“This isn’t about us.”
“It is to me!” he says, raising his voice. “I made a mistake eight months ago, I know that. It killed me to see what I’d done to you, how I’d hurt you. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again. I promise it every time. And then you came here last night. I was defenseless. I was completely open to you. So what, Quinn? You let me back in so that you could leave me? Tear out my heart and punish me?”
“I’m not punishing you, Deacon!”
“That’s what it feels like! If you care about me at all, you’ll quit your contract. Right now.”
“You can’t ask that!”
His mouth tightens as he fights back his tears, his face raw with emotion. He takes my arms and pulls me to my knees in front of him. We stare at each other, and I watch him try not to fall apart. His breaths are quick and shallow as he leans to rest his forehead against mine. He closes his eyes. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, Quinlan.”
And it breaks my heart when I murmur back, “I’m sorry.”
* * *
After a shower and a change of clothes, I’m downstairs in the front entryway, my backpack straps over my shoulders. Deacon is sitting on the wooden staircase, staring at his feet. I wait a beat and then call his name. His face is miserable when he looks at me between the slats of the railing.
“You saved me last night,” I tell him. “Thank you.” My heart is begging me to stay with him, but I won’t be that selfish. I couldn’t live with myself if I left that family to suffer. The fact that Deacon could makes me question if we belong together at all. Maybe closers aren’t meant to love each other. How can we when the world thinks we’re heartless? They could be right.
Deacon holds my eyes for only a second, and then looks away. “Take care of yourself, Quinlan,” he says coldly, as if I’m a total stranger. The sound is a slap in the face, so reminiscent of the day he broke up with me that it sends a chill down my spine.
I press my lips together, holding back the tirade of brokenhearted words I want to yell at him. He knows how he affects me, how he hurts me. I wait for him to look over and apologize, but he doesn’t. Last night, I thought we’d changed. But it’s clear we haven’t.
I close my eyes and turn my back on Deacon. I swipe under my eyes before any tears can fall, harden myself against the outside world, and open the door. I’ll leave this baggage here, stow it while I finish my job.
Without another word I walk out Deacon’s front door and slam it shut behind me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I HALF EXPECT THERE TO be a roadblock when I return to Lake Oswego, but the town is as picturesque as it was that first day. I’ve called Isaac’s phone several times, but he hasn’t answered. Once I smooth things over with my parents, I’ll find him. I’ll make sure he’s okay.
My heart has begun beating faster as I worry about Mr. and Mrs. Barnes’ reaction to my outburst last night, my disappearance. They might not even let me back into their house. I have to be prepared for that.
I pull up in the driveway, worried when I see both of their cars parked out front, along with a white Lexus I don’t recognize. It’s not Marie’s or my father’s, but who knows who could have been sent in their place. I park and then take a minute to gather my courage.
I walk up to the house, debating whether I should knock or just enter. My face is makeup free, but ultimately, I’m going to try to act like Catalina. I take on her persona and facial expressions the minute I walk in the door.
“Ah,” a man in a gray suit says without missing a beat. “And there she is.” He smiles warmly from the couch; my parents are seated in chairs across from him. I look between him and my family, trying not to let my confusion show. The man turns back to them. “Told you she’d be along shortly.”
He stands, brushing his hands over his slacks to smooth them out. He has salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. From my experience I see that he carries himself like a doctor, and I wonder if he’s been sent by my father.
“Catalina,” he says, nodding to me, “I told your family that you needed a short break, and that we had failed by not providing you one. I take it you’ve been able to sort things out and have returned to prepare for your party?”
“Yes,” I say carefully, and then look behind him to my parents. “Sorry if I scared you,” I say. “I had . . . I had a tough night and I should have handled it better. Or at least asked for help.” I’m uncomfortable with my lie in this man’s presence. I can’t read him, not like I can read most people. I have no idea what he’s thinking beneath this polished exterior.
