Gone Girl Read online

  I twitched my head at her, unsure what to say.

  ‘Do you even know who I am?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. You’re Noelle Hawthorne.’

  ‘I’m Amy’s best friend here.’

  I had to remind the police: There were only two options with Noelle. She was either a lying publicity whore – she liked the cachet of being pals with a missing woman – or she was crazy. A stalker determined to befriend Amy, and when Amy shirked her …

  ‘Do you have any information about Amy, Noelle?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I do, Nick. She was my best friend.’

  We stared each other down for a few seconds.

  ‘Are you going to share it?’ I asked.

  ‘The police know where to find me. If they ever get around to it.’

  ‘That’s super-helpful, Noelle. I’ll make sure they talk to you.’

  Her cheeks blazed red, two expressionist splatters of color.

  She went away. I thought the unkind thought, one of those that burbled up beyond my control. I thought: Women are fucking crazy. No qualifier: Not some women, not many women. Women are crazy.

  Once night fell fully, I drove to my dad’s vacant house, Amy’s clue on the seat beside me.

  Maybe you feel guilty for bringing me here

  I must admit it felt a bit queer

  But it’s not like we had the choice of many a place

  We made the decision: We made this our space.

  Let’s take our love to this little brown house

  Gimme some goodwill, you hot lovin’ spouse!

  This one was more cryptic than the others, but I was sure I had it right. Amy was conceding Carthage, finally forgiving me for moving back here. Maybe you feel guilty for bringing me here … [but] We made this our space. The little brown house was my father’s house, which was actually blue, but Amy was making another inside joke. I’d always liked our inside jokes the best – they made me feel more connected to Amy than any amount of confessional truth-telling or passionate lovemaking or talk-till-sunrising. The little brown house story was about my father, and Amy is the only person I’d ever told it to: that after the divorce, I saw him so seldom that I decided to think of him as a character in a storybook. He was not my actual father – who would have loved me and spent time with me – but a benevolent and vaguely important figure named Mr Brown, who was very busy doing very important things for the United States and who (very) occasionally used me as a cover to move more easily about town. Amy got tears in her eyes when I told her this, which I hadn’t meant, I’d meant it as a kids are funny story. She told me she was my family now, that she loved me enough to make up for ten crappy fathers, and that we were now the Dunnes, the two of us. And then she whispered in my ear, ‘I do have an assignment you might be good for …’

  As for bringing back the goodwill, that was another conciliation. After my father was completely lost to the Alzheimer’s, we decided to sell his place, so Amy and I went through his house, putting together boxes for Goodwill. Amy, of course, was a whirling dervish of doing – pack, store, toss – while I sifted through my father’s things glacially. For me, everything was a clue. A mug with deeper coffee stains than the others must be his favorite. Was it a gift? Who gave it to him? Or did he buy it himself? I pictured my father finding the very act of shopping emasculating. Still, an inspection of his closet revealed five pairs of shoes, shiny new, still in their boxes. Had he bought these himself, picturing a different, more social Bill Dunne than the one slowly unspooling alone? Did he go to Shoe-Be-Doo-Be, get my mother to help him, just another in a long line of her casual kindnesses? Of course, I didn’t share any of these musings with Amy, so I’m sure I came off as the goldbricker I so often am.

  ‘Here. A box. For Goodwill,’ she said, catching me on the floor, leaning against a wall, staring at a shoe. ‘You put the shoes in the box. Okay?’ I was embarrassed, I snarled at her, she snapped at me, and … the usual.

  I should add, in Amy’s defense, that she’d asked me twice if I wanted to talk, if I was sure I wanted to do this. I sometimes leave out details like that. It’s more convenient for me. In truth, I wanted her to read my mind so I didn’t have to stoop to the womanly art of articulation. I was sometimes as guilty of playing the figure-me-out game as Amy was. I’ve left that bit of information out, too.

  I’m a big fan of the lie of omission.

