Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (4 page)

“You’re worried about Marley.”

All those AP classes are really paying off. “Yes, I’m worried. Because she’s not safe out there. You’re not helping her if you lie to me. You’re not protecting her.”

“I’m not lying.” She sounds piqued rather than empathetic. My little exercise backfired.

“But is there more to the story? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“It’s just”—she hesitated—“Marley isn’t going to call me.”

“Why?”

“Because I told her not to call me anymore. Didn’t she tell you? It was, like, months ago.”

After the sleepover. “No, she didn’t tell me.”

“We weren’t texting that much after she moved anyway. Then she came down here and she—well, I’m just going to tell you. Maybe it’ll help or something. She went out for a while and she came back shitfaced. Like, really drunk. And I was mad, because if my parents caught her, they’d think I was drinking, too. Besides, she was too drunk for us to really even hang out.”

“Where was she?” Whoever she was with then, she could be with them right now.

“I don’t know. I was so mad, I didn’t even want to talk to her.”

“Do you think she was with a boyfriend?”

“Marley’s never had a boyfriend.” She sounds certain and smug.

I lean my forehead against the window glass. “Did she get drunk a lot?” In other words: Am I the world’s most oblivious parent?

“I don’t know. She never used to be into it. When we’d go to parties, she barely had anything. But after she moved, it felt like there were all these things she didn’t want to tell me. It felt kind of like she had a secret life.”

The words every parent is dying to hear. “I was going to ask if there were things on Facebook that she was telling you and her friends, things that I couldn’t see because I’m her mother. You know, private thoughts.”

“I don’t know her private thoughts anymore.”

I’m unsettled after I hang up, like a soda that’s been shaken. I take an inventory of all the alcohol in the house. All the bottles of wine are accounted for. I sip the vodka, just to make sure Marley hasn’t replaced it with water, and grimace a little. It’s still the morning, after all, and that’s straight vodka. Then I take another sip, a bigger one. It might be morning, but my daughter’s missing.

I call Paul but he doesn’t answer. He could be in the middle of questioning some employees at the bus station.

I tried Paul first. I did. Now I can’t resist the next phone number. I’ve fought with myself for months, and sometimes I lost. I lost big
the day Marley disappeared; I just didn’t know how big. But no one could blame me for needing to talk to someone right now.

“Marley’s missing,” I blurt when he answers.

“Oh, Rachel,” Michael says in that voice like a warm bath. I know he’s glad to hear from me, that he’s been aching to. I also know that he really does care about Marley. I just wish he sounded more surprised by the news. “How can I help?”

THIS SUPER-SCARY THING HAPPENED
. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t hold my pee anymore. I thought about waking Kyle up and asking him to walk me to the bathroom, but I decided I need to just depend on myself now. I could do this.

I started to walk back, row by row, talking myself through it. The bus was half-empty, and practically everyone was asleep. A few people had their overhead lights on and were reading, which seemed comfortingly normal. I was almost to the bathroom, and I couldn’t see any smoke or movement in the back seats, so even the trolls under the bridge were asleep. See, I told myself, you’ve got this under control.

I was reaching for the bathroom door handle, almost home free, when I heard this urgent whispering. “Carolina, Carolina.” I could tell it was directed at me, and the name sounded familiar, but I hadn’t told anyone my name was Carolina. Had I?

I didn’t want to look over at the speaker, but it would have been really rude to ignore her. So I looked over, and it was Hellma. I remembered that Carolina was her daughter, the one she was going to visit. And I thought for a second that Hellma was just talking in her sleep, dreaming of her daughter. Then for some reason, I glanced down and saw a needle sticking out from between her toes, like Hellma had forgotten it was even there, that’s how high she was,
how SOMETHING she was. Lost, maybe. Her eyes were hooded but open.

“Carolina,” Hellma whispered again. It was like her face had become sunken over just the past couple days. She was more skeletal than I remembered, as if the life had been leaching out of her.