My mother grabs on to her husband’s arm, swaying with relief. “We’re just glad you’re okay,” she says. “I was so worried.”
I press my lips into an apology, scared when I look at my father that he’ll be angry. But instead he’s just happy that I’m back. The transition is easier than I imagined it would be, and I wonder if this man prepared them for it. I take my backpack off my shoulders, about to go to my room to fix my makeup, when the older man reaches out his arm to me, like he wants me to take it.
“Would you walk me out, Catalina?” he asks kindly. I look between him and my parents, waiting for them to call him out for being creepy. My mother takes a step toward him.
“Thank you, Dr. Pritchard,” she says. My stomach sinks, and I flash a look at the man. He turns away to tell my mother it was no trouble at all, but my heart is racing. He’s Arthur Pritchard. He’s the one who created the remedy, and this assignment was at his request. Shit. He must know how badly I screwed it up.
Although I don’t want to, I drop my bag and take Arthur Pritchard’s arm, smiling politely at him. I tell my parents I’ll be right back, wishing they would stop me. I’m afraid the doctor is going to chew me out, or worse, throw me in the back of his car and drive me straight to therapy.
I don’t let any of my fear show as we walk onto the front porch, and I shut the door behind us. Arthur pauses at the top at the stairs, looking around like he’s taking in the scenery. He slides his cool hand over mine, holding me in place. I consider asking him about his daughter—what role Virginia Pritchard has played in all of this. But something in his demeanor tells me it would be dangerous to do so. That this entire conversation would become more dangerous. I swallow hard and look sideways at him.
“So what happens now?” I ask, waiting for the inevitable.
“Well,” he reasons, “it depends. Are you competent enough to finish this assignment?”
There’s a sting at his words. “I am,” I say, wishing his cold hand wasn’t over mine so I could move away from him. We’d seem like old friends if my parents were to look out the window, but there’s a tension between us that’s palpable.
“May I ask where you’ve been for the last fifteen hours, Miss McKee?” He stares at the flower bed in the yard, admiring it.
“No offense,” I say, turning to him, “but it’s none of your business.”
He chuckles as if I’ve just made a highbrow joke. His grip on my hand tightens. “Yes, I suppose it isn’t. I just don’t like when my closers lose contact.” He turns to me, his lips pursed. “I worry about them.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not your closer.”
“All of you are mine.” He pats my hand and then lets go, starts down the stairs without me. He slips his hands into the pockets of his coat and turns to look over his shoulder. “By the way,” he asks. “Have you spoken to Deacon Hatcher lately?”
“No,” I say, like I’m surprised he asked. He studies me for a moment, and then nods thoughtfully. Inside, my stomach is in knots, and I wonder if he can read my lie. “Well, then,” Arthur says pleasantly, “good luck on your assignment, Qu—” He stops and snaps his fingers. “Catalina,” he finishes. And then he turns on his loafers and walks to the white Lexus parked in the driveway.
I stand there, stunned, as I watch him drive off. First of all, Arthur Pritchard just came out to my assignment and basically told me to pull my shit toge
ther. But more alarming, why did he mention Deacon? How did he even remember his name? They only met once for an evaluation, and Deacon told me he was a stuffy old dude. He left out the part where the good doctor is intimating and creepy. Thanks, Deacon.
Does Arthur Pritchard know where I was? Has he been watching me? Paranoia chills my skin, and I wrap my arms around myself and look at the street. The idea of being spied on is suffocating, and I have to try hard to shake it off. I’m on an assignment. I have to keep my head.
I won’t think about Deacon, or even Arthur Prichard. I came back to Lake Oswego for a reason. I need to set this right. I turn toward the house, gathering up my courage, and then I go back inside and find my parents waiting for me on the couch.
I’m a nervous wreck as I go to sit across from them in the seat Arthur Pritchard just vacated. I feel like I’m on a job interview, a really screwed-up one, and I fold my hands neatly in my lap. I’m still wearing my contacts from yesterday, and my eyes are itchy. My freckles are visible, but at this point I’m not sure that matters. I look at my mother, guilt gnawing at my insides. The normally neat house has items out of place, the normal routine of chores ignored.