  I pulled up in front of my dad’s house just after ten p.m. It was a tidy little place, a good starter home (or ender home). Two bedrooms, two baths, dining room, dated but decent kitchen. A for-sale sign rusted in the front yard. One year and not a bite.

  I entered the stuffy house, the heat rolling over me. The budget alarm system we installed after the third break-in began beeping, like a bomb countdown. I input the code, the one that drove Amy insane because it went against every rule about codes. It was my birthday: 81577.

  Code rejected. I tried again. Code rejected. A bead of sweat rolled down my back. Amy had always threatened to change the code. She said it was pointless to have one that was so guessable, but I knew the real reason. She resented that it was my birthday and not our anniversary: Once again I’d chosen me over us. My semi-sweet nostalgia for Amy disappeared. I stabbed my finger at the numbers again, growing more panicked as the alarm beeped and beeped and beeped its countdown – until it went into full intruder blare.

  Woooonk-woooonk-woooonk!

  My cell phone was supposed to ring so I could give the all-clear: Just me, the idiot. But it didn’t. I waited a full minute, the alarm reminding me of a torpedoed-submarine movie. The canned heat of a closed house in July shimmered over me. My shirt back was already soaked. Goddammit, Amy. I scanned the alarm for the company’s number and found nothing. I pulled over a chair and began yanking at the alarm; I had it off the wall, hanging by the cords, when my phone finally rang. A bitchy voice on the other end demanded Amy’s first pet’s name.

  Woooonk-woooonk-woooonk!

  It was exactly the wrong tone – smug, petulant, utterly unconcerned – and exactly the wrong question, because I didn’t know the answer, which infuriated me. No matter how many clues I solved, I’d be faced with some Amy trivia to unman me.

  ‘Look, this is Nick Dunne, this is my dad’s house, this account was set up by me,’ I snapped. ‘So it doesn’t really fucking matter what my wife’s first pet’s name was.’

  Woooonk-woooonk-woooonk!

  ‘Please don’t take that tone with me, sir.’

  ‘Look, I just came in to grab one thing from my dad’s house, and now I’m leaving, okay?’

  ‘I have to notify the police immediately.’

  ‘Can you just turn off the goddamn alarm so I can think?’

  Woooonk-woooonk-woooonk!

  ‘The alarm’s off.’

  ‘The alarm is not off.’

  ‘Sir, I warned you once, do not take that tone with me.’

  You fucking bitch.

  ‘You know what? Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.’

  I hung up just as I remembered Amy’s cat’s name, the very first one: Stuart.

  I called back, got a different operator, a reasonable operator, who turned off the alarm and, God bless her, called off the police. I really wasn’t in the mood to explain myself.

  I sat on the thin, cheap carpet and made myself breathe, my heart clattering. After a minute, after my shoulders untensed and my jaw unclenched and my hands unfisted and my heart returned to normal, I stood up and momentarily debated just leaving, as if that would teach Amy a lesson. But as I stood up, I saw a blue envelope left on the kitchen counter like a Dear John note.

  I took a deep breath, blew it out – new attitude – and opened the envelope, pulled out the letter marked with a heart.

  Hi Darling,

  So we both have things we want to work on. For me, it’d be my perfectionism, my occasional (wishful thinking?) self-righteousness. For you? I know you worry that you’re sometimes too distant, too removed, unable to be tender
or nurturing. Well, I want to tell you – here in your father’s house – that isn’t true. You are not your father. You need to know that you are a good man, you are a sweet man, you are kind. I’ve punished you for not being able to read my mind sometimes, for not being able to act in exactly the way I wanted you to act right at exactly that moment. I punished you for being a real, breathing man. I ordered you around instead of trusting you to find your way. I didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt: that no matter how much you and I blunder, you always love me and want me to be happy. And that should be enough for any girl, right? I worry I’ve said things about you that aren’t actually true, and that you’ve come to believe them. So I am here to say now: You are WARM. You are my sun.

