The Remedy

by Suzanne Young

  “Dad?” I said, making my father turn around.

  “Oh,” he replied good-naturedly. He jumped up from the table and joined me in the doorway to observe the random teenager he’d brought home. “Glad you’re up,” my father said. “I want you to meet someone.”

  “Clearly,” I responded. For his part, Deacon continued to eat as if we weren’t talking about him at all. I have to admit, I sort of liked how blasé he was about the whole thing. I turned back to my father. “But first maybe I could . . .” I motioned to my clothes, proving that I was still in my pajamas.

  “It’s fine,” my father said with a shake of his head. “Deacon, this is my daughter,” he told the stranger first. Deacon held up his fork in greeting and then smiled, acknowledging in his subtle way that yes, this was weird. And yes, I was definitely still in my pajamas.

  I was a little charmed. “Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you, Deacon,” I responded with sarcastic politeness, and then spun to my father. “Can I go now?”

  My father tsked, and took my shoulders to turn me toward the stranger again. “Quinn, this is Deacon Hatcher. He’s our newest closer, but more important, he’s your partner.”

  My stomach dropped. “What?” I demanded. “What about Marie?”

  “Marie will continue on as your advisor, but a new safeguard has been put into place,” my father explained. “Deacon will check in with you throughout your assignment, find out any info you need. Extract you and then assimilate you when the assignment is up. You’ll do the same for him.”

  I looked at the stranger sitting at the table, imagining all the secrets of my life that he’d now be privy to. This was a complete violation of my trust. Deacon shrugged, acknowledging he thought this was pretty crazy too. I turned back to my dad. “I don’t even know this guy,” I said. “What if he sucks?”

  Deacon snorted from behind me.

  My father shot him a pointed look, and then steadied his gaze on me. “I assure you,” he said in a slightly patronizing tone, “Deacon is well trained. I wouldn’t trust your safety with just anyone. He’s been on several assignments already. Glowing reviews.”

  His comment didn’t alleviate any of my worries. “No,” I said definitively. And then to Deacon, just in case he didn’t get the message: “Absolutely not. I don’t need a partner.” And with that I stormed back to my room, slamming my door.

  Deacon was the one who picked me up from my assignment a week later. He became my most trusted ally. And now, at the thought of him, I’ve brought myself back.

  I stay in my closet for a while, leaning against the wall with the sketch. My pulse is still racing, but I’ve found my tether to the real world. I close my eyes and think that Deacon was exactly right about something I already knew: It was too soon for a new assignment.

  * * *

  I shower and change into the softest T-shirt I can find, and leave my room. I’m craving comfort after this morning’s emotional outburst, debating whether or not I should call it in to Aaron. Ultimately, I decide I don’t want my brain picked over by a counselor. I can handle this. And in a way, I’m glad I broke down. I feel cleansed. First nights are always tough, like sleepaway-camp homesickness—only I have lifesickness.

  I enter the kitchen and find my mother at the stove, stirring a batch of scrambled eggs. Her eyes widen at the sight of me, and I wilt, self-conscious under her attention. My mother’s face relaxes and she motions to the kitchen table.

  “You’re up earlier than usual,” she says. “And good thing. I was making breakfast for your father, but he’s not hungry. Hope you are.” She glances back at me and I nod. “I’m excited to spend the afternoon together,” she adds. “We can buy you some new clothes.”

  I smile politely, thinking more clothes would be a great idea. Other than the outfits I brought and a few T-shirts, most of Catalina’s clothes are uncomfortable, tighter than I like to wear—especially over my curves. “Sounds great,” I tell her, settling back in my seat. “Where’s Dad?” I ask when she sets a cup of orange juice in front of me. Her mouth tightens.

  “He went back to bed. He’s very tired,” she says, although I detect the lie in her voice. I guess he’s avoiding me, but that’s not unusual. I sip my juice.

