by Holly Brown
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.
Eleven Months Ago
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.
Day 4
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 th
e 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.
Day_4
SO HAPPY TO BE off that bus! If I were on Facebook, it would say, “Marley likes solid ground.”
Not being on Facebook and not being able to text is changing me. It makes me think in longer bursts. Like, in whole paragraphs. That’s one of the things I like about B. Mostly we text, but sometimes he writes actual e-mails where I have to scroll down. It’s so mature.
Speaking of which . . . B. looked younger in his photos. Not that he looks old in person, just older than I was expecting. He’s twenty-two but he looks more like twenty-five or twenty-six. He’s got little lines radiating out from his eyes, thin ones, like cat whiskers. But North Carolina is a very sunny place.
It’s November, and it’s got to be 90 degrees. In the car, B. asked if I wanted to take off my button-down, since I was wearing a tank top underneath, and I said no, I’m very cold-blooded. I mean, I know he’s going to see everything eventually, that’s kinda the plan, but I didn’t want the first time to be in blinding sun. What do they call light like that? Unforgiving, I think that’s the expression.
I don’t like the expression “body issues,” but I know I have them. I’m shaped like a pear, and that is just not the fruit I would have chosen. My mom, she’s more like a banana. Straight up and down—it’s hard to believe I came from her. We have similar faces and the same kind of hair, but the resemblance stops there. She can look really nice in clothes, when she tries. Fashion is designed for bananas, not pears. But it could be worse. I could be a watermelon.
I’m all out of order. Ms. Finelli told me I’m a good writer but that I have “trouble explaining in a linear fashion.” I know that’s how a story is supposed to go: This happened, and then this, and finally, this. But I’m always circling back, realizing I left out important details or figuring out late which details are important. I can be very—what’s the word?—tangential.
So . . . rewind. I left the bus station, and B. was waiting for me in the parking lot, leaning against an old blue Toyota Corolla. He didn’t want to come inside because he didn’t want anyone seeing us together. His sunglasses were mirrored, so I was looking back at myself, at my own pathetic eagerness. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and has a really good body, lean but muscular, just like in the photos.
If I hadn’t hugged him, I don’t know that he would have hugged me. I’ve never had a boyfriend before but I’ve seen it done, and that doesn’t seem like a good sign. He should have wanted to touch me. We’ve waited a long time for this.
We got in the car, and I stared out the windshield. I was too afraid to look at him. I didn’t want to be disappointed, or to be disappointing. I wanted him to take off his sunglasses and become familiar.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, but when I glanced over, he was staring out the windshield himself.
“Me too,” I said.
“You look pretty.” Though again, he wasn’t looking at me.
I raked my hand through my hair nervously. That part of me, I knew, looked good. Just a quick brushing at the station, and I had one feature about which I could feel confident. “Could you do me a favor?” I asked. “Could you take off your sunglasses?”
“I don’t want anyone to recognize me.”
It seemed a little paranoid, but then, he’s the one with a lot more to lose. He could go to jail for this. Someone loves me enough to go to jail over it. It’s kind of amazing, when you think of it that way.
I scanned the parking lot. No one was in sight. “Who’d see?”
He paused, and then he took off the sunglasses. I felt better immediately. B. has nice eyes. Green like sea glass, in an angular face. Maybe that’s why he looks older than in his pictures. He’s thinner. I, on the other hand, went the other way.
He looked right at me and smiled and said, again, “You look pretty, Mar.” I could feel it that time.
I like his accent, which is more prominent in person. It’s softly Southern—seems gentlemanly, rather than rednecky. But he also seems different in some way I can’t peg.
“Are you scared?” he asked.
I shook my head. I’m stronger than I think. I’m stronger than I think. I’m stronger than I—
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said. “I’m not going to let you down like everyone else. You left those people behind to be with me, and I’m honored by that. I will not let you down.”
B.’s the only one who knows practically my whole story, even the things I used to tell Dr. Michael, so he’s currently the only one who really knows me. He accepts me, just like I am.
He looked so sincere, so loving, as he made me that promise. If he’d taken my hand, it would have been perfect. But he didn’t. Instead, he started the car.
We drove to his apartment. I must have been disoriented from the bus ride, because it seemed like we were driving around in circles for a while before we got there. If you paid me a thousand dollars, I’d never be able to trace the route back to the station.
B. parked in front of the building, which was crumbling brick and seemed to be leaning slightly to one side, like a sinking ship or a drunk. “It used to be a tobacco factory,” he said. I could tell he thought that was cool, so I said, “Cool.” I just hoped it wouldn’t stink like cigarettes.
It was the only building on the block, which seemed a little strange. I guess they demolished the others??? The street felt creepy, postapocalyptic. I wanted to get inside right away, so I started to walk toward the front door. B. shook his head while he let out this little whistle between his teeth. I felt like a misbehaving dog; he probably used to do that with Gracie. “Around the back,” he said.
I followed him, over cracked concrete with the occasional defiant daisy poking through, to a heavy black door. “I’m the only one who uses this entrance.” He cast a glance around, but there was no one in sight. Despite the heat, this shiver went through me. Just nervous anticipation, I guess.
He unlocked the door and led me down a corridor lit by a few dangling lightbulbs. Inside his apartment, it smelle
d strongly of bleach. He’d obviously cleaned for my arrival, but the place was pretty industrial, with exposed pipes and a scarred stone floor. I told myself how sweet it was that he tried so hard to clean; I told myself that it’s starving-artist chic. B.’s scholarship only gives him a small stipend for living expenses, and his parents don’t help him out at all. He’s doing it on his own, like I will.
“I don’t think anyone saw us,” he said, like he was trying to reassure himself.
I have to get used to the idea that no one should see me. I’m voluntarily turning into a ghost. But that’s not for long, just until we can go on Disappeared.com and get everything arranged. Soon, I’ll be able to walk out the front door.
B. showed me around. He made the built-in bookshelves himself, out of lumber he scavenged. There was this awesome bed that he pulled down from the wall, made of the same wood. He built that, too. The photo was on Facebook: B. standing next to the finished bed with a saw-type thing.
I love that he’s good with his hands—a thought that sent a shiver through me. This time, it was the good kind of shiver. The kind I wouldn’t let Kyle create.
I feel bad about what I did with Kyle. It’s not like B. and I ever said we wouldn’t be with anyone else—we’re the farthest thing from Facebook official—but I am living with him now. I won’t do it again. It’s not like guys are exactly beating down the door to get to me, and besides, I won’t need anyone else, now that I have B., really and truly.
“This bed is so beautiful,” I said. I ran my hand over the wood. “How long did it take you to make it?”
“A couple of weekends.”
“How did you do it? Like, how do you attach the parts of the wood to one another?” I was a little curious, but mostly I hate dead air.
B. gave me a smile, like, “Silly girl, everyone knows that.” He didn’t answer.
He put all my clothes in the dresser and gave me a towel for the shower. He seemed a little stiff, formal maybe. No, gentlemanly. But after I showered, I went and sat on the futon next to him, and he actually moved to the other end. He said he wanted me to have my space. WTF?
