by Holly Brown
If only I’d seen that moment, Marley’s question, for what it could have been. My instinct was to try to protect her from an unpleasant truth. Yes, I’d been thinking about divorce, sometimes seriously, and sometimes it was more of a daydream. I didn’t want her to worry about our marriage or for her to think less of Paul. I suppose I didn’t want her to think less of me. We always told her not to be a quitter. Of course, that fell on deaf ears. She’d tried sports and clubs and musical instruments and quit every one. I encouraged her to write for the school newspaper this year. She was such a good writer.
She is. Present tense. She is a good writer.
“So you’d never divorce him?” she asked that day, her voice adenoidal.
I thought she wanted reassurance, to know that her family would never fracture. “No,” I said, “I wouldn’t divorce him.”
In retrospect, it’s possible she was hoping for a different answer. If she wanted me to leave Paul and I told her I never would, maybe she decided to leave herself.
Could Paul have done something to her? Hurt her in some way?
They’ve been distant for years, at least since she saw Dr. Michael. I always assumed it was just because Paul is who he is. He’s not the easiest guy to talk to. Besides, girls are often closer to their moms than their dads.
If Paul was the reason she needed therapy, he could be the reason she ran away. He could be the one with something to hide, while making himself above suspicion. While I’m the person of interest.
Seven Months Ago
I wish I could say I was surprised, Mar.
Yeah, u always thought there was something about my mom.
And ur dad.
Well, obviously, my dad. But my mom, I didn’t see it. I used to feel sorry for her.
They’re all in on it. Life is a grand conspiracy.
What do u mean?
I’m just sad for u. Sad that u got a bum deal with ur parents.
U did, too.
I know. Maybe it’s part of what I saw in u in the beginning. I saw me in u.
I never realized we were so alike before.
They don’t get u, Mar. They don’t recognize how amazing u r. But I do.
U were tagged in a new photo. On ur friend Jake’s wall? U looked so happy.
I could be happier. If u were here.
Like that can happen. Like my parents would ever let me fly off somewhere to see a guy.
Hey, I’m not just a guy.
No, u’r the guy I love.
Do u really mean that? U never said it before.
I feel like u’r on my side, and no one else really is.
That sounds like love.
I really love u, too, Mar. U just made me way happier than I was in that pic.
But we can’t do anything about it. We can’t even meet.
We’ll figure something out. Did I tell u how beautiful the Outer Banks are? Maybe u can get your parents to bring u here in the summer.
That’s far from CA.
They can afford plane tickets, right? Rent a house in the Outer Banks. I’ll find a way to be right next door.
I don’t think they’d do it. CA has beaches.
It’s different here. Slower. I bet u’d like it better.
A new place. Think about it. U get to reinvent yourself.
Think how happy u’d look in the photo.
Day_10
I NOTICE THAT I’VE started doing opposite-speak with B. Not often, but it bothers me. It used to be that I never needed opposite-speak with two people in my life: Dr. Michael and B. Well, and my mom, but that was when I was really little. That’s why it could be a game between us, then. But that last time I saw Dr. Michael, it was different, and now, with B., it slips out.
Opposite-speak is different from lying, because when you use it, you always know. You’re never trying to fool yourself.
That’s the difference between my mom and me. I think she wants to believe the things she tells people. When you ask her how she is and she says fine, it’s not opposite-speak. What would Dr. Michael call that? Self-delusion. I think the worst thing you can be is a liar to yourself.
My dad never uses opposite-speak. He always says exactly what he means. That could be a good quality, except that what he means is often so annoying. Or worse.
B. and I took a drive to the beach. On the way, we stopped at Target. B. wanted to wait in the car, so I said I’d be fast. I’d been thinking we’d roam the aisles together and pick up some things for the apartment, stuff to make it feel more like our place instead of just his, but he seemed eager to get back on the road. I don’t think he wanted us to be seen together since we were still close to Durham.