  “Anyhow,” she says, walking over to grab the pan and a spatula, “I’m really looking forward to today. It’ll be nice for it to be just us. It’s been a long time since you’ve wanted to have a day with me.” My mother piles food on my plate, and I consider her statement, wonder about the difference between the pictures on my computer showing my family together and the truth that I hadn’t been spending time with her. I thought we were happy and perfect. Nothing is ever perfect, though.

  “Well, I’m here now,” I tell her warmly, and shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth. “We can have whatever day you like.” She smiles at the statement and then goes back to the sink to wash the pan.

  As I eat, I’m thinking about the pictures I saw online, what they mean, what they represent. I can’t help but think I’m missing something, like I’m keeping a secret from myself. I furrow my brow, but then my mother is there, chatting about her friend Maryanne, who just got divorced, and maybe we could stop by and bring her some groceries. I don’t think my mother quite understands the concept of closure—I’m not a replacement daughter to build new memories with, just a substitute to help her right the past and find a way to move on.

  I nod along and don’t correct her, even though I know I should. This is comfortable, so I let her dote on me. I enjoy the attention and praise. For a second I wish this was all real, which I can see in her eyes too, but a nagging voice pulls me out.

  Don’t get attached, Marie warns. It’s the worst thing a closer can ever do.

  I finish my breakfast and help my mother clean up. The minute I’m back in my room, I throw open the window and let in the fresh air. I stand for a moment in the breeze and close my eyes. The weather is morning crisp, alive. My skin chills, and I walk to the closet and grab my zip-up hoodie.

  I go to the computer and start clicking through the different social media outlets, trying to find something new I can think about. Instead, I’m scanning Isaac’s page, noticing the girls who have commented about his loss. Offering their condolences. I don’t personally have any accounts, any wall that people can write on. I see it as public spying, throwing your identity out there for the world to take what they want. For people to mimic. None of the closers participate, because we know how the information can be used. I rest my elbow on the desktop, wishing I at least had a few pictures of my own—something of Deacon, maybe. I smile, imagining that any picture he would put online would be completely indecent.

  A reminder message pops up on my calendar, and I click it. BASEBALL PRACTICE—10 A.M. is highlighted. I stare a moment, and then I shake my head to clear it. I was slipping back into my real life when I should have been concentrating on my assignment. Marie was right: Deacon is distracting.

  I grab a purse and stuff in a few essentials, and then head out into the hallway. Why is Isaac’s practice on my calendar? And why am I even considering going? He was clear that he didn’t want anything to do with this therapy. Then again, he showed up here last night, reached out to me in that message. Sure, he was a jerk, but at least he opened up a little. Marie said not to engage him in person, but what if I’m only observing him? That doesn’t totally count as breaking her rules. Especially not if I can help him.

  I enter the family room, searching for my mother, and find her sitting on the couch alone, an album opened on her lap. She jumps when she realizes I’m there, and I feel a tug of sympathy at the sadness in her expression.

  “Hi,” she says brightly, wiping tears quickly off her cheeks. She sees my hoodie and purse. “Are you going somewhere?” She sounds worried, but not because she’s afraid people will see me; she’s afraid I won’t come back.

  “I . . .” Now I’m torn about leaving her. I motion to the outside. “There’s a baseball practice?” I phr
ase it as a question, because I’m not sure if I would actually go to see Isaac. Maybe I just kept tabs on him.

  “Oh,” my mother says with a small laugh. “That’s right. It’s Saturday. How could I forget?”

  I shrug because I don’t know what she means by Saturday. I want her to clarify, but I’m afraid to ask. I have to be careful how I phrase things, or I could pull her out of the illusion of me. I fidget with the zipper on my hoodie, nervous as if I’m actually asking permission to go out.

  We’re quiet for a moment before my mother closes the book, a family photo album, and sets it aside on the couch. She seems to realize my hesitance, and points to the sofa table, where the car keys lie in a small wicker basket. “You can use the Jetta,” she says. “It’s yours. On Saturdays you normally watch Isaac’s practices. Although sometimes you go out with Virginia instead.”

  My lips part in surprise. Virginia—I didn’t know about her. She’s not in the file. She’s not anywhere on my social media pages. Pinpricks race up my arms because, once again, I’ve been keeping secrets.

