Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (25 page)

“WHAT DO YOU PLAN
on saying?” Paul’s trying to keep the strain out of his voice. Meanwhile, he’s got the steering wheel in a death grip. He’s in his dark colors and business casual. I am, too. We’re a matched set.

“I’ll see what the reporters ask.”

“But first we’re going to make a statement. Didn’t Candace go over this with you?” His exasperation is behind a gossamer veil.

“She did.” The windshield wipers are hypnotic. It’s been raining since last night, and we’re going to be outside, in front of a San Francisco police station. “Do you have an umbrella in the car?”

“It’s not raining in San Francisco. I checked the weather report.”

I reach into my purse and finger the Klonopins that I stashed for emergencies. It helps to have them there, even if I don’t take them.

The scenery is devoid of color. Everything’s gray, from the road to the sky. The cars immediately surrounding us all seem to be gray, too. Is that possible? Am I just—

“Damn it, Rachel,” Paul says. “Would you talk to me? This is important.”

“I know it is.”

“So pay attention. What do you plan on saying?” He repeats the question slowly, like I might be reading his lips.

“I’m not a child. Stop talking to me like that.” It’s one of the
things Michael pointed out. I would relay conversations I had with Paul about inconsequential topics, and Michael would say, “He’s talking down to you. Don’t you see it?” I see it now.

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 my 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.