Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (12 page)

I shouldn’t call it illusion, but that’s how I tend to think of religion. I never fought Paul when he wanted to raise Marley as Christian because I thought, Well, he believes the illusion in which he was raised a lot more than I believe the one in which I was raised. Besides,
we haven’t raised her
that
Christian. We went to a very liberal Episcopalian church on occasion, but she didn’t go to Sunday school. If Paul had really pushed for that, I wouldn’t have liked it, but if I’m honest with myself, I would have relented. I would have anticipated just how persuasive he could be and decided to save us both the time and trouble. Fortunately, he didn’t care about Sunday school. He wanted Marley to believe in Jesus, who he thinks of as a very good guy. I can’t argue with that. I happen to disagree about the son-of-God stuff, but not in front of Marley. I don’t think she cares much about Jesus or God, though. I’ve never heard her talk about either of them.

Could Paul believe in God and then turn around and hurt his own child? It seems preposterous. But not impossible. People can justify and rationalize all sorts of behaviors. Michael’s told me stories about what he’s seen in his practice, the ways parents (often unwittingly) use their children to further their own ends. All the names and identifying information were changed, so he wasn’t breaking confidentiality.

Wait, were the characters in one of those stories actually Paul and Marley? That would mean Michael was trying to find a way to tell me what had been going on under my nose, without violating Marley’s trust.

I’m shaking a little as I push open the door to the sanctuary. There’s no one here, which makes sense since it’s Saturday. Shabbat services were held last night.

I perch on a bench and focus on my breathing. I try to feel God’s presence. I want Him to tell me what to believe, what to do. But I feel nothing. With no rabbi or other worshippers, it’s just a big room with wooden benches and a few stained glass windows. There’s no actual pulpit, just two lecterns facing out. I assume one is for the rabbi and the other for the cantor. There’s no ark to hold the Torah.

When I was a child, we went to synagogue once a year on the anniversary of my father’s death so my mother could say the Mourner’s Kaddish. My father died when I was three so I have only a few
gauzy memories. He was an alcoholic who electrocuted himself while drunk on the job. My mother was a martyr, and she liked to make her grief public. If it had been culturally permissible, she’d have thrown herself on his funeral pyre, not because she loved him so much (she never said anything particularly good about him) but for the spectacle. She never remarried, never had another relationship. Her greatest pleasure in life seemed to be decrying her misfortunes. I don’t think she minded dying painfully of ovarian cancer, but it was so quick that she barely had time to let everyone hear her suffering. In any given room, she liked to be the worst off, loudly. That didn’t leave much use for faith.

Until now, I suppose I haven’t had much use either. I shouldn’t be here, searching for God as a way to find Marley. He’s not a GPS system. I shouldn’t be here praying that my husband is on the up-and-up. I could say I’m searching for meaning, for the lesson in all of this, but mostly, I’m here to curry favor with the God I’ve neglected. If I want to split hairs, I could argue that He neglected me first, given what happened to my father.

All I know is, whatever I’m supposed to feel in His house, I don’t.

As I bow my head and silently ask that He return Marley to me safe and sound, I know that I have no right to ask. I can only hope that He appreciates chutzpah.

“Hello,” says a pleasant female voice. My head snaps up, and my eyes fly open. The woman coming toward me is in her midtwenties, in jeans and a fitted long-sleeved T-shirt, willowy and pretty. She has dark blond hair and an aquiline nose. I can’t help thinking that she doesn’t look very Jewish.

“Hi,” I say.

“You’re Marley’s mother.”

It startles me to be recognized, though I shouldn’t be surprised. This is what Paul’s been working 24/7 to achieve. “Yes.”

“I totally admire what your husband is doing to find her.”

So people do think it’s all him. That’s not in my head. I try to
think of how to respond, whether to thank her on Paul’s behalf. Nothing comes out. I’ve barely left the house since this began, and my social skills are rusty. “And you are?”

“Hannah. I’m the cantor. Is there anything I can help you with?”

