Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (26 page)

But I’m not sure I’m finished. Contradicting Paul, saying no, we’re not going to work on things, that, in fact, our family is going to change forever—it would definitely show I have a backbone, that I’m my own woman. Maybe that’s what Marley needs to hear to come home. If she’d heard it sooner, she might not have left.

I look at Paul, and while I’m sure he’s well rehearsed, I believe that he does want to save this family, the one we created together. I know what Michael said, about Paul being a narcissist, but those draft e-mails tell a different story.

Or did he drop his phone on purpose, with his e-mail visible, knowing that I’d be lured to the Drafts folder?

“We’ll take questions now,” I say.

Candace steps forward and begins calling on the reporters. It’s almost exciting, like a presidential press conference in the Rose Garden.

The first reporter is asking Paul if he knew about my relationship with Dr. Harrison before it was revealed online. No softballs here. Well, if Marley’s been following us, she already knew it was Dr. Michael.

“No,” Paul says ruefully, “but I should have.”

“And did Marley know?”

Paul takes that one, too. “We don’t believe so, but she probably does now.” Same rueful smile, the one that lets all the viewers at home put themselves in his shoes. “Look, we never said we were a perfect family. Rachel and I have both made mistakes, with each other and with Marley. But we love our family and we’re prepared to fix all the mistakes we’ve ever made. Please give us a chance, sweetie.”

First “honey,” and now “sweetie.” Marley has never liked when he calls her those endearments. To our ears, he sounds disingenuous. But to everyone else, I have a feeling he sounds like the world’s greatest dad.

We get a couple of easy questions about the website and how the
search is going. Then a reporter says, “While the case is still technically classified as a runaway, there’s been some investigation as if it’s a missing persons. And Rachel seems to have become a person of interest, given that her relationship with Dr. Harrison could provide a motive. Also, some unaccounted-for time on the morning of Marley’s disappearance might provide opportunity. Care to comment?”

I’m about to say, “No comment,” but Paul is quicker. “Rachel had nothing to do with Marley’s disappearance.
Nothing.
”

“I’m hearing some defensiveness there,” the reporter rejoins.

“Have someone accuse your wife of something this heinous and see how you sound.”

For a second, I’m touched. Paul has come to my rescue. But it’s not impossible that was planned, too. Righteous indignation can be seen all the way in the cheap seats.

“Also,” Paul says, “I think you have your facts wrong. I work closely with Officer Strickland and he has never stated that my wife is a person of interest. Standard procedures are being followed, and Rachel and I have been nothing but cooperative and supportive of the police’s efforts.”

Candace indicates a tiny blond woman with a pageboy, fighting her way through the throng. “Mrs. Willits,” the woman says, “you said there was no affair. ‘Nothing physical,’ those were your words.”

“Right.” I smile, like she’s my friend, like I’m not quaking at the thought of where this might go.

“Were you aware that Dr. Harrison was making arrangements to leave his wife? That he’d told at least one close friend it was to be with you, because he was in love with you?”

“You’d have to ask him that.” My smile grows brittle. Stay strong. Be someone Marley can respect. But can she respect a husband stealer? Especially when that husband is Dr. Michael?

“I’m asking if you were aware.”

Paul looks at me and nods, as if to say, “Go ahead, honey. We’ve
already gone over all this at home. It won’t hurt me.” But we haven’t gone over it.

“I was aware,” I say slowly, each syllable crushed glass in my mouth, “that he had feelings for me. I was not aware that he was making any arrangements to leave his wife.”

“So you weren’t making arrangements to leave your husband.”

“No, I was not.” A thought is not an arrangement.

“And the state of your marriage now?”

I look at Paul. He looks at me. I assume he’s going to take this, but he’s waiting on me. There’s a vulnerability in his face that I barely recognize. I say, “We’re working on things,” and his relief is palpable.

Paul is asked about our collaboration with the police, how he’s felt about the outpouring of support, the most promising leads, if he has any media stops arranged in any new cities or if he’ll be returning to Boston or New York. I feel like things are winding down and the hardest part is behind us.

Candace says, “Just a few more questions,” and then calls on the reporter with the beret. Somehow, in my nervous scanning of the crowd, I didn’t even notice him. But he’s the most fearsome, the one who’s clearly been most dedicated to our story. He says, “Mrs. Willits, what can you tell me about the pills?”

My face goes slack, and I know that I’m sunk. I should have planned for this, should have consulted with Candace, should have told Paul. I should have done a lot of things, but what I did was hope that I’d finally get lucky and one of my secrets would stay secret.

Paul casts a quick glance toward Candace, and she shakes her head nearly imperceptibly. No, she doesn’t know this part either.

