Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (29 page)

“I’ve spent so much time thinking about where you are and why you might have left and it’s this rabbit hole. I don’t get anywhere. I think you might have had a boyfriend that you never told me about, and you’re with him. I’ve asked your old friends but they don’t know who he might be.

“If you’re with him right now, I hope he’s treating you right. I hope you won’t accept anything less. I’ve accepted less sometimes in my life. Your dad, though—he’s . . . I’ll tell you a little story. If you’ve
been following the coverage for a while, then you know I’ve been a public relations disaster. There was this morning show interview, and then everything went haywire at the press conference earlier. Your father is great at all that stuff, of course. A total natural. You and I both know how he likes to be in charge.

“But when I told him that I wanted to do this—that I was going to sit here and talk all night, no script, no PR people to advise me—he set up the camera and left.” I smile, remembering his rah-rah gesture. “He can be sweet, your father. Sometimes I forget that. I don’t know if you get to see it enough.”

I lean into the camera, ignoring the magnifying effect on my crow’s-feet. “I should have worked harder on my marriage, because you were watching. That’s your model for how relationships are, and your dad and I could have been better models.”

I’m surprised to find how much I’m warming to this medium. I like monologue. I’ve spent so many years repressing and representing that it feels good to let go. My day at the police station has apparently rid me of my inhibitions. Which reminds me of Strickland. Is he watching right now? What about Michael? Well, I’m not talking to either of them. This is between Marley and me.

“When Dad and I said in the press conference that we’re going to work harder, he was telling the truth. It wasn’t just PR. To be honest, I didn’t know that for sure until a little while ago. Your father does put a lot of effort into managing his image. But then, I do, too. It’s just that he’s done a much better job.” I bet the trolls are going to have a field day with this little tangent. I can’t worry about that. “Anyway, he meant it, and I mean it, too. We’re going to try. Not that that’s any guarantee. Because obviously, I’ve been more unhappy than I’ve wanted to let on, more unhappy than I wanted to admit to myself.”

I actually hope Michael is watching. I’d like him to see that he’s wrong about Paul, though I don’t know if he’d ever admit it.

I don’t know how to feel about Michael. He did try to help Marley
and me. But I’m not sure what constitutes help anymore. He showed me love and compassion, but since he’s been in my life, I’ve actually felt less confident than ever.

He made Marley feel better about herself, though, didn’t he? She seemed happier after treatment. But still, his methods, what he said about Paul, how he “validated Marley’s reality” . . .

I take a deep breath. “Sorry I drifted off there,” I say. “I was about to tell you about Dr. Michael and where he comes in. Your father and I were not in a good place. I can’t blame Michael for that, or for my choices. He made me realize some uncomfortable things, things I wanted to run away from, and that could be where the pills came in, too. I don’t exactly know.

“But I know that when you asked me if I could imagine a life without your father, I lied. I told you no. I should have trusted that you’re old enough to hear the truth, as complicated as it is. Because you didn’t believe me anyway, did you? I’ve been trying to seem happy, and failing.” I sit back and brush the hair from my shoulders. “No wonder you wanted to get out of here. It wasn’t a very happy place to be, and it wasn’t a very honest place, either. But that’s all going to change. I promise you that.”

I want to say more in Paul’s defense, to try to undo what I fear Michael might have done. I’ll do that later. I don’t want to overwhelm her. But she deserves a chance to see this new side of her father, the side that Michael never predicted.

I’m not used to talking about myself, not to Marley. Where do I go now? How do I fill our time together?

It’s a stretch, but I tell Marley, “Hold on. I’ll be back in a second.” I return with my iPod. “I call this my ‘Teen Angst’ playlist.” I feel a little self-conscious, which is something I should have been feeling for the last twenty minutes. Somehow, it seems more revealing to go back to my teenage self, though it also seems right.