I realize that I’m playing with my wedding band, twisting it back and forth. I want to get the hell out of here.

I shouldn’t have thought the word “hell” in synagogue. Not that Jews believe in hell, but still, I shouldn’t be cussing.

“No, thank you,” I say, because no one can help. Really, Hannah seems very nice. She’s the kind of hip theologian that probably attracts college students and maybe can relate to teenagers, too. If Marley ever comes home, I could bring her by to talk to Hannah.

When I think “if,” my eyes fill with tears.

Hannah comes closer, her expression concerned. “You can hang out here as long as you want. Sometimes it helps people feel more connected to God.”

“I don’t think it’s having that effect on me. I should go.”

“Prayer is a very individual activity. There’s no right or wrong.” That sweet smile again.

My head aches, and I feel woozy. My daughter is missing. I may have chosen the wrong man to be her father. If He doesn’t already know I need help, then there’s nothing left to say.

“You know, God is more forgiving than people assume. All that wrath in the Old Testament, it can fool you.” She’s still smiling as she takes another step toward me, and I feel like she could actually be the devil, if Jews believed in him. Why else is she telling me I have to be forgiven when she doesn’t even know me?

I stand up, desperately wanting to get away from her, and feel my knees buckle. I’m back on the hard bench, fighting to catch my breath. Hannah is next to me in an instant, sitting beside me. She smells like rosemary and mint, the kind of shampoo you buy at Whole Foods.

“You’re under so much strain,” she says, “but you can’t forget to take care of yourself. You’re no good to Marley if you don’t.” She
seems kind, but is she really? She assumed I need forgiveness. She’ll probably tweet about me the minute I leave.

My hands are shaking again. “Do you have anything to eat? I think that’s all I really need right now. I missed breakfast.”

“And lunch, too?” She smiles sympathetically. “I’ll be right back.”

It might be low blood sugar, or the realization that my daughter may never get to be Hannah’s age, possibly because I failed to protect her. Or she may reach Hannah’s age and I may never know it. I’ll never find out who she becomes.

I remember there’s gum in my purse. I put three sticks in my mouth at once, figuring that should be enough sugar to get me to the car, and rising on wobbly legs, I make my getaway.

ONE THING ABOUT OLD
farmhouses is the lack of closet space. Which means there’s not a lot of area to search. As I grope around in our overstuffed shared closet, I’m not looking for anything specific, only answers.

I lift the wooden shoe rack where Paul’s oxfords and wing tips and loafers and hiking boots are neatly lined up. Nothing. I check under the rows of T-shirts and other summer clothing on his half of the upper shelf. Nothing. I even push aside all the hanging fabrics and feel around the back wall, the plaster cool under my hand, in case there’s some hidden compartment, a safe maybe, some treasure trove that contains the evidence of all his nefarious acts. Nada. Every drawer of his dresser—ditto.

He took his laptop with him, but I wouldn’t be able to get in anyway. It’s password protected and always has been, something that never struck me as strange before. And being Paul, his password is a sequence of letters and numbers, most likely random, unguessable.

I can’t imagine Paul keeping a journal. So what am I looking for, really? Suspicious receipts, unusual correspondence, incriminating pictures. All things suspicious, unusual, and incriminating—that about covers it.

The drawer of his nightstand contains a surprise: the Holy Bible. I never knew he owned one. It’s got a cracked leather spine, like it’s
been paged through often. But I never saw it, or saw him reading it. I wonder how long it’s been in his possession, if it moved with us from our old neighborhood or even cross-country from DC. Is it possible he’s had it his whole life, since he was a boy? That would be so sentimental of him. But then, once you have a Bible, you’re stuck. It would feel sacrilegious to throw it out.

Or maybe he got it once Marley disappeared. He wanted to pray. Or he wanted to confess right in our home, cut out the middleman. Or he’s imitating a hotel. His side of the room is just that impersonal.

Just like Marley. Her clean room. Her scrubbed computer. Her cryptic, underused Facebook page. Her impassive, inscrutable face over the past months. Yes, she’s his daughter. Or is that what his actions turned her into?

