The Remedy

by Suzanne Young

  * * *

  I have two heavy bags, one from Gap and one from H&M. Although I’ve researched enough to know the right clothes to buy, I let my mother pick them out, mostly because it was fun for her. We stop in the food court and I get a slice of white pizza with veggies while my mother nibbles on a Caesar salad. The mall is bustling around us, but so far no one has thrown me a strange look or noticed me in any significant way. I’m anonymous; we’re just a typical mother and daughter, sharing a day out together. Can’t say I’ve ever had that before.

  “There’s something I have to tell you,” my mother says quietly from across the table. I lift my head, worried that I’ve overstepped. I haven’t been paying attention to my words, enjoying myself instead. I set down my pizza and watch her. She stares back, silent at first, and I can see a million thoughts playing over her features.

  “I’m angry with you,” she says simply. “I’m angry that you died.”

  I blow out a breath, hit with a sentiment I wasn’t expecting. Weighed down by the heaviness of her grief. I reach across the table to take her hand. “I’m sorry,” I respond sincerely.

  My mother purses her lips, still thinking. “But it’s not just that,” she adds miserably, squeezing my fingers. “You’d left me months before. Even Isaac saw that. You withdrew from all of us. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We loved you so much, Catalina. We’d have done anything to help you. Why didn’t you come to us?” Her voice is clicking up in volume, and a couple at the table next to us glances over.

  “I don’t know,” I repeat in a hushed voice. My mother seems unaware of the attention she’s garnering, and she shakes her head like I’m not giving her the right answers. But now I have a question of my own.

  “Mom, how did I die?” I ask, leaning into the table. “What happened to me?” I hear the couple next to us gasp, and then they disappear from my peripheral vision. My mother closes her eyes, letting go of my hand. When she looks at me again, her pain is lost somewhere behind her denial.

  “Doctors say I shouldn’t fixate on that,” she says. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re back to make things right. We should stop dwelling and enjoy our time together.” She sniffles hard and looks around, as if just noticing there are other people. I’m overwhelmed with disappointment, almost desperate to know the truth about myself. My mother motions to my food. “Do you want another slice?” she asks kindly.

  I shake my head no. I’m not very hungry anymore.

  * * *

  “I called ahead and booked us nail appointments,” my mother says, leading the way into the salon. “I know you can’t . . .” She pauses, shrugging nervously. “I know you can’t get your hair done now, but you love this salon. Ty is the only person you let near you with scissors.”

  I nod politely and walk with her to the reception stand, glancing around the expansive room. I’m amazed that one, a salon this nice is in a mall, and two, that I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a professional. Usually Myra cuts my hair for me.

  The scent of peroxide hangs in the air, mixed with vanilla and shampoo. The girl at the desk has perfect red ringlets and a stylish black colorist’s apron. She says hi to my mom, but when her eyes fall on me, her expression falters. She quickly looks away.

  “I’ll let the nail tech know you’re here,” she tells my mother, and quickly flees toward the back. My mother sits down and beckons me to join her, but my stomach is knotted up. They obviously know me here. I realize now what a terrible idea this was.

  “Mom,” I say, leaning closer to her. “I don’t think—”

  “Eva,” a guy says, strolling in from the main room. He’s tall and broad with short dreads he has pulled into a half ponytail. He and my mother embrace for a moment, and Ty whispers his condolences for her loss. When he pulls back, he doesn’t even acknowledge I’m standing here, like I’m invisible. He touches the ends of my mother’s hair, turning them over. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. What are we doing?” he asks.

  “Sorry I haven’t been by,” she says, smiling. “Just nails, though.” She wiggles her fingers to prove her polish is chipped. Ty shushes her.

  “Eva, you need a root touch-up and a trim,” he says with his right eyebrow hitched high. “No self-respecting stylist would let you walk around like this. Now grab a chair.”