My heart was going two hundred beats a minute. I didn’t know what Hellma wanted from me. Maybe she was mistaking me for Carolina, but that didn’t make sense. Carolina was a grown woman. But then, it’s not like Hellma was in her right mind.

“Carolina,” Hellma said, louder, and I didn’t want her waking the other passengers. I didn’t want any of this, I just wanted to pee and get back to my seat.

So I said, “Yes?” and hoped that was the magic word. I said it like a question, but she could take it any way she wanted. It could be, “Yes, I’m Carolina.”

It did the trick, and Hellma closed her eyes. She said, definitively, “Carolina,” and seemed to nod off, the needle still projecting from her foot.

I was shaking as I went into the bathroom, shaking as I peed. I’m sure some of it went on the seat, and normally, I feel like if you make it, you should wipe it up, but no way was I going to touch that seat. I was too scared of catching whatever all these people on the bus had, whatever Hellma’s got.

When I reached my row, Kyle was still asleep. I forced his arm up and around me, needing the protection, but from what, I couldn’t exactly say.

I barely slept. This morning, when Kyle got off the bus, he gave me his cell phone number. He told me I could call him if I was ever in trouble. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” I said, like I was a character in a movie. Like I was carefree.

Hellma got off the bus, too. She saw me, I’m sure, but she didn’t even wave good-bye.

Now I’m alone, and I’m really feeling it. I keep trying to forget the way Hellma looked last night, like some figure from beyond the grave or something. I tell myself I can’t catch what she’s got. She’s an old drug addict. It’s sad and all, but it’s not contagious. My life is nothing like hers.

I’ve got a seat all to myself. In front of me is a new guy. He’s in an army uniform and says he just came back from his third tour in Iraq. He’s telling the guy next to him all about it. He starts out boasting about his patrols, about shooting bad guys. It sounds made-up, like maybe he’s just been playing video games. Then he’s talking about partying—“You need to party just to shake off all you’ve seen, man”—and finally, he’s describing this dead Iraqi family and their dead baby. And I can tell that part’s not made up, because he’s mad about it.

His voice got louder. “They shouldn’t have been killed, and the way that baby’s guts were splattered . . .”

I closed my eyes. I felt a little sick. The guy next to him must have felt it, too, because he said, “Shh.” The soldier got angrier. He said, top volume, “People should know what’s going on in their names. I’m not some dirty fucking secret.” But he did shut up for a minute. Then he muttered, “Not even fucking worth it.”

They sat there next to each other, and I could feel the tension radiating off them. Finally, the other guy came and sat next to me. I guess he didn’t want to do it too quickly, didn’t want the soldier thinking he’d won.

He doesn’t smell great but he doesn’t seem dangerous or anything. I could have done worse, I bet.

I need to stay alert, though. Whoever was cooking their drugs in the bathroom could still be on the bus; the ex-cons are all around me; that soldier is obviously strung pretty tight.

I repeat my coping statements: I can handle this. I’m stronger than I think.

It’s not that long now until I arrive. I decide to listen to my
iPod, but I won’t let myself listen to the “Teen Angst” playlist, because she made it. Honestly, though, I’ve never loved any music more.

It’s like I was meant to discover it. I mean, what are the odds that I would get the idea to take up jogging, would do it at the crack of dawn so no one would see me, and in the half-dark, would grab my mother’s iPod by mistake? Then, because I didn’t want to run back to the house, didn’t want to take any more steps than I had to, I went ahead and listened.

It wasn’t good jogging music. It was, well, angsty. But it kept me going longer than I would have otherwise, kept me going until my lungs were burning, because I didn’t want to give it back. It was all this really emotional music: some of it punk-rock angry (later I found out it was heavy on Hüsker Dü and the Damned) and some poignant (like the Psychedelic Furs’ “The Ghost in You,” which Wikipedia says is “new wave” or “alternative”). I never would have guessed my mom had that kind of raw emotion in her. It was almost like she’d mixed up her iPod with someone else’s, too, like a version of musical chairs.