  “I think it’s a great idea, Catalina,” she adds, standing and brushing off her beige skirt. “Your father needs a little time alone, and I’m sure Isaac would want you there today. You never miss a practice. At least . . . you never used to.” My mother crosses the room and pauses in front of me, studying my every feature as if trying to memorize the new me. I want to hug her, but I resist.

  She smiles gently and reaches her finger to smooth the crease between my eyebrows, startling me with the kindness of her touch. “Don’t look so worried,” she says. “He’ll come around.” She pats my arm before turning to walk toward the bedrooms, leaving me wondering if she’s talking about Isaac or my father.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A WARM BREEZE BLOWS THROUGH my hair, tickling the back of my neck. I’m not used to wearing my hair so short. I slam the car door and tug up the zipper of my hoodie, wishing that I’d changed into something a little more appealing before leaving the house. After talking with my mother, I almost didn’t come at all. But her words echoed in my head, telling me I wouldn’t normally miss a practice, that Isaac would appreciate seeing me. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure this is the opposite of how Marie wanted me to handle this. But if I’m going to help him, I need more information.

  My phone is set to vibrate in my back pocket in case Aaron calls. I sent him a message earlier, asking him to check into a girl named Virginia. When I get back home, I’ll read through the journal again—look for clues. For now I start down the side of the field, combing my fingers through my wig to keep it looking natural. The baseball team practices on my left, and I squint against the sun toward the metal bleachers on my right, relieved to find them mostly empty.

  There is a low murmur from the girls sitting on the bottom row, but I keep my eyes downcast and climb up to the very top. My nerves start to take over, and I consider running off before anyone else notices me, but I don’t want to walk past those girls again so soon. I sit down, feeling the warmth of the sun-heated metal through my jeans. The red-headed girl from the front row glances over her shoulder at me, but I pretend not to notice. I stare past her, scanning the field for Isaac.

  In uniform all the guys look the same, but my gaze eventually finds the shortstop. Isaac’s biceps stretch the sleeves of his jersey; the tight pin-striped pants accentuate his lean frame. As if sensing my stare, Isaac turns his head in the direction of the bleachers. He adjusts the brim of his hat, and when I see a flash of his dark eyes, I lift my hand in a self-conscious wave. He stills, his reaction completely unreadable, and I’m sure I’ve made a mistake in coming here. He’s not ready. But then, just as awkwardly, Isaac raises his hand in return.

  There’s the crack of ball against bat, and his attention is torn away and back to the game. I smile and look down at my lap, deciding I can stay a little longer. It’s not like I’m interacting with him in person—not really. I’m studying him. It’s no different from how I studied my videos. This is all part of the process.

  “You’re sick, you know,” a voice calls. I jump and see one of the girls from the front row turned around and glaring at me. My gut hits the ground when I realize who she is. Angie—my sister. “Yeah,” she continues with a vicious nod, “I know who you are. And I think what you do is disgusting. Both you and my parents are twisted. I would never do that to someone I love. I could never replace them.”

  “I hope you never have to,” I respond in an even voice. Whether it’s my words or my tone, Angie’s expression flips to uncertainty, a little bit of fear. Her friend reaches to tug the sleeve of her sweatshirt

  “Ang,” she says in a hushed voice. My sister doesn’t acknowledge her, holding me fast with her glare instead. The other girl squirms in discomfort, the idea of being this near to a closer clearly unsettling her. “Please,” she mumbles to Angie, her eyes trained on the ground.

  My sister looks at her and nods, reluctantly giving in to her friend’s request. But before they can walk away, Angie turns back to me.

  “I hate you,” she calls. “I hate everything you stand for. You should be the one who’s dead”—her voice cracks—“not my sister.” My eyes well up as I watch Angie fall apart, cry so hard that her friend has to put her arm around her and lead her away. I know Angela’s venom was misdirected at me and that her words came from her grief and anger. I don’t believe she wants me actually dead. Still, I’m sorry for her pain. She may not be my real sister, but I care about her nonetheless.

