divorce, sometimes seriously, and sometimes it was more of a daydream. I didn’t want her to worry about our marriage or for her to think less of Paul. I suppose I didn’t want her to think less of me. We always told her not to be a quitter. Of course, that fell on deaf ears. She’d tried sports and clubs and musical instruments and quit every one. I encouraged her to write for the school newspaper this year. She was such a good writer.

She is. Present tense. She is a good writer.

“So you’d never divorce him?” she asked that day, her voice adenoidal.

I thought she wanted reassurance, to know that her family would never fracture. “No,” I said, “I wouldn’t divorce him.”

In retrospect, it’s possible she was hoping for a different answer. If she wanted me to leave Paul and I told her I never would, maybe she decided to leave herself.

Could Paul have done something to her? Hurt her in some way?

They’ve been distant for years, at least since she saw Dr. Michael. I always assumed it was just because Paul is who he is. He’s not the
easiest guy to talk to. Besides, girls are often closer to their moms than their dads.

If Paul was the reason she needed therapy, he could be the reason she ran away. He could be the one with something to hide, while making himself above suspicion. While I’m the person of interest.

I wish I could say I was surprised, Mar.

Yeah, u always thought there was something about my mom.

And ur dad.

Well, obviously, my dad. But my mom, I didn’t see it. I used to feel sorry for her.

They’re all in on it. Life is a grand conspiracy.

What do u mean?

I’m just sad for u. Sad that u got a bum deal with ur parents.

U did, too.

I know. Maybe it’s part of what I saw in u in the beginning. I saw me in u.

I never realized we were so alike before.

They don’t get u, Mar. They don’t recognize how amazing u r. But I do.

U were tagged in a new photo. On ur friend Jake’s wall? U looked so happy.

I could be happier. If u were here.

Like that can happen. Like my parents would ever let me fly off somewhere to see a guy.

Hey, I’m not just a guy.

No, u’r the guy I love.

Do u really mean that? U never said it before.

I feel like u’r on my side, and no one else really is.

That sounds like love.

I really love u, too, Mar. U just made me way happier than I was in that pic.

But we can’t do anything about it. We can’t even meet.

We’ll figure something out. Did I tell u how beautiful the Outer Banks are? Maybe u can get your parents to bring u here in the summer.

That’s far from CA.

They can afford plane tickets, right? Rent a house in the Outer Banks. I’ll find a way to be right next door.

I don’t think they’d do it. CA has beaches.

It’s different here. Slower. I bet u’d like it better.

A new place. Think about it. U get to reinvent yourself.

Think how happy u’d look in the photo.

I NOTICE THAT I’VE
started doing opposite-speak with B. Not often, but it bothers me. It used to be that I never needed opposite-speak with two people in my life: Dr. Michael and B. Well, and my mom, but that was when I was really little. That’s why it could be a game between us, then. But that last time I saw Dr. Michael, it was different, and now, with B., it slips out.

Opposite-speak is different from lying, because when you use it, you always know. You’re never trying to fool yourself.

That’s the difference between my mom and me. I think she wants to believe the things she tells people. When you ask her how she is and she says fine, it’s not opposite-speak. What would Dr. Michael call that? Self-delusion. I think the worst thing you can be is a liar to yourself.

My dad never uses opposite-speak. He always says exactly what he means. That could be a good quality, except that what he means is often so annoying. Or worse.

B. and I took a drive to the beach. On the way, we stopped at Target. B. wanted to wait in the car, so I said I’d be fast. I’d been thinking we’d roam the aisles together and pick up some things for the apartment, stuff to make it feel more like our place instead of just his, but he seemed eager to get back on the road. I don’t think he wanted us to be seen together since we were still close to Durham.

I was a very efficient shopper. I went straight to the men’s section and bought a three-pack of Hanes white crew-neck T-shirts and a pack of the V-necks, too. Then I got some flip-flops. After I paid for everything, I stopped off at the bathroom and put on one of the V-necks and the shoes. I wriggled my toes, trying to get used to the sensation of the rubber between them. There’s a hint of cleavage through the V-neck, and I hoped B. would notice.

He was leaning against the car, watching me approach, and he said, “Is that a men’s shirt? Why didn’t you buy one made for women?”

“The men’s come in three-packs.” Then, in a jokey voice, “What a bargain!” It came out fake and silly, and I was embarrassed by it, and by the shirt, and by the way he was looking at me. It was like I’d disappointed him. I have that feeling a lot.

He didn’t say anything else and got back in the car. That felt even worse, somehow. As he pulled out of the lot, I started to cry, and I was embarrassed by that, too, on top of everything else.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at me. “If I hurt your feelings.”

I couldn’t explain it to him, how I felt like the day was already getting ruined and that I needed a really good day. I needed to prove to myself that coming out here was the right thing. And why is it still so fucking hot anyway? It’s November.

I said that last part out loud, and he smiled. “I used to love Indian summer when I was a kid.”

“Tell me about when you were a kid.”

Once he was talking about secret forts he built in the woods and the other ways he tried to escape his dad, he sounded like the guy I knew from all our texts and phone calls. I started to relax. If he’d just kiss me again, it would be all good.

The car ride was fun, but the beach wasn’t that great. It wasn’t as pretty as the ones I’m used to in Northern California, where the water’s aqua and there are no girls in bikinis. I guess it’s because the water in CA is friggin’ cold, and in North Carolina, you can actually
go swimming, even in November. Wilmington isn’t just a beach town but a college beach town, so it sucked to be me.