  She laughs, tapping sheepishly at her scalp. “Ty,” she says when they start across the room, “maybe you could . . . something for my daughter?” She motions to me, and slowly the stylist turns.

  I have to give Ty credit because rather than call my mother out, call her crazy or selfish, he runs his eyes over me like he’s actually considering my hair situation.

  “Yes,” he agrees, turning back to my mother. “A trim would be good. Just like before.” He winks at her and she smiles broadly, obviously relieved that he’ll play along. I, on the other hand, am slightly disturbed. I’m not used to being out in public with my clients, not like this. This is a different level of acting.

  Ty has my mother sit at his station and he places me near the back, turned away from the other clients. I sit there and wait, listening as he chats with my mother, helps others. At one point he comes over, pausing behind me and staring at my reflection.

  “It’s uncanny,” he says. “Even with this wig, you look a lot like her. I’ve never seen one of you in person before.”

  One of you.

  “I can trim the ends,” he offers quietly. “Catalina wore it a little shorter than this in her last few weeks. She had the bone structure for it.” He pauses a minute, and then reaches to turn my head, examining my face. “To be honest,” he says, pursing his lips, “you do too. If you want to cut it for real, I think it’d be very flattering. And the color would go well with your skin tone. Then you wouldn’t have to wear this nasty-ass wig.” He smiles and tugs gently at the lower strands. “Think about it.”

  I smile in return, relieved that he didn’t say something cruel. That he actually cared enough to make a suggestion. I thank him, and then Ty leaves and directs my mother to the back to have her hair washed. Before she goes, my mother beams at me like she’s having the time of her life—proud to show off her daughter. Ty goes to the chair of another client and I lower my eyes into my lap, considering his suggestions. I’ve cut and dyed my hair like my assignments before; it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. I haven’t cut it lately because most of the dead girls have had longer hair.

  I study my reflection again, trying to remember what I look like without the wig. The only image that comes to mind is the picture Deacon drew; my hair wild in comparison to this sleek bob. I glance behind my reflection; the salon is alive and vivid. The people are all genuine, and I’m hidden in the back like a horrible secret. I run my fingers through the strands of my wig, remembering a video I watched of me and Isaac—a quick clip where he kissed the top of my head and brushed his fingers through my hair, whispering how adorable I was. He couldn’t do that now. He’d see I’m not real, and it would break him all over again.

  I’m not making progress, not like I hoped. My mother is in denial, my father in avoidance. My sister hates me and my boyfriend is terrified of letting me too close. This could be my chance to change things. To save them. To know them. To be a part of their lives and give them closure.

  And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how much I want them to accept me. To know, for even a minute, what it would be like to have a family. Something more than just my father and a few coworkers. I want to know what it’s like to be normal.

  “Ty,” I call, checking first to make sure my mother’s still gone. Ty turns to look over his shoulder at my reflection. I swivel in the chair to face him, and then grip the end of my wig and pull it off, making several people whisper around him. But my hairdresser doesn’t say a word. Instead his mouth twitches with a smile.

  Ty abandons the other station and walks over, stopping in front of me and pulling scissors from the front pocke
t of his apron. He reaches over to pluck the wig out of my hands, staring at it before tossing it in the trash. “Thank God,” he says, and turns me in the chair, swishing my hair back and forth to examine the color and texture. When his eyes meet mine in the mirror, he lifts his eyebrow again, questioning me.

  My heartbeat is so loud in my ears, I barely hear myself when I respond: “Make me real.”

  PART II

  YOU CAN ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT

  CHAPTER ONE

  SOMEWHERE AROUND MY THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY, my real thirteenth birthday, I was on an assignment where a girl had been run over in her driveway by her own mother. The girl had been fixing the chain on her bike when the mom backed up, killing her instantly. In hindsight, I think the client needed more than a thirteen-year-old girl to bring her closure. The guilt and self-loathing went far beyond grief.

