Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (8 page)

I’M CLOISTERED IN THE
bedroom, working on the toughest homework assignment of my life. Paul wants me to write a letter he can post on FindMarley.com. I need to write something that will be personal enough to connect, to make her want to rush back into my arms, but not so revealing that I can’t bear the idea of a whole nation potentially reading it. Paul told me not to worry so much because Candace is going to edit it before it’s posted to “ensure maximum impact.” The fact that he imagines this will buoy me seems to support what Michael always said: “That man barely knows you.” I’m not entirely sure whose fault that is.

The good news is, FindMarley is going viral, as intended, with links being sent all over the country. Paul assures me that this will soon amount to a solid lead, instead of just vague, unverifiable sightings; none of this is in vain.

That’s easy for him to say. He’s become something of a celebrity, a poster parent. Right now, he’s in the living room with Candace, doing a “blog tour” of widely trafficked sites. He’s been contacted by other parents of missing kids who want to emulate his efforts. He answers everyone; he’d rather tweet than sleep. A week in, and already he’s made himself an expert.

Most people are well-wishers. But the ones who are negative focus on me, not Paul. I was trending on Twitter after my “bizarre behavior” on the morning show, with speculative tweets about what
I could be hiding and who had been texting me mid-interview. I tell myself these are the kind of people who like being contrary, who enjoy imagining the worst in people. They can’t really see through me. Sure, I have secrets, but they don’t have anything to do with Marley’s leaving.

If she knew, though . . .

She doesn’t.

Please, don’t let her know. Please, don’t let her find out on Twitter.

Paul’s asked that people write messages to Marley on their Facebook pages and have links to take them to our page. Marley has her own channel on YouTube, and people are recording video messages where they reminisce and encourage her to come home. It’s really caught fire. The cheerleaders got into their pyramid formation, exhorting Marley to “C-O-M-E H-O-M-E!” Tonight, there will be a candlelight vigil in front of the high school. The local news will be there to film, and Candace is trying to get people from the San Francisco stations to show up, too. I have to make an appearance, but I’m dreading it. Despite Candace’s coaching, I don’t know if I can look appropriate, and the last thing I need is for any new Twitter trends to sprout.

We got Marley’s devices back from the techies, and there were no clues. She downloaded programs that swept them clean. Her thoroughness actually reminds me of Paul. No question whose gene pool she’s swimming in.

Paul throws himself into protocol and appears to achieve some peace of mind, but I’m besieged by interrogatives: why Marley left; how I failed her; where she went; what could be happening to her out there, as sheltered as she’s been. She’s unprepared for the real world. She thinks she can start trying at any time and the world will bend to her will. She posted something like that on Facebook a couple months back, something like, “When I turn it on, it’ll all turn around.” I was surprised by her hubris, by her un-Marley-like bravado. Maybe it was false, but I can’t know. It could have been what helped her board that bus.

There’s so much I can’t know. I should have been reading her Facebook regularly. Then, when she first posted something out of character, I could have asked her about it. That’s one of the places where I failed her. I’m starting to think relationships are like Rube Goldberg machines: Nothing is simple, and we’re always setting off chain reactions.

It’s why (to return to that word yet again) I’m having so much trouble getting anywhere with this letter. I want to apologize for all the unanticipated consequences of my actions and inaction; I want to promise to do better. But one of the PR rules is that we can’t look like we’re to blame. We have to be the perfect family, except that one member up and ran away.

I need to write something, anything. I can’t deal with this sclerosis anymore. Ramble, and Candace can edit me later. No, I’ll edit me later. I don’t trust Candace. She stands too close to Paul; her eyes are always too bright, like sapphires; she’s got her whole life ahead of her, and my missing daughter is her stepping stone.

Marley,

You’ve been gone eight days now, and every second, some part of me is praying for your safe return. I’m sure that seems surprising to you, because you’ve never heard me talk about religion. I’m Jewish, but we never went to synagogue; we went to church, because your father wanted that. I do believe in God, though.

I’m already breaking the rules, going off message. Not a word of this is going to make it past the censors (i.e., Paul and Candace). Even I don’t think it deserves to. But I have to keep going. I’ll stumble on something usable eventually.