The fact that I haven’t found anything—the fact that Paul seems to be an automaton, with no personal possessions—is not comforting. That, in itself, seems suspicious. Paul is smart, maybe even brilliant enough to hide his secrets behind the FindMarley operation, to have driven his daughter away while being venerated for his herculean efforts to bring her back. He’s definitely too smart to leave evidence lying around.

Unless there’s no evidence to be found, and I’m suspecting an innocent man.

There’s a knock at the door—no, a succession of knocks, as if someone feels entitled to entry, won’t take no for an answer, and I panic. Paul’s here, I think. He tricked me. He never went on a media tour at all; he just wanted to see what I’d do alone in the house.

I need to calm down. Paul wouldn’t knock. He’d use his key. If he says he’s in Chicago, that’s where he is. I’m not in one of those schlocky women-in-jeopardy movies. I’m not midnineties Ashley Judd.

The knocking continues. My car is parked in the driveway, so someone can tell I’m home. Most likely, it’s Strickland, with more questions.

Do I have the right to not answer my door? Do I have the right to remain silent if I haven’t been arrested?

I look at myself in the full-length mirror affixed to the back of the bedroom door. I’m in sweats; my hair is coiled in a bun at the nape of my neck, no makeup on. I’m haggard. I’ve become a hag. If Strickland sees the difference in me from the woman he met ten days ago, he’ll realize I must be innocent. The guilty wouldn’t age this much in this little time.

He’s still knocking, with no increase in volume or pace. He’s dogged. He’ll wait me out.

I walk downstairs slowly and look out the fish-eye. Michael is on the doorstep. I feel like crying, I’m so relieved. As always, though, he comes with his own set of problems.

“You can’t be here,” I say as I open the door. My eyes flick down the two-lane dirt road. Sure, our nearest neighbor would require binoculars to see him here on the doorstep. But Strickland could come by at any time with more questions.

No, Michael shouldn’t be here, for his own good as well as mine. He could easily become a suspect. He was in town that day. But part of me wants him to hold me and tell me it’ll be all right. For a few minutes, I can believe it.

“Let me come inside and talk to you.” His brown eyes are baleful. His silver hair is bushy, just shy of a pompadour. He’s going to be sixty-one in a few months. I’ve never known if I want him for a lover or a father, which is, most would agree, disconcerting.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” I need to stand firm. I’ve been telling him not to call or text, so he shows up on my doorstep instead?

“You told me that I had something to do with Marley’s disappearance. It kept me up all night, Rachel.” He does look tired. “I needed to see you in person and look you in the eyes. I need to know that you believe I would never do anything like what you described. I’d never hurt you or Marley. You know how I feel about her.”

I do know. Marley was one of his favorite kids ever, and that’s including his own.

“Why won’t you look at me?”

I look at him. “I know you didn’t have anything to do with her running away.”

He doesn’t move. His sadness—and his desire—is palpable.

I find myself saying, “Okay, you can come in. Just for a minute, to use the bathroom.” He has an aging prostate. What choice do I have?

I step aside and avert my eyes as he walks in. Even after all this time, it feels strange to see him in a sweater and jeans. It seems like he should be in a button-down and tie, like when he used to treat Marley. Back then, he made me feel like it really would be all right.

Just like that, I’m crying.

He makes a move to hug me, and I step back. “The bathroom’s that way,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the innards of the house.

“I don’t need to use the bathroom.”

“Then what do you need?” Our eyes meet, and I shake my head again. You can’t have that.

He beelines for the window seat. The sun settles into the lines on his face. “No funny business,” he says, smiling. “See, I’m on display.”

I continue to lurk awkwardly, and then finally, under the force of his intention and my own loneliness, I move to the window seat, the other end. We’re out in the open. If Strickland comes by, I’ll be able to say that I had nothing to hide. I was visiting with an old friend.

“I’ve either got Ebola or bad breath,” he jokes.