  The first day I showed up there, my mother lay on the floor at my feet, sobbing. Marie had to pull her away, calm her down with the help of a strong sedative. The father had left years earlier for a new marriage, and Donna Royale had made me her entire life. My death was a careless mistake. It was an accident.

  Marie stayed with me the entire two days, worried the mother would dissolve again. She kept her medicated, dreamy. In the end, what my mother needed to hear was that I forgave her for killing me. That I would see her again someday. She let us leave after that, seeming more at peace. I’d never thought to look her up, find out if the remedy took. Basically Donna Royale disappeared from my life, and I never thought of her again. I’m not sure why she’s in my head now, why I’m worrying about her all these years later. Maybe it’s because my new mother reminds me of her in a way. This burden of guilt hanging around her that I can’t quite place.

  “I love your hair so much,” my mother says for the third time, startling me from my thoughts. She gazes over from the driver’s seat as we take the turn into the circular driveway. Her brown eyes are kind, but lost. Loving, longing, desperate. I smile at her, close-mouthed, and then turn to face the house as we park next to my father’s car.

  “Don’t you love it?” my mother asks, turning off the ignition. I nod, and flip down the mirror again to check it before we go inside. I’m shocked by my appearance, but in a good way. I brush my fingers through the blond hair, the shade tinted lighter to make it an exact match. I push the strands this way and that, enjoying it from every angle. I’ll keep this, I think. It really does suit me.

  “I do,” I tell my mother, and she bites her lip, beaming with adoration. I’ve made her happy, and in turn my heart hurts with the idea that this will all crash back on her later today. One step forward, two steps back. That’s usually how the first full day goes. Her guilt will deepen because she’ll feel a connection with me, and she’ll wonder if she’s betraying her daughter’s memory. It will eat away at her, keep her from sleeping, but in the morning she’ll see me, and her anxiety will fade.

  That’s one of the toughest things about this job: Seeing the heartbreak is never easy, but watching them accept me is almost worse. Seeing how they miss their child so much that they’ll love a stranger in her place just to feel close to her a minute longer. They don’t care if it’s real. They’re too broken to care.

  “Where’d you go?” my mother asks softly, reaching out to touch my arm. I blink rapidly and focus on her, seeing that she’s concerned.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was just . . . thinking about Isaac,” I lie. My mother nods knowingly.

  “I’m guessing he wasn’t happy to see you today?” she asks.

  Would she understand how Isaac’s rejection made me feel? Is it improper to ask her advice?

  “It’s okay,” my mother says, reading my hesitance. “You can tell me.” Around us the temperature in the car has risen now that the engine is off. Beads of sweat form in my hairline, under my bra strap. At the same time, the warmth is comforting. Suffocating my doubts. “We used to talk about him a lot,” my mother adds. “Especially in the beginning.”

  “He’s suffering,” I say, letting down my guard. “I see it and I’m frustrated because he won’t let me help him. How can I get through to him?”

  My mother tilts her head from side to side as if saying there isn’t an easy answer. “Isaac doesn’t put himself out there. He never has. He’s a reserved boy, kind of like your father. That’s why it feels so special when people like them give you their love. Like you’re the only person in the world who matters.”

  I think again about the picture of me and Isaac, wondering if that’s how it felt for him to love me. Like I was the only thing that mattered, inhabiting a place that was just ours. I know Deacon cares about me, but our relationship is too hard. Too painful. With Isaac it’d be different.

  I reach to run my hand across my forehead, wiping away a bead of sweat. My mind has spun out, and I quickly try to reel it back in. “I’m just so confused,” I admit. My mother laughs softly.

  “It was like that in the beginning, too. You weren’t sure how you felt about Isaac. Then suddenly you loved him like crazy. Couldn’t be without him. But then . . .” Her expression falters slightly.

  “Then what?” I ask, my heart rate picking up. “Did things change?”

  My mother’s face settles into a calm, resigned expression. All at once, I don’t feel like her daughter anymore. I feel like a stranger.

