Read Don't Try to Find Me: A Novel for Free Online Page A

her silence.
    I’m going to call Trish, once it’s morning. I need to know what happened that weekend. Marley never asked to do another overnight, and now that I think of it, I can’t recall the last time Marley mentioned Trish. I peruse Facebook. Trish never “liked” anything again.
    I’ve been so self-involved lately. Clueless. I never thought about the root of that word before, that you really can miss all the clues.
    The other parents are right. I am to blame.
    When Marley was little (seven, maybe? the happy years blur together), we used to play the opposite game. We had to speak in polarities. If we were thirsty, we’d say, “I definitely don’t want a glass of water.” I don’t recall how the game was first invented, but Marley loved it.
    I can still see myself holding her close as she convulses in giggles, and I say, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you . . .”
    It suddenly occurs to me that the note could be in opposite-speak. She was writing to me in code. I begin the translation:
    Try to find me.
    I won’t be okay. I’ll be worse.
    Yes, I’m onto something here. This could be it.
    I hate you.
    I toss the iPad to the floor and begin to sob.
    I’M IN THE SUNROOM, on the silken window seat. It’s Marley’s favorite spot. “I feel like a cat,” she once said, luxuriating in the light that poured through the windows on all sides of her.
    I’m staring out at the barren fields, where the almond trees used to be. I don’t know how long I’ve been immobile, hoping that Marley will come into view, when Paul speaks from the doorway that divides the sunroom from the dining room. Just beyond him is the piano that came with the house. None of us play. But it’s a pretty old piano, and its dark wood seems to fit. It belongs here, more than any of us do.
    “Rachel,” Paul says again, impatience nibbling at the edge of his tone. He might have said it more than twice, more than three times, I don’t know. It’s eight A.M ., and he’s showered, shaved, and dressed. I’m still in my pajamas.
    “It’s Saturday,” I say. “She probably won’t come back on a Saturday. There’s too much going on.” It feels good to say it. I’m modulating my hopes, not pinning them all on Saturday. There are so many other days of the week for her to return.
    Paul stays in the doorway. I can feel that he wants to come closer, but it’s hard to penetrate my force field. I’m sure other couples lean on each other at times like this. They’re not in separate rooms, on separate computers; one of them doesn’t crash out on the living room couch while the other lies sleepless in bed. It’s not Paul’s fault, though. He’s reached for me. I can’t seem to reach back.
    “I spoke to Officer Strickland,” he says. “Someone saw our poster and called in a tip.”
    My heart beats wildly. It’s our first lead.
    “A man said that Marley approached him on the street not far from the school. He drove her downtown and saw her go into the bus station. Officer Strickland spoke to the ticket sellers who were working that day, but no one admits to selling Marley a ticket.”
    “What do you mean, they won’t admit to it?”
    “They’re not supposed to be selling bus tickets to minors. They should have asked her for ID. So now they’re covering their asses.”
    I stare at him, outraged. “We need to go down there. We can tell them that we don’t want to get them in trouble; we just want to know where Marley went.”
    “I’m on my way.”
    “Without me?”
    “You’re so emotional. Which isn’t a bad thing,” he adds hastily, “unless we’re trying to convince people they’re not in any trouble.”
    I stare out at the fields. If I squint, I can practically see her in the distance. Long hair flying, Ugg boots tromping.
    “Then I was thinking I’d drive to the old neighborhood and through San Francisco and put up flyers. Maybe I could talk to some people.”
    “Which people?” It comes out sharply. I’m