I was a very efficient shopper. I went straight to the men’s section and bought a three-pack of Hanes white crew-neck T-shirts and a pack of the V-necks, too. Then I got some flip-flops. After I paid for everything, I stopped off at the bathroom and put on one of the V-necks and the shoes. I wriggled my toes, trying to get used to the sensation of the rubber between them. There’s a hint of cleavage through the V-neck, and I hoped B. would notice.
He was leaning against the car, watching me approach, and he said, “Is that a men’s shirt? Why didn’t you buy one made for women?”
“The men’s come in three-packs.” Then, in a jokey voice, “What a bargain!” It came out fake and silly, and I was embarrassed by it, and by the shirt, and by the way he was looking at me. It was like I’d disappointed him. I have that feeling a lot.
He didn’t say anything else and got back in the car. That felt even worse, somehow. As he pulled out of the lot, I started to cry, and I was embarrassed by that, too, on top of everything else.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at me. “If I hurt your feelings.”
I couldn’t explain it to him, how I felt like the day was already getting ruined and that I needed a really good day. I needed to prove to myself that coming out here was the right thing. And why is it still so fucking hot anyway? It’s November.
I said that last part out loud, and he smiled. “I used to love Indian summer when I was a kid.”
“Tell me about when you were a kid.”
Once he was talking about secret forts he built in the woods and the other ways he tried to escape his dad, he sounded like the guy I knew from all our texts and phone calls. I started to relax. If he’d just kiss me again, it would be all good.
The car ride was fun, but the beach wasn’t that great. It wasn’t as pretty as the ones I’m used to in Northern California, where the water’s aqua and there are no girls in bikinis. I guess it’s because the water in CA is friggin’ cold, and in North Carolina, you can actually go swimming, even in November. Wilmington isn’t just a beach town but a college beach town, so it sucked to be me.
I didn’t like being surrounded by all those girls. B. wasn’t checking them out in an obvious way, but he’s not dead. Obviously, he sees there are skinny, bikini-clad women and I’m sitting there in my men’s V-neck that seemed minorly sexy in a Target bathroom but not anymore. He’s in shorts and sandals, and he looks good, all trim and tan. He could do better than me. What’s he doing with a fourteen-year-old with fat arms wearing a men’s T-shirt?
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I made myself smile. “It’s nice here.”
What I wanted to say was:
IT’S HOT AS BALLS AND I’M SURROUNDED BY BEACH GODDESSES AND YOU’RE NOT TOUCHING ME—WHY AREN’T YOU TOUCHING ME????!!!!
—but complaining wouldn’t do me any good. I need to be fun, or he can put me back on the bus. Return to sender.
So I didn’t tell B. what I really thought about the beach, which is an example of opposite-speak but a not-very-important one. We talked a little and then got some lunch in a sandwich shop that was—just my luck—popular with beach goddesses.
“Tell me more about your friends,” I said. “Like Jake.” I wanted to show interest, to make B. feel interesting, and Jake’s the one whose name I can remember fr
om Facebook.
Only B. didn’t look real happy at the mention of Jake’s name. I like that he can get possessive about me. “What do you want to know about Jake?”
“I want to know all of them. I want to know what you usually do with them on the weekends, where you hang out. Like, where are they right now? Do they think it’s weird that you’re not with them?”
His mouth was full of meatball sub. When he swallowed, he answered, “They don’t think it’s weird. They know I’m with you. They know you’re my number one.” Was there a slight edge to his voice?
“Do some of them know how old I really am?” Because if they do, then we don’t need to do Disappeared.com first. I could meet them right away.
He was chewing again, and I had to wait for a response. “They don’t know.”
It suddenly occurred to me: “What are they going to think when they meet me and I have a different name? When I’m not Marley anymore?”
“I always just called you my girlfriend. I never said your name.”
“And they never asked?” What kind of friends are these?