The music starts. The guitars are loud and furious, the vocals more like screams. “This is what I listened to when I was in high
school. I didn’t have a lot of friends. I still don’t. This was what I felt inside, while outside, I was doing everything I was supposed to. I didn’t want to give my mother any problems. For one thing, if I had, I would have had to listen to her: ‘Like I need this! Lord, what did I ever do to You to have a daughter like this?’ It seemed easier to do what I was supposed to, and listen to my music, and fantasize.

“In my fantasies, I went to San Francisco, which is what eventually happened, but not in the way I imagined. I thought I’d be wild and free in the Haight. When people don’t know San Francisco, they always picture the Haight, don’t they? That’s where we thought you went at first, before we heard about you getting on the bus to go across the country.

“Speaking of the bus . . . I talked to Kyle.” I smile. I’ve got a soft spot for that kid. “He really liked you. You told him your name was Vicky? I thought that might be a code, a message you were sending me. Vicky and Marley, the twins. The yin and yang. I guess you and Kyle were both lying, making up stories. I know his real story. When you come home, I’ll tell you. I don’t want to out him on the Internet.” Also, a cliffhanger couldn’t hurt.

The next song comes on, equally loud, equally angry, equally short. “Punk songs always seem to be under two minutes. They flame bright and burn out fast. Isn’t that a saying? No, wait. It’s something about how it’s better to burn out than fade away. Who said that?” I can’t come up with it. “My memory isn’t as good as it was before I started taking the pills. I need to figure out some other way to manage my anxiety. To manage my life.

“I think about how I felt when I was your age. It often seemed like I was just killing time. Did you feel that way, too? Like you were killing time here in this house with us and you wanted to get going? Get on with things? Maybe you’re in love. Maybe he’s watching this with you right now.” I wave into the camera. “Hi. I’m Rachel. Bring my daughter back, and then we’ll talk, okay? If she loves you, maybe we can learn to love you, too. Or if you’re alone, honey, you don’t have to be. We’re here, with open arms.”

More tears, but I’m still okay.

“When I was your age,” I say, “I was more interesting than I am now. I was more of an individual, anyway. I had distinct likes and dislikes. I felt things a lot more deeply. Every time I had a feeling, I didn’t try to paper over it or run away from it. I did the opposite. I ran toward it. That’s what this music was about.” I gesture toward the iPod. “It was about chasing my feelings. I made this playlist not too long ago because I wanted to recapture something. I guess I wanted to recapture me. The me before I looked to men to make me feel safe.

“They just seemed so capable, you know? The men, I mean. Your father, and Michael, too. It was so easy to give myself over to what they thought and let them run things. Less stressful, at least in the beginning. They took what I gave, and I never said stop. Never said, ‘No, listen to me, it’s not like that, it’s like this.’” I look right into the camera. “No, I never said that.”

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Pros & Cons

This is so stupid. It’s the kind of thing my dad would do (the kind of thing he DOES do). I already know in my heart what the right decision is. But if I know, then it can’t hurt to do the list, can it?

It’s just extra insurance. It’s proof that I’m right. Once I make my decision (and I’ve already made my decision, I’m getting on the bus tomorrow), there’s no going back. No looking back. No second-guessing.

Like Brandon would say, it’s case closed. End of story.

BLEACH WAS DRIBBLING OUT
of the corner of my mouth. It felt hot as it trickled down my chin, yet the burn wasn’t as bad as I expected. I made sure not to taste it. Didn’t lick my lips, didn’t move, except to breathe. I had to keep breathing. After all, I was playing unconscious, not dead.

I really was disoriented. But that could be the accumulation of not eating or sleeping. And the fear. The fear was with me all night, as I listened to Brandon outside the bathroom door. Sometimes it sounded like he was crying; other times, he screamed and swore and broke things. The silences were the scariest times of all. I thought maybe he was the one who’d killed himself, or just walked right out the door, but how could I know? I’d never know when to leave this room. I’d fossilize in here.

