Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel (15 page)

It suddenly came to me: The other twin, the bad one, was named Victoria. Vicky. Just like I told Kyle. Was that my subconscious talking? Or my unconscious? I always get them mixed up.

“You’re good.” B. put his arm around me and squeezed. “But you’re not boring.”

“Thanks.”

It cast a pall over the night, though, thinking of my mother and how my name came about. I kept getting sadder and sadder. I’m more attached to Marley, stupid as it is, than I knew. More attached to my mother’s dopey idea of naming me after a soap opera character than I like to admit.

It’s hard to understand how the same teenager could watch
Another World
and listen to the amazing music on the “Teen Angst” playlist. But then, I probably have a lot of contradictions, too. People are jigsaw puzzles that don’t exactly fit together.

Anyway, thinking about where I came from, thinking of my parents lying together with a baby name book as her belly got bigger and bigger and then finally deciding Marley was the one—it made me feel closer to them. That’s not what I want to feel.

This is my life. I’m taking charge of it. Choosing who I spend it with, what people will call me, all of it. I’m in control.

Why does that thought make me feel anxious instead of calm?

“Your mom fucked you over,” B. said. “You have to remember that. I’d never do that to you.”

“I know.” I snuggled against him again. When I closed my eyes, I imagined it was Dr. Michael’s arms around me, and I felt totally at peace.

“IS THIS MRS. WILLITS?”
a voice inquires. He sounds young and polite, but studiedly so.

I sit bolt upright in bed and glance at the clock. It’s not quite noon. I’ve spent hours trying to recollect stories Michael told me about parents who foist their own pathologies on their children, imagining whether Paul and Marley could claim the starring roles. The more extreme tales leap to mind, but they’re also obviously wrong (I’m quite certain Paul doesn’t have Munchausen syndrome). The others lack staying power. I wish I’d paid better attention; I wish my memory hadn’t gone bad this year, like rotting fruit. If Michael wanted me to know something about my family, he should have just come out and told me.

“This is Rachel,” I say. “Is this Kyle?”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry about Marley.”

I have the sudden crazy thought, What if I’m talking to Marley’s murderer? What if this is part of some sick game he’s playing, calling in as a tipster with his fake manners and apologies?

“Mrs. Willits?”

“I’m still here. So you were riding the bus with Marley?” I try to keep my voice level.

“Until Chicago.”

“That’s a long way. Did you two talk much?”

“You could say that.”

“I’m trying to figure out why she left. When I love her so much.” I’m also trying to figure out why she sought out Dr. Michael again, without ever talking to me, and whether I can trust the man I married. But first things first. “Was she mad at me?”

“Honestly?” He pauses. “She didn’t mention you.”

Ouch. I hadn’t realized until just then how much better anger is than apathy. “How did she seem?”

“Seem?”

I see why Paul thought this might not be worth my while. “Her mood. Was she sad or happy? Confused, maybe?”

“Honestly”—there’s that pause again—“she didn’t seem like anything. She seemed normal.”

At least we know he really was sitting next to Marley. She’s nothing if not normal seeming. But underneath, that’s a whole other story, one I’ve never gotten to read.

Another call is coming in. Michael again. Another apology, straight into my voice mail.

I realize what Kyle means when he leads with “Honestly.” He’s about to tell me something that he thinks will hurt my feelings. He’s a good kid, and perceptive, too, because he is hurting me. My daughter ran away and boarded a bus and acted like it was an ordinary day. That’s how much it mattered to her to leave us behind.

“She didn’t say a lot,” he adds. “About herself, I mean. She asked me questions. She let me do all the talking.”

“Did you like her?”

“What do you mean?” He sounds like he’s treading lightly, maybe because he’s hoping not to have to start any more sentences with “Honestly.” I’m hoping for that, too.

“I mean, did you like her. Was she a likeable person.” I feel like a stranger might have a better sense of her than I do.

“She was funny. She was blunt, and that made her funny. You know what I mean. She’s your kid.” Then he sounds a little flustered. “Not that she’s a kid, exactly.”

“She’s fourteen. She’s exactly a kid.”

“She said she was eighteen.”

There was something in his delivery, something . . . cagey. “Kyle, did you do anything with her?” My heart speeds up. “Did you have sex with my daughter?”

“No! We just hooked up. Kissed for a while, I mean. She was a good kisser. Not that you want to hear that.” He babbles when he’s uncomfortable. Marley does the opposite. She shuts up, shuts down. “I’m not that much older than her. I’m only seventeen. That shouldn’t be illegal or anything. I just told her I was eighteen.”

“So you were both lying about your ages?”

He doesn’t want to answer. He thinks he’s already said too much. But I’m so happy to have a teenager really talking to me.

“Why were you lying about your age, Kyle?” I say, my voice gentle. I feel tenderly toward him. It’s like he and Marley were kindred spirits who found each other.