I didn’t like being surrounded by all those girls. B. wasn’t checking them out in an obvious way, but he’s not dead. Obviously, he sees there are skinny, bikini-clad women and I’m sitting there in my men’s V-neck that seemed minorly sexy in a Target bathroom but not anymore. He’s in shorts and sandals, and he looks good, all trim and tan. He could do better than me. What’s he doing with a fourteen-year-old with fat arms wearing a men’s T-shirt?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I made myself smile. “It’s nice here.”

What I wanted to say was:

IT’S HOT AS BALLS AND I’M SURROUNDED BY BEACH GODDESSES AND YOU’RE NOT TOUCHING ME—WHY AREN’T YOU TOUCHING ME????!!!!

—but complaining wouldn’t do me any good. I need to be fun, or he can put me back on the bus. Return to sender.

So I didn’t tell B. what I really thought about the beach, which is an example of opposite-speak but a not-very-important one. We talked a little and then got some lunch in a sandwich shop that was—just my luck—popular with beach goddesses.

“Tell me more about your friends,” I said. “Like Jake.” I wanted to show interest, to make B. feel interesting, and Jake’s the one whose name I can remember from Facebook.

Only B. didn’t look real happy at the mention of Jake’s name. I like that he can get possessive about me. “What do you want to know about Jake?”

“I want to know all of them. I want to know what you usually do with them on the weekends, where you hang out. Like, where are they right now? Do they think it’s weird that you’re not with them?”

His mouth was full of meatball sub. When he swallowed, he answered, “They don’t think it’s weird. They know I’m with you. They know you’re my number one.” Was there a slight edge to his voice?

“Do some of them know how old I really am?” Because if they do, then we don’t need to do Disappeared.com first. I could meet them right away.

He was chewing again, and I had to wait for a response. “They don’t know.”

It suddenly occurred to me: “What are they going to think when they meet me and I have a different name? When I’m not Marley anymore?”

“I always just called you my girlfriend. I never said your name.”

“And they never asked?” What kind of friends are these?

He leaned in a little, and his face got intense. “I’m not close to anyone except you. They’re just people I hang out with. They don’t really matter.”

It’s not like he’d ever talked about them much, but still, I thought they were real friends. Not just people he partied with sometimes or Facebook friends. I was hoping I’d like them and they’d become my friends, too.

“Why do you need other people so bad anyway, Marley?” he asked. “We’re finally together.”

“I don’t need them,” I said, which is probably true.

I have to get better at following B.’s lead, going at his pace. I have to practice my patience. The South is slower than California. I’ll meet his friends someday, or maybe we’ll meet new people together. I don’t have to be in such a rush, especially since he doesn’t seem to care that much about them anyway.

After we ate, we took a walk on the beach, and he reached for my hand, which felt good, like a public announcement. Then he suggested staying overnight in a motel. I’d floated that idea earlier, before we left Durham, when I was in much higher spirits. “Come on,” he said as I hesitated. He gave me a smile, and then he used my line (well, Dr. Michael’s line): “What’s the worst that could happen?”

I don’t know what to say about what did happen. The motel room seemed dirty, and there was sand in the carpet. The lampshade
was gold with hanging beads, and the bed was sagging and had this gross floral polyester spread on top. I didn’t want to touch anything for fear of contamination. I’d never stayed in a place like that in my life. My parents would have taken one look, and my father would have marched back to the office and gotten his money back.

But B.—it was like the room freed him. He grabbed me and threw me on the bed. I was still reeling from the hideousness of the place, and now, I had to compute the change in him. It was too much.

He was on top of me, and his tongue in my mouth seemed huge. Really, it was like it had grown to double its size. It was slapping at my tonsils. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I kept telling myself, SEE, HE REALLY DOES WANT YOU! I was trying so hard to be excited.

His hands felt like claws under my shirt. The whole thing was so animal, and I’ve heard sex can be like that and it can be a good thing, but not the first time. I couldn’t believe my first time was going to be like this.

Thinking back, I realize that I could have stopped him. I had a choice. I could have said no. But I came all this way to be with him, the guy I love, the first guy I’d ever even come close to loving, and I’m going to have a new life, with him. I want to say nothing but yes.

For a lean guy, his body felt so heavy on mine. I was pinned, like in wrestling. I tried to enjoy it. I maybe could have, if I hadn’t felt so scared. I’m sure everyone is scared their first time. It all goes so fast.

But I was glad he was hard, that I made him that way. Before, I wasn’t positive I had that power.

Since I got to Durham, I’ve looked at him and felt myself getting wet. I know I’ve wanted him, as recently as this morning when I saw him walking across the room in his boxers. I definitely wanted him when we kissed the other night. Why couldn’t I want him when it counted?

I don’t know. I just didn’t.

He got my jeans and my underwear off, and his shorts off, and
then he put on a condom. I was lying back, watching in amazement. It was really going to happen. He was going to put that inside me.

He licked his fingers and then rubbed them against me. I felt something shift a little—like maybe I could get into this, I could feel what I’m supposed to—and then he thrust in and I lost my breath.

The first time doesn’t really matter. If you think of it, that’s only one time, and there will be so many others. It shouldn’t even stand out after a while. Everyone says it’s not that good the first time, because it hurts. But I’m not sure it hurts everyone in this same way.

B.’s dead asleep. It’s almost midnight, and there’s still Sunday to get through. I want him to go away for a while, but not for too long, just for the day, just to class, and that way I can think more. That way, I can cry.