When I could see the sun coming up, I applied the bleach. I figured he’d have to pee soon, and then my plan would be in motion. But minutes ticked by. Hours. What was he doing, pissing in the kitchen sink? Was he ever going to want to take a shower or brush his teeth? Brandon’s a pretty clean guy. For him not to go into the bathroom for so long—it’s out of character. Not that I know his character. Well, actually, I’m gambling that I do. That’s what my whole plan hinges on, which makes it fucking terrifying.

I needed him to break down the door soon. Even though bleach
is strong stuff, the little that I put on my collar and my face might not stay potent indefinitely. I poured the rest of the bottle down the drain, because Brandon had to find it empty; I didn’t even think I might need to dab myself again. But if Brandon couldn’t smell it on me anymore by the time he came in, or if he just plain didn’t believe me . . . if he thought I was trying to trick him again . . .

He really might lose all control. He might drag me out of the bathroom, and then . . .

I told myself not to think that way. Think positive. What’s the worst that could happen?

That was not the right question to ask.

The places my mind went—I’m not even going to write them down. I just want to forget those thoughts ever passed through me. Dr. Michael used to say that about thoughts: Let them pass through you. Let them float by, like leaves on a stream. We don’t need to buy into our thoughts; we can watch them drift away.

“Marley.” Brandon rattled the door handle, and I jumped. Good thing he couldn’t see me yet. “Let me in.”

I couldn’t let him in. That was the plan.

I hadn’t realized what a challenge it would be to stay down on the floor, eyes closed, “unconscious,” while he got more agitated and shook the knob so hard that the wood threatened to splinter. If he broke the door down, it might not be to save me. It might be to beat the shit out of me.

“Marley! OPEN THE DOOR!” Now he was pissed.

I willed myself to stay where I was and to stop shaking. Unconscious people don’t shake, do they? By the time he was inside the bathroom, I needed to be still. I could feel the journal against the back of my calf, where I’d attached it with surgical tape. We’re in this together, no journal left behind.

BE STILL. CALM DOWN. CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

He was screaming my name as he slammed his fist into the door. Then, “You think this is funny?”

No, I wanted to tell him. Nothing’s ever been less funny.

I took a deep breath, hoping that I’d quit vibrating like a tuning fork. He loves you, I told myself. That’s what it’s all going to come down to.

And if I’m wrong about that? If I gamble on Brandon and lose . . . ?

Then I’m probably dead.

Not the best sequence of thoughts to have when you’re playing dead-ish.

“OPEN . . . THE . . . DOOR! I’M NOT KIDDING!”

He was hurling his body against it. Yes, that’s what I needed him to do. But I’d never been so scared. I needed him in here; I absolutely didn’t want it.

I squeezed my eyes shut again. The wood sounded like it was giving way. Somehow, against all odds, I was not shaking any longer. I could do this.

He was here, in the bathroom.

“Marley,” he said urgently, or maybe angrily. Frantically, that was it. “Marley, what did you do?” The bleach bottle had rolled away, maybe kicked by his foot. He had to piece it together; I couldn’t pipe up and tell him. It was so hard to keep my eyes closed, but everything depended on it. My whole life did. How often is that expression actually true?

“Marley. Wake up.” He lifted me by the shoulders and shook me. My eyes snapped open involuntarily, for just a second, and then closed again, like a doll’s. It could have looked like they’d rolled back in my head, which fit my bleach-overdose story.

He was still shaking me. I felt like he might break my neck, it was that rough, but my eyes stayed shut. Then he did something weird, given the past twenty-four hours: He pulled me toward him. He was holding me.

“If you want to die,” he said in a low voice, “I can’t stop you.”

No! No, you absolutely can stop me!

“I knew you had problems, but I really did think you were stronger than this.”

I am stronger! This is me being stronger. Me tricking you into doing the right thing, into calling an ambulance. So you can save the girl you love. Don’t you want to save me, Brandon?