  If Amy were with me, as she’d planned on being, she would have nuzzled into me the way she used to do, her face in the crook of my neck, and she would have kissed me and smiled and said, You are, you know. My sun. My throat tight, I took a final look around my father’s house and left, closing the door on the heat. In my car, I fumbled open the envelope marked fourth clue. We had to be near the end.

  Picture me: I’m a girl who is very bad

  I need to be punished, and by punished, I mean had

  It’s where you store goodies for anniversary five

  Pardon me if this is getting contrived!

  A good time was had here right at sunny midday

  Then out for a cocktail, all so terribly gay.

  So run there right now, full of sweet sighs,

  And open the door for your big surprise.

  My stomach seized. I didn’t know what this one meant. I reread it. I couldn’t even guess. Amy had stopped taking it easy on me. I wasn’t going to finish the treasure hunt after all.

  I felt a surge of angst. What a fucking day. Boney was out to get me, Noelle was insane, Shawna was pissed, Hilary was resentful, the woman at the security company was a bitch, and my wife had stumped me finally. It was time to end this goddamn day. There was only one woman I could stand to be around right now.

  Go took one look at me – rattled, tight-lipped, and heat-exhausted from my dad’s – and parked me on the couch, announced she’d make some late dinner. Five minutes later, she was stepping carefully toward me, balancing my meal on an ancient TV tray. An old Dunne standby: grilled cheese and BBQ chips, a plastic cup of …

  ‘It’s not Kool-Aid,’ Go said. ‘It’s beer. Kool-Aid seemed a little too regressive.’

  ‘This is very nurturing and strange of you, Go.’

  ‘You’re cooking tomorrow.’

  ‘Hope you like canned soup.’

  She sat down on the couch next to me, stole a chip from my plate, and asked, too casually: ‘Any thoughts on why the cops would ask me if Amy was still a size two?’

  ‘Jesus, they won’t fucking let that go,’ I said.

  ‘Doesn’t it freak you out? Like, they found her clothes or something?’

  ‘They’d have asked me to identify them. Right?’

  She thought about that a second, her face pinched. ‘That makes sense,’ she said. Her face remained pinched until she caught me looking, then she smiled. ‘I taped the ball game, wanna watch? You okay?’

  ‘I’m okay.’ I felt awful, my stomach greasy, my psyche crackling. Maybe it was the clue I couldn’t figure out, but I suddenly felt like I’d overlooked something. I’d made some huge mistake, and my error would be disastrous. Maybe it was my conscience, scratching back to the surface from its secret oubliette.

  Go pulled up the game and, for the next ten minutes, remarked on the game only, and only between sips of her beer. Go didn’t like grilled cheese; she was scooping peanut butter out of the jar onto saltines. When a commercial break came on, she paused and said, ‘If I had a dick, I would fuck this peanut butter,’ deliberately spraying cracker bits toward me.

  ‘I think if you had a dick, all sorts of bad things would happen.’

  She fast-forwarded through a nothing inning. Cards trailing by five. When it was time for the next commercial break, Go paused, said, ‘So I called to change my cell-phone plan today, and the hold song was Lionel Richie – do you ever listen to Lionel Richie? I like “Penny Lover,” but the song wasn’t “Penny Lover,” but anyway, then a woman came on the line, and she said the customer-service reps are all based in Baton Rouge, which was strange because she didn’t have an accent, but she said she grew up in New Orleans, and it’s a little-known fact that – what do you call someone from New Orleans, a New Orleansean? – anyway, that they don’t have much of an accent. So she said for my package, package A …’

  Go and I had a game inspired by our mom, who had a habit of telling such outrageously mundane, endless stories that Go was positive she had to be secretly fucking with us. For about ten years now, whenever Go and I hit a conversation lull, one of us would break in with a story about appliance repair or coupon fulfillment. Go had more stamina than I did, though. Her stories could drone on, seamlessly, forever – they went on so long that they became genuinely annoying and then swung back around to hilarious.