I believe that God wants you in the world, as I do, because you’re a good person. A loving person. You’re Marley, my Marley.

Speaking of God, this is god-awful. I can’t do this. Only I have to. This is my direct appeal, my shot at speaking from my heart to hers. I know her heart, don’t I? I’ve lived with her for fourteen years, all the years she’s had.

What does it even mean to be a good person? I don’t know if we’ve raised her to think of others. She doesn’t seem to be thinking of us, after we’ve devoted our lives to her well-being. Fourteen years of parenting, and all I got was a lousy whiteboard note. I should put that on a T-shirt and wear it to the vigil, really give them something to tweet about.

You arranged to leave, that much is clear, but I’m terrified that something will go wrong, that something has already gone wrong, and you won’t be able to come back even if you want to. I’m frightened about what might happen to you out there on your own. There are people who want to take advantage of a young girl, who want to

I can’t even finish that thought. Delete. Start over.

Marley,

I don’t know why you left. I don’t know if it had to do with me, or with your father, or with our marriage. I don’t know if it had to do with the move and being in an unfamiliar place, away from your old friends. I don’t know, because you’re not here to tell me. But I want to listen. I want to help you find happiness. I need you to come home and talk to me. I love you so very much. I feel like I might die without you. I truly feel that, when I always thought it was just something people said. It’s not. It’s real. A pain like this, it can

No, stop. End on how much I love her. No guilt trips. End there.

Only I find that I don’t want to.

You might have figured out that I was thinking of divorcing your father. You asked me, and I said no, but you could have seen through that. And I have to wonder, could this be some elaborate ploy to keep the two of us together? Dad and I would team up to bring you back home, and along the way, we’d realize how much we really do love each other. Could that be it?

That seems like the plot of some bad movie, some updated version of
The Parent Trap
. You’re not really the Hayley Mills type (well, Lindsay Lohan in the remake, before she went off the rails). I wish we could watch that movie together again, be like we used to.

But everything changes and gets more complicated, doesn’t it? Trish told me about your getting drunk that last weekend you spent at her house. Is alcohol a part of this? If it is, I won’t judge you. I’ll get you help, and I’ll be glad to do it.

But back to your father and me. I have this feeling that you knew how unhappy I’ve been, even though I would never admit it. I thought you were too young for me to talk honestly about things like that. I didn’t want to use you for a sounding board the way my mother did with me. I also didn’t want to seem like I was trying to get you on my side, to turn you against your father. You should see how hard he’s trying to find you. It’s like the Pentagon around here.

Marriage is complicated. Yes, your father likes to have things his way, but that’s not the whole reason I’ve been unhappy. I just don’t feel alive with him anymore, if that makes sense.

I made this playlist for my iPod with all the songs I loved when I was your age, maybe a little older. I just wanted to feel deeply again. Feeling comes easily when you’re fourteen, doesn’t it? But the rest of it can seem so hard. I do get it, Marley. Well, I’m trying.

I don’t think there’s any way you could have known about me and Michael. That’s Dr. Michael, to you. He and I were just good friends. He’s not the reason for the troubles between your father and me. He’s a symptom, I guess you
could say. Ha-ha, Dr. Michael’s a symptom. What I mean is, the fact that I wanted to talk to Dr. Michael rather than your father, that I found that easier and more satisfying, is the symptom. But what’s the diagnosis? I’m not sure I know.

I’m going to delete every word, but for the first time in days, I feel a little better, cleaner, purged. It must be what bulimics feel, or cutters. I’ve been reading about all the teenagers who slice their arms with razor blades for the endorphin release. When Marley comes back, I’m going to strip off those button-down shirts of hers and look her arms over. I’ll look her over and hold her tight.

When she comes back.
I don’t know where this sudden surge of hope has come from, but it’s here. I want to blow on the fragile embers and see if they can burst into flame. Don’t let them go out.

Paul appears in the doorway. “Officer Strickland is downstairs. He wants to talk to you for a minute.” He cocks his head to the side. “You seem different.”

“I’m feeling a little better.”