If not, I’ve just given him the opportunity to get rid of a pretty big problem.

He set me back down on the floor. I could feel that he was still next to me, though he didn’t speak. Full minutes passed. I could practically hear him calculating. Not a good sign.

Call 911, I begged him silently. Please.

It’s not like he needed to be a saint (or even in love with me) to want to keep me from dying on his bathroom floor.

Shit. I’d started to shake again. Was he looking at me? Did he notice?

Light as a feather, stiff as a board, light as a feather, stiff as a board . . .

What was I thinking with this plan? It depended on a psycho having a heart, or a conscience.

Okay, so he needed a little help, a nudge to do the right thing. I could roll over and sputter like I was just waking up. I could moan how bad I felt, that it was like I was being burned alive from the inside. “Please take me to the hospital,” I’d say. “I love you. I need you, Brandon.”

Why didn’t my parents enroll me in an acting class? They put me in every other activity on the planet. If Brandon didn’t fall for my performance, then he’d know I had tried to play him. There was no telling what he’d do then.

I had no choice but to see this thing through. To stop shaking and believe in him, just enough.

“Marley,” he said softly, and touched my cheek. Somehow, I managed not to startle. Then he lifted me up. I tried to go limp and heavy, like I imagined an unconscious body would be. I don’t have any experience with that, but he might have some basis for comparison.

Don’t think like that. There’s good in him. I can’t be that wrong about a person, can I?

He had me over his shoulder, like a fireman carrying someone out of a burning building. I opened one eye, just a peek, and saw that we were headed out of the apartment and down the corridor, toward the back exit that he told me nobody used except him. There was no point in screaming, never had been. I’ve got no doubt the building was otherwise uninhabited.

I’m sure that he made up the artists, including the foot painter. Especially her. When I asked about her subject matter, he must have said the first thing that came into his head. So if there are no artists, there could be no witnesses to whatever was going to happen next.

We were outside, approaching his car, the only one on the street. The North Carolina sunshine was its brilliant, blinding self. I closed my eyes again, willing myself not to cry.

He placed me in the passenger seat and pulled the seat belt across me. A good sign. He didn’t want me to go flying through the windshield if we crashed. He still cared about what happened to me.

I heard him start the ignition. Then we didn’t move for a long couple of minutes. He was weighing his options. Not a good sign. If he wanted me to be okay, you’d think he’d start driving to the hospital immediately.

Keep your eyes closed, Marley. No matter what.

I had to remind myself that he could look over at me at any time. He might have been looking right then. I couldn’t afford to blow my cover: I’d drunk a bottle of bleach, and I was unconscious, maybe dying.

He started to drive. And talk. “I tried to be good to you, Marley. I did.”

I felt myself jolt a little at his voice. Please, let him be watching the road, not me. Please don’t let him have seen that.

“I knew you had mental problems and I never judged you. I wanted to help you. I wanted to love you and give you a better life.”

Yeah, right. But don’t clench your jaw, Marley. Don’t even think about arguing.

“I made some stuff up, and maybe that was wrong.” SOME STUFF? MAYBE? “But I thought that I could make it all true later. You know, we’d go on Disappeared.com and we’d start over. I was going to become Brandon Blazes, when you became whoever you were going to be. We never did come up with your name.” He let out this sound, like a sob. “Why? I don’t get it. Why?”

I didn’t know what he meant, and it was no time to ask for clarification.

“I bet you weren’t even a virgin. You didn’t feel like a virgin.”

He was mad now. Another bad sign. I felt a trickle of sweat making its way down my face. Unconscious people can sweat, right?

“And you gave head like you’d done it a lot. You probably lied about that, too.”

We were swerving slightly. A nearby car honked. “Fuck you, motherfucker!” he shouted. It didn’t seem smart to have road rage and call attention to yourself when you’ve got an unconscious, missing, underage girl in the car.