“I got on the bus and I thought it was a chance to play someone else. Like a game. And Marley was cute, and we were kind of flirting, and I started telling her all these things about my life in college. I’d lived in Arcata my whole life, so I knew all these things, all the places to hang out, and I told her I was dropping out of school.”

“And the truth?”

“The truth is,” he says slowly, “my mom lost her job and got pretty depressed and she sent me to live with my father in Chicago until she gets it together. That’s where I am now, living with my dad.” I hear the sorrow in his voice. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Did you tell Paul?” I’m hoping he didn’t. It would show I really can do it—I can connect with a teenager, and that means someday, I can connect with Marley, too.

“No. He just wanted me to prove I really met Marley. He’s all business, huh?”

“Not always.” I think of yesterday, the sequential “I love you”s. “He’s putting a lot into this search.”

“No shit. I saw the website. It’s pretty amazing. I hope she comes back. It seems like you guys love her a lot.” Now he sounds wistful.

I don’t want to hang up. “How’s it going, living with your dad?”

“Okay,” he says in a way that tells me it’s not.

I have this feeling like even if God doesn’t exist, karma does, and if I can do something for some other parent, for some other kid, if I can get a notch in the ledger, then maybe . . . “I’ve learned a few things since Marley went away. One is, I would give anything to know what she really felt when I had her here, even though I was too scared or too lazy or too something to ask.” No response. “Maybe you should talk to your dad about how you feel.”

“Maybe.” He’s doubtful.

“Give him a chance to make changes so you’ll be happy. I wish Marley gave me that chance. You can tell your dad about what happened with Marley and what I’m saying to you now.”

“You think I should threaten to run away?”

“Definitely not.” I’m lousy at advice. No wonder Marley didn’t want to talk to me. “But I know that if Marley had told me what I was doing wrong, I would have done anything to fix it.”

“You might just think that now, because she’s gone. You know, she raised the stakes. Like in poker.”

Smart kid. “You might be right.”

“But you still think I should talk to my dad.”

I don’t know a thing about Kyle’s circumstances or his dad. “I think,” I say, “that I probably don’t know what I’m talking about.”

He laughs. “That’s cool. My dad always thinks he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Annoying, isn’t it?”

“Big-time.” I hear a voice in the background. “I’ve got to go. Good luck with Marley. I’ll be following on Twitter.”

“Good luck to you, too.” Then it occurs to me. “One last thing. She must have been going by some other name, right? She probably didn’t call herself Marley.”

“She said her name was Vicky.”

There it is: her message to me. Victoria and Marley, from
Another World
. Marley’s the good twin, Vicky’s the bad one. Marley is acting out her wild side, but she still needs me and somewhere inside her, she knows it.

Because she could have picked any name, but she picked Vicky. She left a clue that only I would find.

Facebook

Hey, Mar. I woke up in the middle of the night. I was dreaming about my dad, about things he used to do to me. And my mom doing nothing about it, like always. I wake up and my heart is going so fast.

Since you, that doesn’t happen so much. I go to bed thinking about you, and I sleep till morning. Sometimes I dream about you. I need you, Mar. So much.

I wish I could call you right now, but I don’t want to wake you up. Even with the time difference, it’s like 1 a.m. for you, and you need your sleep. Not to be beautiful. You’re beautiful no matter what. You’re this one pure thing, the one that’s different, in a whole world of shit.

But you need your sleep, with your family moving and all. I keep thinking about what you said the other day. I know you wrote JK, but you meant it a little, didn’t you? About how if you’re going to move, you should just move toward me.

I found this website, Disappeared.com. It’s all about how to disappear and reappear as someone else. Poof—you’re gone. Like
in a magic trick. Isn’t that what you were telling me, about how your doctor used to teach you tricks? This would be our trick. Poof, and you’re here with me.

You’ve got a good thing going where you are. Your parents can buy you anything. But they don’t love you like I do, Mar. I know what it’s like, dealing with snotty rich people. I go to school with them. I see them get all the breaks. And I know if you leave your family to be with me, some things are going to be harder. But some things will be a lot easier, too, because of how we feel about each other.

Isn’t it the hardest thing in the world to be all the way across the country when we should be touching each other? I know you can choose love over money. I’d choose you over anything.

I’m lying on the grass right now and I’m looking up at the stars. I uploaded a picture for you, so you could see what I’m looking at.

I’m playing a song by Gavin DeGraw called “Where You Are.” I uploaded it so you can hear what I’m listening to when I think of you. What it says, maybe better than I can, is that we need to do whatever it takes to be together. I know I’m willing. Are you?

Like Gavin says—tell me you’re with me so far. Please, Mar, just tell me.

I CAN’T TELL B.
what happened. He’d probably think it’s my fault. He said not to leave the house.