He smiles. “Glad to hear it. Is that letter done? I was hoping Candace could read it, and then we could post it before the vigil.”

“Is there a reason it needs to be today?”

“Is there a reason it can’t be today?”

My better mood begins to evaporate.

“Take your time,” he says, but I don’t think he means it.

“I want to bring her home as much as you do,” I say loudly. A second too late, it occurs to me how sound travels in this house. Officer Strickland and Candace are both downstairs, plus anywhere from two to five volunteers, of different ages and genders and colors, like the old Benetton ads.

I’m tired of the well-meaning invaders. I spend a lot of my time corralled in the bedroom, while they have the run of the downstairs. I don’t even feel comfortable in my beloved (Marley’s beloved) window seat, because I can hear them all nattering away in the dining room. They might not even be well-meaning. They could be tweeting about me right now.

“We’re in this together,” Paul says soothingly. I have a suspicion that he’s thinking of everyone downstairs, too, and he’ll say whatever he has to in order to convey the right impression. If I really believed that was all it took to bring Marley home, acting the part, I’d do it. But it’s not all for Marley, these things he’s doing. It’s also for Strickland and Candace and the volunteers who look at him so admiringly. And the bloggers, and the followers on Twitter, and the parents of other runaways. He wants the whole world to think he’s some kind of hero. That way, he’ll never have to face that he might be part of the reason Marley left.

But, I remind myself, Paul does want to bring Marley home. He probably wants that more than anything. This is no time to turn my anger on him like a fire hose, good as it might feel. “Why does Officer Strickland want to talk to me?” I ask quietly.

“He has some questions.”

“For me, but not for you?”

Paul looks down at the floor and for a second, I think, He’s in on it. He knows exactly why his buddy Strickland is here.

“Mrs. Willits,” Strickland is saying.

He comes into focus, slowly, across the kitchen table from me.

“I was asking you a question.” He’s clearly got no tolerance for parents who don’t behave as they’re supposed to. To him, “bizarre” reads “guilty.” He must have seen that morning show, probably the Twitter feeds, too.

“I’m sorry.” I smile in vacant apology. “Sometimes I space out.”

“I’m sure it’s very stressful.” But he sounds more stern than sympathetic.

“Do you have any children?” I ask him.

His eyes narrow. He suspects a trick question. “Yes.”

“They’re probably younger than Marley.”

“Yes.”

I should quit now, while I’m ahead. But I might already be so far behind that I need to keep going. “I don’t know if you can imagine this happening to your family, what it would be like.”

His stare is stony. You’d think I was wishing this on him, rather than trying to make some semblance of a connection, parent to parent.

“What was your question?” I say, sighing.

“I was asking about your whereabouts on the morning Marley went missing.”

Whereabouts? “Went missing”? Doesn’t he mean “ran away”? That’s where all the emphasis has been for the past week-plus. That’s why we haven’t been deserving of the police’s precious resources.

“Mrs. Willits?” He’s losing patience.

“I was with Marley, dropping her off at school, and then I went to work.”

He pulls a small notepad from the pocket of his uniform and flips it open. “I spoke to Nadine Glade. She’s your supervisor, correct?” I nod. “She says that you were over an hour late for work. But you told me that it was that rare morning where you dropped Marley off at school on time. How do you explain the time discrepancy?”

Shit. I should have told the truth from the start. I’m innocent, where Marley is concerned. Where her disappearance is concerned, anyway. “I stopped at Starbucks. The line was long.”

“Did you tell Ms. Glade you had a flat tire?”

I can’t believe she said that. She deals with the police plenty, running a DV agency. She protects the women there all the time. I thought she was on my side. She acted so sympathetic, telling me I could take off as much time as I need. “Haven’t you ever lied to your boss?” I try to smile, like he and I are sharing a joke.

He doesn’t smile back.

“I don’t know why I lied about the tire. I should have told her that Starbucks was taking forever. They were having some sort of promotion, launching a new kind of holiday nog.” My blood’s gone cold. I’m remembering what Paul said about the risks of exposing ourselves the way we have; it could make us suspects. But there’s no “us” here. It’s only me and Officer Strickland.