“The pills,” the reporter repeats. “The Klonopin and the Ativan. Prescribed by Dr. Michael Harrison. Paid for in cash, rather than with insurance. I can give you the name of the pharmacy and the dates, if that’ll jog your memory.” He smiles engagingly. Prick. He must have purposely waited until the end. This is what journalism has come to, sandbagging the parents of a runaway?

“I’m sure a mistake has been made,” Paul says. “We’ll have to get back to you. Next question?”

The reporter isn’t about to be ignored, not after he’s put in all that time on the hood of his Prius. “So you’re saying you didn’t know,” he asks Paul, “about your wife taking benzodiazepines—in rather large quantities, it would appear—that were prescribed by Dr. Harrison. Who was previously your daughter’s psychiatrist and is currently your wife’s ‘good friend.’” His reptilian eyes slither back and forth between Paul and me. “You didn’t know that, Mr. Willits?”

Paul is speechless. I can’t recall when, if ever, I’ve seen that happen. He’s thrown, humiliated, and I go back to the Drafts folder:
The move might be a mistake . . .
I’ve done a terrible thing to him, and to Marley, too. I’ve destroyed my family.

I can only pray that Marley isn’t watching. If she is, she’ll think I’m a drug addict and her psychiatrist is my pusher. And now everyone knows she was in therapy. That was her secret to tell, not that beret-wearing son-of-a—

“None of that’s your business,” I sputter. “Marley’s mental health is confidential.”

“I wasn’t asking about her mental health,” he responds without missing a beat. “I was asking about yours. Also, about a potential substance abuse problem, possibly facilitated by Dr. Harrison.” He looks at Paul with an eyebrow raised slightly in judgment. “You knew nothing about this?” So someone wants to tarnish Paul’s halo after all.

“It’s not Paul’s fault,” I say. “The pills were in the medicine cabinet the whole time. We don’t read each other’s pill bottles.” I meant to defend Paul, as he defended me earlier. But I realize, a second too late, that it’s also an admission of guilt. If my husband never noticed I’d become a drug addict, then we’re both implicated.

Candace steps into the fray, announces that the press conference is over, and thanks everyone for their time. There are plenty of questions now. But she hustles us away, in the direction of the garage.
The reporters and photographers and camera people are in hot pursuit. “We’ll talk later,” she says as she turns to face them. From her manner, you’d think she was about to sacrifice herself so we might live.

At the end of the block, Paul lets go. He starts crying. Shoulders shaking, audibly sobbing—I’ve broken him. Marley and I were a tag team.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, once, and then louder, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

THE HONEYMOON PHASE IS
over. Brandon’s not trying to be particularly sweet. He doesn’t trust me anymore. He probably thinks I’m like all the other girls he’s been with who lie and cheat, that I’m the one who tricked him by acting like someone I’m not.

For hours, he was in the thrift store recliner in the living room, pretending to read, and I sat on the futon pretending to watch TV. Every so often, I’d catch him staring at me over the top of his book. He wasn’t smiling.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked, my hand shaking the remote control.

“Why?” His voice was machete sharp. “Should I be?”

He came over to pick up his computer from the coffee table, and my whole body quaked. I came up with a plan last night, but I couldn’t bring myself to carry it out.

Then he walked the computer over to the kitchen counter and was online awhile before he started laughing in this really nasty way. I was obviously supposed to ask what was so funny. When I didn’t, he said, “You should see what they’re saying about your mom now.”

“Who’s they?” I tried to sound like I’m over it.

“The people online. The ones who follow you.”

“No one follows me. I don’t go anywhere.”

“You know what I mean. The people who follow the search.
Which sounds like it’s hit a dead end.” He allowed himself a triumphant little smirk. “But you should see this video of your parents giving a press conference. Classic.”

I had to fight not to go over to look. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. But I did really want to see the press conference. It was about me, after all.

I turned away from him and changed the channel. I felt like crying, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of that either. I want so badly to be out of this apartment, away from Brandon.

I’m stronger than I think, what’s the worst that can happen, I’m stronger than I think, what’s the worst—

“You really should see this,” he said. “No, seriously. Come here.” It wasn’t a request.

I stood up and walked over, making it clear that I was dragging my feet. That he’s not the boss of me. Besides, I did want to see it.

He played a video of the press conference. It started out okay. My dad made this ass-kissing opening statement where he thanked everyone, and then my mom talked right to the camera like it was me. She seemed sincere when she said how much she loves me and misses me. She’s not an actress. She can’t fake that.

Then she started talking about her affair with Dr. Michael, though she didn’t use his name. Well, talking about how she didn’t have an affair with him. She was saying that they were too good of friends, that she had betrayed my dad in that sense, but it wasn’t physical. In my peripheral vision, I could see Brandon was watching, all amused.