  Go was moving on to a story about her refrigerator light and showed no signs of faltering. Filled with a sudden, heavy gratefulness, I leaned across the couch and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Just, thanks.’ I felt my eyes get full with tears. I looked away for a second to blink them off, and Go said, ‘So I needed a triple-A battery, which, as it turns out, is different from a transistor battery, so I had to find the receipt to return the transistor battery …’

  We finished watching the game. Cards lost. When it was over, Go switched the TV to mute. ‘You want to talk, or you want more distraction? Whatever you need.’

  ‘You go on to bed, Go. I’m just going to flip around. Probably sleep. I need to sleep.’

  ‘You want an Ambien?’ My twin was a staunch believer in the easiest way. No relaxation tapes or whale noises for her; pop a pill, get unconscious.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘They’re in the medicine cabinet if you change your mind. If there was ever a time for assisted sleep …’ She hovered over me for just a few seconds, then, Go-like, trotted down the hall, clearly not sleepy, and closed her door, knowing the kindest thing was to leave me alone.

  A lot of people lacked that gift: knowing when to fuck off. People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don’t reach my lips. She looks nice today, I’d think, but somehow it wouldn’t occur to me to say it out loud. My mom talked, my sister talked. I’d been raised to listen. So, sitting on the couch by myself, not talking, felt decadent. I leafed through one of Go’s magazines, flipped through TV channels, finally alighting on an old black-and-white show, men in fedoras scribbling notes while a pretty housewife explained that her husband was away in Fresno, which made the two cops look at each other significantly and nod. I thought of Gilpin and Boney and my stomach lurched.

  In my pocket, my disposable cell phone made a mini-jackpot sound that meant I had a text:

  im outside open the door

  AMY ELLIOTT DUNNE

  APRIL 28, 2011

  – Diary entry –

  Just got to keep on keeping on, that’s what Mama Mo says, and when she says it – her sureness, each word emphasized, as if it really were a viable life strategy – the cliche´ stops being a set of words and turns into something real. Valuable. Keep on keeping on, exactly! I think.

  I do love that about the Midwest: People don’t make a big deal about everything. Not even death. Mama Mo will just keep on keeping on until the cancer shuts her down, and then she will die.

  So I’m keeping my head down and making the best of a bad situation, and I mean that in the deep, literal Mama Mo usage. I keep my head down and do my work: I drive Mo to doctor’s appointments and chemo appointments. I change the sickly water in the flower vase in Nick’s father’s room, and I drop off cookies for the staff so they take good care of him.

  I
’m making the best of a really bad situation, and the situation is mostly bad because my husband, who brought me here, who uprooted me to be closer to his ailing parents, seems to have lost all interest in both me and said ailing parents.

  Nick has written off his father entirely: He won’t even say the man’s name. I know every time we get a phone call from Comfort Hill, Nick is hoping it’s the announcement that his dad is dead. As for Mo, Nick sat with his mom during a single chemo session and pronounced it unbearable. He said he hated hospitals, he hated sick people, he hated the slowly ticking time, the IV bag dripping molasses-slow. He just couldn’t do it. And when I tried to talk him back into it, when I tried to stiffen his spine with some gotta do what you gotta do, he told me to do it. So I did, I have. Mama Mo, of course, takes on the burden of his blame. We sat one day, partly watching a romantic comedy on my computer but mostly chatting, while the IV dripped … so … slowly, and as the spunky heroine tripped over a sofa, Mo turned to me and said, ‘Don’t be too hard on Nick. About not wanting to do this kind of thing. I just always doted on him, I babied him – how could you not? That face. And so he has trouble doing hard things. But I truly don’t mind, Amy. Truly.’

  ‘You should mind,’ I said.

  ‘Nick doesn’t have to prove his love for me,’ she said, patting my hand. ‘I know he loves me.’