Wait, he was calling attention to himself. That meant someone might call the cops. This could end, no matter what Brandon decided to do.

Could I somehow alert other drivers? Wait for the right moment and then jump out of the car? If we were stopped at a light, he could get out and chase me down. If we were moving when I leapt, he couldn’t chase me, but I could be in pretty bad shape on the landing. I’d be on the side of the road and he could come back and finish me off.

“There’s a difference between people who lie,” he said, “and liars. I’m not a liar. But you might be.”

I needed to listen carefully. If it sounded like he was too mad at me to do the right thing, or if we were in this car too long for us to be going to the hospital, I’d have to jump out and take my chances. The street might be safer, no matter how I landed.

I could smell Brandon. He must have been sweating a lot. It was
pretty rancid. He’s terrified, I realized. Did that make him more likely to let me go, or less?

“I wanted you to be my family,” he said in a monotone. “For us to have new names together. That’s an even bigger commitment than getting married, you know what I mean? We would have been the only ones who knew each other’s secrets. And I was going to tell you everything, eventually. I was going to tell you my real name, my whole past, everything. I thought I could trust you.” His voice grew tight and angry again.

I wanted to tell him he could have trusted me. I wasn’t the one who lied on Facebook. He knew my real name, my real everything. He had it all backward: I never should have trusted him.

“WHORE!!!!” he suddenly shouted, and I couldn’t help it, I jumped. My eyes flew open.

That’s it, I thought. I’m dead now.

But amazingly, he was too enraged to notice. “Why did you have to do this?” he said, and it sounded like he was half-crying.

It would have been a great time to jump out of the car, but by then, I’m pretty sure we were on the freeway. It’s hard to gauge speed with your eyes closed. It seemed awfully fast, though. Break-your-neck-leaping-from-a-moving-car fast.

Eyes closed. Stop shaking.

This was it. The end. He wasn’t taking me to the hospital. He was going to dispose of my body somewhere. In the woods, maybe. As I listened to him rant, I was thinking that these were my last minutes. One way or another, I was a goner. Either I could leap to my death from a car going seventy, or I could let him bury my body. But once we reached the woods, I’d have the element of surprise: I could “wake up” while he was digging me a shallow grave or something, and then I could take off running. He’d catch me, though. I was always the worst in gym class.

So this was it. My parents were going to find my body. Or they wouldn’t. But time would pass—days, months, years—and they’d grow old thinking that I’d hated them. It’s not true. Despite what
Dr. Michael said, I don’t hate either of them. I even love them. All Dr. Michael’s tricks, and I never even completely gave up my love for my dad. And my mom—it’s like a lottery ticket: Take a dime and scratch off the gray stuff and jackpot! The love is right there.

If I managed to get out of this, I didn’t think I could actually go home. How could I face them or anyone else? But I’d send them a message, at least, let them know I was okay. Well, alive, anyway. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be okay again.

The car was slowing down, like we were getting off the freeway. We hadn’t gone that far; we were probably still in civilization. It was my chance to jump out.

I pictured myself reaching for the door handle, hitting the ground running. But I couldn’t make my arm move. I was too frightened to even open my eyes.

Then Brandon pulled to a stop. I could hear a siren, moving closer, but I didn’t know anything beyond that. If I bolted, he’d grab me, no problem. Best to stay where I was, to see where he put me and then reassess.

He touched my hair again. “Deep down,” he said in this low voice, “I think you’re a good girl. You deserve better than this.”

My heartbeat accelerated. Better than what? Than what he was about to do to me?

“I do love you. I hope you can forgive me.”

Oh, shit. He was actually going to kill me. This was it. My last few seconds on the planet, and I wasn’t sure I could even form words. If I did speak, would he change his mind, or would I just give him another reason? Should I beg? Tell him he deserves better than this, too? That I know, deep down, he’s a good boy?