  I watch Angie and her friend walk away, wishing I wasn’t the reason that they left. It was clear how uncomfortable I made the other girl, but I understand. In a different situation, I could end up being her. The thought of me must have terrified her. And Angie, seeing me again without warning, seeing her dead sister . . . it’s almost cruel. Guilt-ridden, I slump in the bleacher, resting against the back fence to watch practice for a little longer. Alone.

  * * *

  The sun has shifted out of my eyes as practice winds down. I consider leaving before Isaac can confront me, but ultimately I stay to see how he’ll react. Take mental notes on his behavior. Isaac casts a few glances in my direction as the team meets on the mound, and I’m glad the others haven’t noticed me. Not like Angie did. There’s a twist in my stomach when I think about the pain in her expression. How betrayed she must feel by our parents. I push it out of my mind, though—she’s not part of this assignment. I refocus on Isaac. I have to get him to trust me if I hope to give him closure. But I can’t force it, act like a deranged lunatic and scare him away. Being a closer is about subtlety, about letting the client lead the course of their treatment.

  As the players head to the dugout, Isaac turns toward me, his eyes shaded by his hat. Seeming truly torn, he starts in my direction, and I stand, unsure of what to do now that he’s on his way over. Slowly, I make my way down the stairs and meet him just as he gets to the fence. I wish I could see his eyes.

  “Where’d Angie go?” he asks, looking behind me. His voice is a raspy sort of whisper, different from last night. It’s boyish and cute. He sounds like a baseball player.

  “Not sure,” I tell him. “She left about twenty minutes ago.” The familiarity of my voice must startle him, and Isaac looks up, alarm and pain in his eyes. He takes in my appearance, my hair and clothes. I must look enough like her, because his resolve to distrust me weakens slightly.

  “And what are you doing here?” he asks quietly, but not unkindly.

  “I never miss a practice,” I say, and try to smile. “I thought we could—”

  “Don’t do that,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t talk like her.”

  I swallow hard. “I have to, Isaac. It’s why I’m here. You weren’t connecting with the other therapists. You wouldn’t let them in. They think this is a better way. I want to help you.”

  He adjusts his hat roughly, and turns away. “Stop,” he says, his face growing redder. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want the reminder.
Just . . . fuck. Just go away.” He pushes hard against the fence, making the metal rattle, and then walks across the field, heading to the dugout.

  “Isaac, wait!” I call, but he hunches his shoulders, blocking me out. I’ve hurt him again. I shouldn’t have come here, or at the very least I should have left earlier. I take a step back, absorbing my regret.

  I watch as Isaac disappears into the dugout, going to the locker room. In the cool breeze I shiver, vowing to do better, to find a way inside the relationship to get him to trust me. Get my father, and maybe even my sister, to accept me.

  I’m failing, I think, imagining returning early from this assignment. Heading back to my life to deal with my real father’s disappointment. He thought I could do this, but I’m screwing it up. I have to be better, smarter. I haven’t been committed enough to this role—I’ve been holding it at a distance, always trying to keep one foot in reality. If I want to help these people, truly help them, I need to be fully immersed. I need to be Catalina. I have to try harder.

  * * *

  I’m a bit lost when I walk into my house a while later, Isaac’s rejection coupled with Angie’s hatred enough to wear me down, eat away at my self-esteem. More than anything, I hate failure. The sensation winds its way from my gut to my heart, hollows me out.

  I’m startled to find my mother waiting in the entryway for me, purse in hand. She’s thrilled to see me, and the juxtaposition with how unwanted I felt only minutes before fills up my empty soul.

  Before I can even check on my father, my mother takes my elbow and we’re back in the car, heading to the mall, of all dreaded places. Although it’s not ideal, I’m happy not to be alone right now. She and I will be out in public together as mother and daughter, possibly seeing people who will know that I’m a closer. This is allowed, but I’ll have to steel myself against the public reaction. Remind myself that other people don’t really hate me. They just miss who I used to be.