He leaned in a little, and his face got intense. “I’m not close to anyone except you. They’re just people I hang out with. They don’t really matter.”
It’s not like he’d ever talked about them much, but still, I thought they were real friends. Not just people he partied with sometimes or Facebook friends. I was hoping I’d like them and they’d become my friends, too.
“Why do you need other people so bad anyway, Marley?” he asked. “We’re finally together.”
“I don’t need them,” I said, which is probably true.
I have to get better at following B.’s lead, going at his pace. I have to practice my patience. The South is slower than California. I’ll meet his friends someday, or maybe we’ll meet new people together. I don’t have to be in such a rush, especially since he doesn’t seem to care that much about them anyway.
After we ate, we took a walk on the beach, and he reached for my hand, which felt good, like a public announcement. Then he suggested staying overnight in a motel. I’d floated that idea earlier, before we left Durham, when I was in much higher spirits. “Come on,” he said as I hesitated. He gave me a smile, and then he used my line (well, Dr. Michael’s line): “What’s the worst that could happen?”
I don’t know what to say about what did happen. The motel room seemed dirty, and there was sand in the carpet. The lampshade was gold with hanging beads, and the bed was sagging and had this gross floral polyester spread on top. I didn’t want to touch anything for fear of contamination. I’d never stayed in a place like that in my life. My parents would have taken one look, and my father would have marched back to the office and gotten his money back.
But B.—it was like the room freed him. He grabbed me and threw me on the bed. I was still reeling from the hideousness of the place, and now, I had to compute the change in him. It was too much.
He was on top of me, and his tongue in my mouth seemed huge. Really, it was like it had grown to double its size. It was slapping at my tonsils. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I kept telling myself, SEE, HE REALLY DOES WANT YOU! I was trying so hard to be excited.
His hands felt like claws under my shirt. The whole thing was so animal, and I’ve heard sex can be like that and it can be a good thing, but not the first time. I couldn’t believe my first time was going to be like this.
Thinking back, I realize that I could have stopped him. I had a choice. I could have said no. But I came all this way to be with him, the guy I love, the first guy I’d ever even come close to loving, and I’m going to have a new life, with him. I want to say nothing but yes.
For a lean guy, his body felt so heavy on mine. I was pinned, like in wrestling. I tried to enjoy it. I maybe could have, if I hadn’t felt so scared. I’m sure everyone is scared their first time. It all goes so fast.
But I was glad he was hard, that I made him that way. Before, I wasn’t positive I had that power.
Since I got to Durham, I’ve looked at him and felt myself getting wet. I know I’ve wanted him, as recently as this morning when I saw him walking across the room in his boxers. I definitely wanted him when we kissed the other night. Why couldn’t I want him when it counted?
I don’t know. I just didn’t.
He got my jeans and my underwear off, and his shorts off, and then he put on a condom. I was lying back, watching in amazement. It was really going to happen. He was going to put that inside me.
He licked his fingers and then rubbed them against me. I felt something shift a little—like maybe I could get into this, I could feel what I’m supposed to—and then he thrust in and I lost my breath.
The first time doesn’t really matter. If you think of it, that’s only one time, and there will be so many others. It shouldn’t even stand out after a while. Everyone says it’s not that good the first time, because it hurts. But I’m not sure it hurts everyone in this same way.
B.’s dead asleep. It’s almost midnight, and there’s still Sunday to get through. I want him to go away for a while, but not for too long, just for the day, just to class, and that way I can think more. That way, I can cry.
Day 10
PAUL IS GONE. HE left on his media tour this morning. First up: Chicago! He was amped up, convinced that this will be the breakthrough. More exposure, that’s what we need.
I watched him as he packed, double-bagging his toiletries, folding dark-colored sweaters as expertly as a Gap employee. I wondered if he could really be keeping a secret from me, from everyone, if he could have intentionally hurt Marley. It’s hard to fathom he’s been faking his love for her all these years or that he’s worked so tirelessly to bring her home purely for the sake of his image.