I gaze out over the fields. Oh, Marley, please walk across. “If you told me she’s never coming back, I’d kill myself.” I meet his eyes. “I would. I’ve got nothing else.”

He winces. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“Then make it untrue.” He’s suddenly kinetic, and it’s like he’s shed twenty years. “I’ll leave Alicia. I have as much money as Paul does, and a lot more time. I’ll retire and we could go anywhere. I
love you. I love Marley. I’d be a better stepfather to her than he is a father.”

“It’s not a competition between you and Paul.”

“Sometimes I think you’re determined to stay unhappy.”

“You mean determined not to sleep with you.” He winces again. “I haven’t been unhappy.”

“You were just talking about suicide!”

“If she doesn’t come back.” I jut my chin out stubbornly. Sometimes I turn into an oppositional child around him. See, father, not lover.

“If you would die without her, it means you weren’t making enough of your life before she left.”

He’s got me there. He’s not as rational as Paul, but his mind makes rapid connections. He’s a doctor. Assimilating information and drawing conclusions—it’s the key to diagnosis. It’s what he’s done for thirty years.

“You’re thinking about my age again,” he says.

“How do you do that?” I ask with an amazement that’s not entirely pleased.

“I’ve known you for years. I can read you.”

“For most of that time, you knew me as Marley’s mom.”

“No, I knew you as Rachel, who happened to be Marley’s mom.”

His gaze on my face generates its own warmth. He does this to me, makes me feel like a real live person. An interesting person. Someone worth pursuing, worth driving a couple hundred miles to reach. It makes me want to touch him, but not that way. At least, I don’t think it’s that way. He says I’m too scared to find out.

“You should go,” I say.

“You focus on my age to avoid what you really feel for me.”

“You should go.”

“When’s Paul coming back?”

I look out the window, like Marley might appear and save me. “Where does Alicia think you are?”

“She knows I’m here. She knows about Marley. The whole community does.” He smiles a little devilishly. Sometimes I think he enjoys doing this to Alicia, hiding things in plain sight. Maybe it makes him feel clever. “I have a casserole in my car that she baked for you.”

“Great. Now I have to feel guilty when I didn’t even invite you.”

“You practically invited me.”

I feel myself flush. “I did not.”

“You volunteered the information that Paul was away.”

“That was a mistake.”

“In the Freudian sense. You knew I’d ‘surprise’ you.” He doesn’t do air quotes around the word “surprise” but he might as well have. “Don’t be embarrassed. I understand why you couldn’t just invite me.”

He’s accusing me of manipulation but making it sound like a charming quirk of mine. Did my subconscious orchestrate this? Having him show up here when I’m already weak, when I really could use someone to touch me? Paul and I haven’t had sex since Marley disappeared.

I wonder if this is how I run my life. I influence rather than control. I set traps for people.

He’s inching forward, daring me to stop him.

“It’s really phenomenal, what Paul’s doing for Marley. Don’t you think?” It works. Michael halts in his tracks.

“Yes, it is. Paul’s a phenomenal man.” Again, that trace of sarcasm, almost like an aftertaste. Michael only met Paul once, in a family session years ago. Maybe they were sizing each other up even then. Michael’s older (and looks it) but is also more classically handsome. They’re both confident, both alphas. I guess you could say I have a type.

“Did you ever have another patient go missing?” I ask. If Michael was warning me through veiled case studies before, maybe I can get him to do it again.

He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he says, “You know, the police
haven’t come out to see me yet to ask about Marley.” He holds my gaze.

“Are you saying you’d have something to tell them? Have you been holding out on me? Is it about Paul?”

Who’s manipulating now?

The crying starts up again. Big, ugly, little-kid sobs. He knows something. Marley has more secrets, lurking, waiting to be revealed. Maybe they involve Paul; maybe they’re worse than that. Maybe it’s me.

I can’t take it anymore. I just want her to be my sweet baby girl again.

His arms are around me, holding me together, and I wish it didn’t, but it feels so good to let go.