  “Yes,” she says sadly. “Yes, everything changed.” She turns to look at the house. “Everything good, at least.” Without a backward glance at me, she grabs her purse and climbs out of the car. I’m stunned, rooted in place until I see her nearly at the front door. I quickly get out and grab the bags from the backseat. My mother doesn’t wait for me before she goes inside.

  I scold myself for pushing too hard, pushing for selfish reasons. I’d promised to be better—this was not the way. I think I need to talk to Marie, find out what exactly was going on in Catalina’s life. These pieces are not adding up to what I’ve seen online and in her journal. They’re not matching the information provided—but do I have all the information? Or is someone purposely hiding facts? If so, why would they hide them from me? I’m here to help, not judge.

  I stop on the front porch, the shopping bags hanging on either side of me, heavy in my hands. I stare into the house at my mother, watching as she drops her keys into the bowl on the entry table. The false world fades around me. This assignment required more research; I have no idea who I was before I died. My job may not include solving mysteries the deceased left behind, but if my parents and the grief department want me to fix this, to cure this, I need the information.

  I walk inside the house and shut the door behind me.

  * * *

  My mother decides to lie down for a while before starting dinner. I offer to help with the meal, and she agrees, although I can see her mind is elsewhere. As she disappears down the hall, I go to the kitchen to grab a drink. I fish out my phone and check for any messages from Aaron about Virginia. I meant to casually ask my mother about her, but there never seemed to be the right moment. Prying into my past would only pull my mother out of the role play. I’ll have to try old-fashioned research first. Besides, parent information is sometimes unreliable.

  I hear a hollow crack from outside, and I spin quickly to the sliding glass doors. I’m surprised when I find my father in the yard, a metal bat in his hand. He tosses up another baseball and swings, smacking it through the air and beyond our back fence into the woods. At his feet there are at least a dozen more balls, and I wonder how long he’s been at this. I watch for a moment, taking a sip from my soda as I debate what to do. I slide my phone into my pocket.

  My father doesn’t want to talk; he’s been avoiding me. From my journal, I know we were close. I was Daddy’s little girl while my sister was my mother’s protégé, at least until recently. My sympathy peaks as I watch this huge man roll his shoulders, obviously tired. Overwhelmed with pain he has nowhere to place. No way to work out the kinks in his heart. I have a muddy sense of
homesickness, reminded of a time with my own father. We had been mini-golfing when he got the call that one of his patients had died. He didn’t react at first; we finished the game and he let me win. But at home that night, after I’d gone to bed, I heard him crying in the living room. I snuck downstairs and found him with files spread all over the coffee table, a bottle of rum on the carpet near to where he sat. I didn’t interrupt him. It was his grief to process.

  But after he fell asleep, I cleaned up the papers and covered him with a blanket from the couch. We didn’t talk about it the next day, but I could tell he was glad I was there. Some people don’t want to be confronted with their grief. They just want to know they’re not alone.

  I take one last swig from my soda and set it down, watching my father through the glass. I brush my hair to the side, self-conscious of how he might react to my change. I build myself up to approach him, running through several possible starting points in the conversation.

  Can I play?

  Do you want some company?

  I saw Isaac today. Oh, and by the way, my sister hates me. She’s pretty pissed at you, too.

  Before I’ve committed to a course of action, I’m sliding open the heavy glass door and stepping out into the sunshine. My father glances back, at first disinterested, but then he bristles as he takes in my appearance. Running his gaze slowly over my hair. My clothes. He sways, but then sniffles hard and grabs a ball from the ground and hits it so hard, the crack of the bat against it makes me jump. Nothing I can say would reach him, I decide. I walk past the house to where a few bats lie in a pile on the ground next to the shed. I pick one up and test its weight, and then decide on the biggest one. Without a word, I walk over to where my father’s standing, looking into the trees beyond our yard like I’m measuring the distance. I feel him turn to me, watch as I lean down to pick up a ball.