But could he have hurt her unintentionally? Then, once he realized it, tried to cover his tracks by making everyone think he’s Runaway Father of the Year?
I know I can be oblivious, especially this past year, but there are limits. There’s no way he could have done anything as disgusting as—I can barely articulate it, even to myself—touching her. If he had, she would never keep that secret for him. If she’d told Dr. Michael about physical or sexual abuse, he would have been legally obligated to call Child Protective Services. There would have been an investigation. Unless it happened after she saw Dr. Michael, once she had no adults she trusted? Because apparently, she doesn’t trust me.
No, Paul would never.
But some kind of emotional abuse, things he whispered to her when they were alone, some form of torture that he filed under motivational speaking . . . ?
I’m so tired of sifting through terrible scenarios. After Paul left, I crawled back into bed. It’s eleven A.M., and I’m still here.
The house is silent. I asked for a break from all the volunteers, and Paul has them “working remotely” and “frequently interfacing” with him. But being alone isn’t helping. I’d return to work but I’m too fragile for other people’s problems.
My emotions seesaw as I’m inundated with possibilities:
Marley wanted to start over, on her own. She doesn’t think of us at all, or she thinks of us with disdain or anger. Maybe it’s with a vague and fading fondness. We could be a pair of shoes she really liked but has outgrown.
She left because Paul had abused her or was still abusing her. She didn’t think anyone would believe her, including me. I was too checked out, too stupid, too self-absorbed, to protect her. Any life seemed better than that one.
She left so she could live on the street and binge-drink and have wild times. She’s tired of being a good girl. She’s ready to enjoy herself. She is enjoying herself. Or she’s not but is too ashamed to come home.
It started as a lark, and now she really is an addict and can’t see her way out.
Regardless of how it started, she’s now being held against her will. She’s being serially raped; she’s starving; she’s someone’s property; she’s a prostitute. It’s no longer abou
t finding her but about freeing her.
Is she with people? Is she alone? Which possibility is more frightening, really? All day and all night, I vacillate. It’s exhausting.
She could be happy.
She could be numb.
She could be hurt.
She’s already dead.
I should have let the volunteers stay. The need to look like a normal functioning person would have been good for me. I didn’t fall apart this completely when Paul and the others were around. Some sense of pride knitted me together. Now I’ve unraveled.
How is it one o’clock already?
Paul’s calling. I let him go into voice mail. When I listen, it’s nothing I want to hear. I pull the covers over my head.
My phone barely rings anymore, while Paul’s goes off all the time. The police have a tip line, but he’s the real tip line. The heart of the operation—that’s him. Me? I’m extraneous. Dawn still calls every day, but she’s the only one. I’ve got messages from Nadine, asking if I want to talk, telling me I can take as much time off as I need, but I can’t help feeling a small sense of betrayal that she told the police I was late to work. Did she really, for a single second, think that I was off hurting Marley? It galls me, that anyone could think that. I have moments where I wish ill on Strickland, think, Let one of your kids disappear and see how you act, and then I immediately retract that because nobody should have to live through their child’s disappearance.
I tend to do take-backs from my ugliest thoughts. I do it when I get angry at Marley. I tell God, No, no, I don’t mean it. She’s not an ingrate. She’s not spoiled or cruel. I reiterate all her good qualities, my eyes cast skyward. I don’t know what the odds are that He’s listening or would do anything at my behest. We haven’t been in touch in a very long while. My asking a favor of God is like talking to a childhood friend you haven’t seen in twenty years and saying, “Hey, do you think I can borrow your beach house this weekend?”
I’ve told Michael not to call, which means he calls once a day. He’s calling now. I shouldn’t answer. I don’t even want to answer, I’m in no shape to talk to anyone, but you’d think I was programmed. My hand shoots out, unauthorized, and I’m sobbing.