Once I got back, I locked the front door and put a chair under the knob for extra security. I wanted so bad to talk to someone. And I thought of who I have in the world, who I could possibly call. Of everyone I know, I most wanted to call Kyle. Which seems weird, since we barely know each other. But I think he’s a good guy, and I remember how it felt to have his arms around me that night on the bus after I saw Hellma shooting up. He was my protection, and it worked. Nothing bad happened to me then.

But I threw away his phone number in the next bus station. I guess it was partly out of guilt and partly because I thought I wouldn’t need it, since I’d be with B. soon. I don’t even know Kyle’s last name. I’ll probably never see or talk to him again. Suddenly, that seems really sad. It’s not so easy to meet a good guy.

I keep listening for footsteps in the hall, though there never are any. I’m probably just being paranoid. I’ve been living with B. for a while; it might have rubbed off.

Or B. just knows there are things in the world to be afraid of. Like those people on the bus knew.

Okay, back up. Calm down.

I was on my way home after a trip to the dog park. It was the
postapocalyptic part of my walk. A truck pulled up next to me. It had a gun rack in the bed, and there were big rifles in it, like for hunting. The driver had gray hair and a lot of gray scruff on his face.

He smiled, all friendly, and I thought he was probably a nice old guy, though I don’t like people talking to me. “Hi,” he twanged. I’d never heard an accent that thick outside of TV. The other people I’ve talked to in Durham have more subtle accents, like the corners have been rounded off; this guy sounded like a sawed-off shotgun.

“Hi,” I said, and kept walking.

He drove along next to me, really slow. There were a few parked cars but no people. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“I’m great.” I made myself smile, to confirm my story, but I didn’t turn toward him. I didn’t stop walking.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“I don’t think so.” He still sounded friendly, but I was more nervous by the second.

“I never forget a face. Especially not a pretty one like yours.”

I almost told him that he couldn’t have seen me somewhere, I barely go anywhere, but I wasn’t about to offer information. He was creeping me out, hard-core.

“Where are you from?”

“Here,” I said. “Durham.”

He laughed. I was only a block from the apartment building, but I realized I was going to have to keep walking. There was no way I was going to let him see where I lived. “Come on,” he said. “Be straight with me.”

“No, really, I am.”

“Not with that accent you got.”

I didn’t owe him an answer. He wasn’t a cop or my dad or the neighborhood watch. Maybe ignoring him would make him go away.

“I bet you’re from out west somewhere,” he said. “California, maybe?”

I kept my head down.

“Am I getting warm?”

I glanced over at him. He was still driving along, slow as can be, and he had this smile on his face, like he could play this game all day.

“So it is California. I knew it!” He sounded gleeful. “What are you doing so far from home?”

“Going to college,” I said in a low voice, since ignoring him wasn’t helping.

“You look a little young for college.”

“I’ve always looked young.”

“No,” he said with unnerving certainty. “I’ve seen you.”

I debated whether to take off running and cross behind one of the buildings, but what if he kept driving around until he found me? “This is making me uncomfortable.”

“What is? Us talking?”

I nodded, eyes averted.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m just being friendly to an out-of-towner.” He paused. “Oh, right, you said you’re local.” The way he emphasized the word “local” sounded menacing. There were cars parked on this block, but I wished I could see just one person. “If you’re in some trouble,” he said, “I’d help you get out of it.”

“No, thanks. Not in any trouble.”

“There might be people out there who’d give anything to find you.” When I glanced at him, he was giving me this appraising look. It was like he thought there was a bounty on my head, and he was trying to decide what I’m worth.

Was he thinking of kidnapping me?

He hadn’t made a move, still looked utterly relaxed driving alongside me.

I needed to head back toward the dog park neighborhood, where it was populated. Eventually, though, I was going to have to find my way back here.

“You’ve got me confused with someone else,” I said. “I’m a college student, and I’d like to be alone now.”

“I bet you could use some money. I wouldn’t mind paying for services rendered.”

“I don’t need any money.”

“We all need money. And I’ve heard girls from California don’t take themselves so seriously. It’s a little looser out there, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said.

I stopped walking, and he stopped his car. I didn’t know what to do, whether to run (where to?) or whether to scream (who’d hear me?), and then I just started crying.

He stared at me for a long minute, and then he said, “You have a nice day,” and drove off. His sudden chivalry was as scary as anything that had come before it. It might have been a trick to get me to relax, to head home, and then he would grab me later. But, I reminded myself, B. would be home later. I’d have protection.

I started running home, looking around the whole time like a demented bobblehead doll. I had images of the old guy careening around a corner and throwing me in the bed of the pickup truck, next to the gun rack, and never being heard from again.

I can’t tell B. what happened. He’ll be so mad at me for going out, for possibly ruining everything.

No, he wouldn’t be mad. He’d just hug me and tell me how glad he is that I’m safe.

Maybe he’d do that.