Mom never realized that I’d taken hers. When I got home, I put it back, but first I copied the playlist. I told myself there was something subversive—something punk—about planning my escape while listening to her music. But mostly, I just wanted to hear it, over and over.

The song I love the most is by a band called the Church, and it’s called “To Be in Your Eyes.” It starts like this: “Nighttime is so lonely / When you hear a sound / But it’s only an empty heart / Beating on through the night / A sad, sad drum.”

I want so much to hear it right now, but what if it has some mystical effect, like it turns me into her and makes me chicken out, or it draws me back home, despite everything?

When I listen to that song, it’s like I get a jolt right in my brain, like I’m mainlining all this pain, only it’s actually my own pain. I
don’t know why it feels good to have this concentrated dose, but somehow, it does. Somehow, it makes everything hurt less, or hurt in a way that almost feels good.

I can’t imagine my mom listening to that music, even though it’s hers. I can’t imagine her ever knowing how I feel.

Facebook

You’re right, you don’t know me. I get why you’re cautious. But I would really like to know you.

I can tell a lot of things about you, reading what you wrote, what you like, what you don’t like. That last one’s the most important, in a way. You have to hate the same things, don’t you think? And we do. Read my profile. You’ll see.

I can tell you don’t think you’re particularly special. But I can also tell that you are. Special in the good way, not like you’re riding the short bus.

You asked how do I know Wyatt, how I found you. It was a couple of years ago, and my family rented a vacation house next to Wyatt’s in a place called the Outer Banks. It’s in North Carolina. Have you ever heard of it? Nice beaches, really peaceful. So Wyatt’s family and my family hung out all week. We had clambakes on the beach. The clams are harvested right there. Maybe you’ll get to taste them someday, with me. :)

Kidding. We just met. But who knows where this could lead?

The thing is, Marley, you never know about anything until you do. Never know about anyone. All those friends you have, even your family—they look one way but they might be another. I’m not like that. What you see is what you get. I can tell you’re like that, too.

I feel like I know you already. Is that crazy?

Write back, even if it’s to tell me I’m crazy.

Wherever this goes, even if it’s nowhere, I’m still glad we met.

NO NEW LEADS. PAUL
showed Marley’s photo to every bus station employee he could find, from the ticket agents to the janitors, and if anyone recognized her, they didn’t admit it. He’ll try again tomorrow. Since today is Sunday, there could be some weekday staff that he missed. He’s also canvassed the old neighborhood and a fair amount of San Francisco. Nothing. Is there any uglier word in the English language?

He dropped Marley’s phone and computer off with the techies. The police didn’t care enough to put their own people on it, or maybe they don’t have those kinds of people. That could be why none of the
CSI
shows are set in small college towns.

I’m despairing of Marley ever walking in the door. If we want her back, we’re going to have to use a net, like in a cartoon; we’ll have to catch her like a butterfly. What then? If we drag her back, she’ll only leave again. Whatever made her go, it’s still here—inside us, or inside her.

I keep staring at that Facebook picture of Marley, the one where she’s hugging herself. That forced smile. I’ve seen it plenty lately, but I didn’t want to admit that she was just going through the motions.

I can recognize my blind spot now. It’s that every time I looked at Marley, even when we weren’t speaking, I felt this bedrock connection. Our lives have been intertwined for so long that within and
beneath the present moment, I could always feel the depth of our past: There I am, helping her take her first tentative steps, her hands in mine, and then she’s walking, and soon she’s running toward the other kids on the playground but she’s looking back at me with just a hint of uncertainty, and I smile and nod, and in that nod is yes, keep going, you’ll be okay, and off she goes. Then there are all the “Mama”s that ever were, and the “Mommy”s, and finally, the “Mom”s. It’s all in there, all part of this love gestalt. Maybe it made me complacent, like our relationship was a garden and I forgot it needed tending, and so the hedges just kept getting higher.

I love you so much, Marley, that I assumed I’d always know you.