I sort of believed her. Especially when she said that it would be easier for people to understand an affair, so she would have come out and admitted it if it were true. That made sense to me.

The way she was talking, the way she was standing even, seemed different than I remember. Brandon was laughing at her, but she didn’t seem laughable to me. She seemed . . . different.

But even if she wasn’t sleeping with Dr. Michael, she was still the reason he rejected me. Where’s her apology for that?

“Just wait till you see them answer the reporters’ questions,” Brandon said. “It’s going to get ugly.”

During the Q & A, my mom didn’t seem as together as my dad, who sometimes took over when she left off. He talked about how it was partially his fault that my mom spent all that time with Dr. Michael. He hadn’t been a good enough listener. Well, no shit.

Brandon was getting off on the whole thing. Like when a reporter said that my mom had become a “person of interest” in my disappearance, he guffawed. I kept my face neutral. I didn’t want him to know I cared.

It’s not that I care about her, exactly. I happen to care about the truth, that’s all. The fact that my mother wanted to have a friendship with someone other than my father shouldn’t mean she’s a person of interest. Even if she was planning to run off with Dr. Michael (which I don’t believe), she obviously wouldn’t kill me before she went. And these people are supposed to be professionals?

My mom was holding up better than I would have expected, I’ll give her that.

“This is the best part,” Brandon said.

A guy in a beret was asking my mom about her pills. “Prescribed by your daughter’s psychiatrist,” he said.

By the time his question was through, he’d told the whole world I’m crazy and my mother’s a drug addict, who had an affair with my psychiatrist, who is her dealer, and my dad’s totally oblivious. I don’t think life can get any more mortifying. And Brandon thinks this is funny? He’s supposed to love me.

I had tears in my eyes, but I didn’t let him see. It looked like my dad felt pretty much the same way: sucker punched and ashamed. I never knew whether my parents really loved each other or if they were just used to each other. But in that moment, I was sure. She broke his heart.

She felt bad about it, you could tell, but what could she do? She had all these feelings she couldn’t control, and she made a bunch of
mistakes, and now she couldn’t take any of it back. Maybe we have more in common than I ever knew.

I did know about my mother’s pills. I saw the bottles. She was telling the truth about their being in the medicine cabinet. But I never noticed Dr. Michael’s name on them. She must have covered it up, or I never looked closely. Dr. Michael’s a good doctor. He never once talked about putting me on medication. He said it’s a last resort, when talking fails.

She could have manipulated him because he loves her. But would she really do that? Would he really do that, risk his career for her? It just doesn’t seem like either of them.

“It’s all over the websites,” Brandon said. “People are talking about how your mother probably tricked that doctor into killing you so they could run off together. His wife says he hid money in all these different bank accounts. If I didn’t know better, even I’d think your mother offed you.”

“Fuck you.”

“So you do care about her. I thought you cared about me, and us.”

I get it now: This was all a test, and I failed. Well, he failed my Wyatt test, so we’re even. No, he’s a janitor who’s been faking everything, all along. He faked his Facebook. He faked his friends. He faked his name. We’re not even close to even.

“You know what, Marley?” he rasped. “You should go home. Run home to the psychiatrist you’re in love with. No, wait, he’s IN LOVE WITH YOUR MOTHER! If this doesn’t prove it, that he’s risking everything so she can have her pills, pills that she loves more than you—”

I don’t know where it came from, but I started hitting him. Smacking and punching and screaming. “I know who you are! I know who you’re ashamed to be! Brandon Guillory! Brandon Guillory! Brandon Guillory!” I was attacking with my arms and with my words. It felt good, losing control this completely. I’d never let it happen before. I’ve worked so hard to prevent it.

He caught me in a bear hug and wrestled me over to the bed. “Calm down!” he shouted. “You need to calm down!” He sat on top of me and said he’d let me up when I stopped. I struggled for a while, and then I stopped, and he did let me up. I had this feeling like he hadn’t yet realized what I’d yelled, that he was too distracted by my whirling arms. But he’d get it soon.

“You went crazy,” he told me. He sounded almost admiring, like he didn’t know I had it in me.

I felt like going crazy again, spitting at him like those feral kids we read about in school, the ones who never had anyone to love or care for them. But the crazy had passed, and I was sorry to see it go. For a minute there, I hadn’t been scared at all. I didn’t even think, What if Brandon hurts me? I didn’t care, and that felt so sweet. But inside, I already knew he was going to hurt me. The question was only how badly.

He was back on top of me. The smell of him—I nearly gagged. He was unbuttoning my shirt and telling me how hot I was.

“I don’t think I want to,” I said. He acted like he hadn’t heard me.

He warned me that he has trouble stopping. Why didn’t I listen?