  I admire Mo’s unconditional love, I do. So I don’t tell her what I have found on Nick’s computer, the book proposal for a memoir about a Manhattan magazine writer who returns to his Missouri roots to care for both his ailing parents. Nick has all sorts of bizarre things on his computer, and sometimes I can’t resist a little light snooping – it gives me a clue as to what my husband is thinking. His search history gave me the latest: noir films and the website of his old magazine and a study on the Mississippi River, whether it’s possible to free-float from here to the Gulf. I know what he pictures: floating down the Mississippi, like Huck Finn, and writing an article about it. Nick is always looking for angles.

  I was nosing through all this when I found the book proposal.

  Double Lives: A Memoir of Ends and Beginnings will especially resonate with Gen X males, the original man-boys, who are just beginning to experience the stress and pressures involved with caring for aging parents. In Double Lives, I will detail:

  • My growing understanding of a troubled, once-distant father

  • My painful, forced transformation from a carefree young man into the head of a family as I deal with the imminent death of a much loved mother

  • The resentment my Manhattanite wife feels at this detour in her previously charmed life. My wife, it should be mentioned, is Amy Elliott Dunne, the inspiration for the best-selling Amazing Amy series.

  The proposal was never completed, I assume because Nick realized he wasn’t going to ever understand his once-distant father; and because Nick was shirking all ‘head of the family’ duties; and because I wasn’t expressing any anger about my new life. A little frustration, yes, but no book-worthy rage. For so many years, my husband has lauded the emotional solidity of midwesterners: stoic, humble, without affectation! But these aren’t the kinds of people who provide good memoir material. Imagine the jacket copy: People behaved mostly well and then they died.

  Still, it stings a bit, ‘the resentment my Manhattanite wife feels.’ Maybe I do feel … stubborn. I think of how consistently lovely Maureen is, and I worry that Nick and I were not meant to be matched. That he would be happier with a woman who thrills at husband care and homemaking, and I’m not disparaging these skills: I wish I had them. I wish I cared more that Nick always has his favorite toothpaste, that I know his collar size off the top of my head, that I am an unconditionally loving woman whose greatest happiness is making my man happy.

  I was that way, for a while, with Nick. But it was unsustainable. I’m not selfless enough. Only child, as Nick points out regularly.

  But I try. I keep on keeping on, and Nick runs around town like a kid again. He’s happy to be back in his rightful prom-king place – he dropped about ten pounds, he got a new haircut, he bought new jeans, he looks freakin’ great. But I only know that from the glimpses of him coming home or going back out, always in a pretend hurry. You wouldn’t like it, his standard response any time I ask to come with him, wherever it is he goes. Just like he jettisoned his parents when they were of no use to him, he’s dropping me because I don’t fit in his new life. He’d have to work to make me comfortable here, and he doesn’t want to do that. He wants to enjoy himself.

  Stop it, stop it. I must look on the bright side. Literally. I must take my husband out of my dark shadowy thoughts and shine some cheerful golden light on him. I must do better at adoring him like I used to. Nick responds to adoration. I just wish it felt more equal. My brain is so busy with Nick thoughts, it’s a swarm inside my head: Nicknicknicknicknick! And when I picture his mind, I hear my name as a shy crystal ping that occurs once, maybe twice, a day and quickly subsides. I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him.

  Is that wrong? I don’t even know anymore.

  NICK DUNNE

  FOUR DAYS GONE

  She was standing there in the orange glow of the streetlight, in a flimsy sundress, her hair wavy from the humidity. Andie. She rushed through the doorway, her arms splayed to hug me, and I hissed, ‘Wait, wait!’ and shut it just before she wrapped herself around me. She pressed her cheek against my chest, and I put my hand on her bare back and closed my eyes. I felt a queasy mixture of relief and horror: when you finally stop an itch and realize it’s because you’ve ripped a hole in your skin.