Paul comes into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. His energy is curiously upbeat. He’s alert, pitched forward, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I invited Officer Strickland over.”

“Great. Maybe you can convince him to actually do his job.”

“Don’t have that attitude. We need him on our side.”

“When’s he getting here?” My question is bisected by the doorbell.

From Paul’s effusive greeting, you’d think the police had been searching for Marley around the clock. But even I can tell that Paul looks like he’s supposed to. He’s groomed, grave, and thoughtful. Determined. His demeanor says, “My daughter is missing, and I
will
find her.” I can tell that Officer Strickland respects Paul. I’m not so sure how he feels about me.

I try to smile as we all take our seats. Strickland is now in the overstuffed chair but perched like at any second an emergency could break out and he’d be on his feet, gun drawn. “No word yet from Marley?” he asks.

Paul shakes his head. “And I know there’s nothing new on your end.” Then, with careful hope, “Is there?”

“I wish there was.” Strickland smiles. I’ve never before understood what people meant when they said someone’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Paul shifts so that his posture is identical to Strickland’s. They’re both at the ready. Imitating other people’s body language is one of Paul’s tricks. It’s a subconscious way to create alignment and allegiance. We like people who are most like us.

“I’ve been doing some reading,” Paul says.

“Uh-oh,” Strickland jokes, and Paul laughs.

“I know, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. That’s why I wanted to get your opinion.”

Strickland sits up a tiny bit straighter. He responds to flattery, like anyone.

“I’ve been researching how to use social media to bring home a missing child. Now, I don’t want to do anything that would step on your toes. I realize this is your area of expertise, not mine.”

Getting the police on our side, indeed. I’m a little in awe. It’s masterful. Strickland is eating it up, nodding in almost spastic encouragement.

“I need to do something.” Paul looks over at me. “We need to do something, or we’ll go crazy.”

“That’s true,” I say, realizing I’m due to speak.

“I’m thinking about a website, FindMarley.com, where we would have pictures and videos. Plus a FindMarley page on Facebook and a Twitter account. We need this to go viral, to expand our network so that we’ve got a whole community looking for her, a community that spans the country.” Paul’s eyes are alive. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was enjoying his latest special project. “She boarded a bus, and she could have gone anywhere. So we need to mobilize people. I know that the police can’t do it all.” Another nod from Strickland. “We’ve got to get you some information. We have to hold up our end.” They exchange smiles. “We’ll bring our resources to bear, but we want to make sure we have your support.”

“If there’s more that the department can do,” Strickland says, “I’ll see that we do it.” It’s the most resolve he’s shown, like Paul’s gotten him to agree to fund-matching. Without even seeming to realize it,
Strickland’s been recruited. I can’t help it, I’m impressed by Paul. I married him for this.

But as Paul lays out the specifics of his plan for Strickland (and, to a lesser extent, for me), the shine in my eyes begins to dim.

“I know this will compromise our privacy,” he says. “There will be media scrutiny and people who want to call us lousy parents. If we start this, we have to figure the information will live forever in cyberspace.” I feel queasy and sense Strickland’s eyes are on me. “Even if we take down the FindMarley site and cancel our accounts with Facebook and Twitter, we can’t control the information or what people want to do with it. We can’t put the genie back in the bottle, so to speak. In some cases, parents who call attention to themselves become suspects. I know the risks, but it’s the only way.” He glances at me. “Don’t you think so?”

If I say no, I don’t want to take the risk, then it looks like Paul is the only one of us truly dedicated to finding Marley.

This could blow up in Paul’s face. And in mine, and Marley’s, too. He has no idea what I’ve been keeping private.

“In your experience,” I ask Strickland, “is a media campaign really necessary? So many runaways come home on their own in the first week. It hasn’t even been a week. I mean, have you found . . . ?” I trail off under the force of his gaze. That’s the very scrutiny Paul was talking about. I can tell that in Strickland’s eyes, Paul has been certified trustworthy, and I definitely have not.

But I’m the only one who knows how risky this truly is.