“I don’t want to,” I repeated. Still nothing from Brandon. It was like he’d crossed over to some other place, and my words couldn’t travel there.

I was prepared, though. There was a big knife from the kitchen that I’d placed in the nightstand drawer. If I maneuvered my body enough, I’d be able to reach out and grab it.

He was kissing my neck in this really hungry way.

“No,” I said, and pushed at his chest. He was bearing down with all his weight, and I couldn’t budge him.

His tongue darted out against my neck like a rat’s. That expression about throwing up a little in your mouth—turns out it’s true.

I tried to sit up but he had me pinned. If I wanted this to stop, I’d have to stop it. The nightstand wasn’t so far.

I wasn’t panicked like I would have expected. My mind had gone
really clear. I had a few options: I could try to reach the knife; I might be able to pick up the lamp and try to brain him; or I could choose to let this happen.

I realized pretty quickly that stabbing him was out. I couldn’t do a glancing blow to try to scare him, because then he could grab the knife back and really mess me up. So I’d have to stab to kill. I’d be aiming for a major organ or artery or something, and I’m not that good at anatomy. I might miss, and then what would he do to me? If I hit, then I’d be a murderer.

He was kissing my collarbone. He was going slow, being loving, hoping I’d get into it. He must have been able to feel that he wasn’t getting any response. Well, if he was going to do it against my will, he was getting as little of me as possible. I was playing that slumber party game in my head: “Light as a feather, stiff as a board.” I became the board. Dead weight.

So the next option was smashing a lamp against his head, trying to disorient him enough for me to run out into the street. I looked at my potential weapon, and it wasn’t promising. The thing came from Ikea or Walmart or something. It would probably break apart on contact. Then Brandon would be furious, and I’d have to revert to Plan A, with all its problems.

Which left submitting. Last year, we read about Gandhi and passive resistance. He and his followers wouldn’t cooperate with the regime in power and they sent the message that they couldn’t be broken, not by any means, and eventually, they won. The British left India. And I’m leaving Brandon. Tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. His power is only temporary. He can’t break me.

I didn’t want it, what he was doing, and I let him know it every second of the way. Stiff as a board.

I still had my idea from last night, the one I’d been too optimistic to try earlier. When this was over, that’s what I’d do. Just get through the next few minutes, I counseled myself, however you can.

“ ‘But I’m trying,’” I began to sing softly, “ ‘yes, I’m trying, / But I’m only lying in the dark / So alone / On my own / No one home.’”

“Seriously, Marley?” he said, and I could tell it was bugging him. Good.

“It’s in my head,” I said. “I feel like singing.”

I’ve heard about going to your happy place when something bad is happening. Where I was going, by singing my song—it wasn’t happy exactly. But it’s my mom’s song, her teen angst, and I felt like somehow she was there with me, when I needed her, like she used to be.

“ ‘And if love was worth a fortune,’” I sang, “ ‘Then I’d need a rise / To be in your eyes.’” I always loved that line, how British it was (“rise” instead of “raise”), though I’d never quite understood it. All along, it sounds like a love song, and then he’s saying that his love isn’t worth a fortune. He doesn’t love her that much after all.

I get it now.

When it was finished, when Brandon had rolled away, I could breathe again. I didn’t let myself think about what had just happened. There was no time for thinking; it was time for acting. Literally, I was going to have to act my ass off, if I wanted to get out of here.

“Earlier,” Brandon said, his eyes on my face, “you called me by a different name.”

The curtain’s up. Showtime. “I know the truth,” I said, “and it’s okay. I don’t care. I love you, no matter what.” All opposite-speak, every word.

Last night, I decided what I’d need is to be fluent in opposite-speak. Treat it like a game, with the following rules: Sound as convincing as you can, while meaning the opposite; don’t get caught up in your feelings or his; and remember, it’s only a game. I need him to believe I love him and will never ever leave. Then he’ll go back to work, and I can get the hell away from him, for good.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

“We’re in this together.”

“I don’t give a shit about my parents. I only care about you.”

“We’re going to start over somewhere new. We’ll get in the car and drive, scout locations for our new life.”

“You can quit your job. You really can go to college. You’re the smartest person I ever met.”

“You never need to be ashamed again.”

“I love you.”

It’s funny that I never told Brandon about opposite-speak, since I told him about everything else I used to think was important. Even though I was mad at my mom, I must have wanted to keep something sacred, just between us. Or maybe, intuitively, I always knew I might need it someday.

In order to play the game, I had to tell myself that Brandon’s this sick monster who deserves to be tricked and left. I couldn’t let myself think about what I used to like about him, the reasons I thought I loved him, or what his parents had done to him.

I have to remember that this is a game of survival. It’s me or him.