“I really am sorry for what happened last night,” I say, sounding like her daughter. “I’ve never . . . I didn’t mean to freak out. I sincerely apologize.”
“No need,” she says kindly, waving away my sentiment. She turns to her husband, and he nods as if he knows what she’s about to say. My mother looks at me again. “You don’t have to pretend anymore,” she tells me. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
I don’t respond at first, mostly to make sure I understand. Part of my job is to let patients lead their own recovery. Now I need to ascertain if she’s saying what I think she is. If this assignment has just ended.
“I’m the one who should apologize. Dr. Pritchard asked us not to talk about it”—she lowers her voice as if he’s still listening—“but I feel terrible for not warning you. You should have been prepared.”
I narrow my eyes as I concentrate on her words. She’s referring to me as a closer, not as her daughter. I’ve never had a client end the assignment first. It’s not against the rules . . . it’s just unexpected. It also hurts a little in an entirely selfish way. “What do you mean?” I ask her, Catalina’s voice falling away. “Prepared for what?”
She folds her hands in front of her lips, gathering her composure. “Catalina was sick . . . before she died,” she says. “The counselors don’t want us to dwell on it—they even had us sign a confidentiality agreement to not discuss it—but they should have told you. Last night, you reminded me so much of her. It was terrifying, and I didn’t know what to do. I called everyone at the department. This morning, Dr. Pritchard showed up and said it had nothing to do with this case—that breakdowns were a common occurrence for . . . people like you.”
On the inside, I bristle at the words “people like you,” but I don’t let it show. Just yesterday I thought I could have a life with this family, be a part of it. I see now that it could have never worked—no matter how much I wanted it to. With a bit of sadness, I let go of the illusion completely. These are no longer my parents. This is no longer my life. These people want to talk to me. Marie can’t fault me for that.
“What do you mean when you say Catalina was sick?” I ask carefully, at first uncomfortable being out of character in front of them. But what disturbs me more is Arthur Pritchard’s lie. This is not a common occurrence. Especially not for me.
Mrs. Barnes winces, and I can see that this is difficult for her. Her husband doesn’t step in or cut her off. He lets her talk, and I admire him. The respect he gives her feelings. I have a moment of longing for him to be my real dad, but then Mrs. Barnes starts talking again, and I look away.
“About three months ago,” she says quietly, “Catalina and Isaac had an argument. Nothing earth-shattering, but when she came home she sat at the kitchen table and just . . . cried. It was totally unlike her. My Catalina was always joking, happy. This was right around the time she met that Virginia girl, and I guess Isaac didn’t really like her. He told me later that he’d only seen her once, but that he thought Virginia was a bad influence on Catalina. Said she was morbid.”
“Have you ever met Virginia?” I ask.
“No,” Mrs. Barnes says, shaking her head. “And Catalina only mentioned her twice, three times, maybe. Why?”
“Just curious,” I say. “I never did find her name in any of Catalina’s things.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Barnes says. “Catalina had stopped hanging out with her usual friends. And from what the doctors told me, her journal and pictures had been tampered with.” She laughs sadly. “Catalina did that herself, but they called it tampering, like it was evidence. Tell me, how can you tamper with your own life? Isn’t it up to us what we show others?” She purses her lips. “That statement has always bothered me.”
I knew that the images on Catalina’s profile seemed too perfect. Maybe she knew this would happen somehow. Maybe she was preparing for it.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Barnes continues, “I think Virginia was just someone to talk to. Isaac said he never brought her up again after the day they fought. Catalina’s reaction scared him. But no matter what we did, Catalina continued to spiral.” She stops her story. “You know,” she says. “I asked the therapists about Virginia, and Dr. Pritchard contacted me personally to say he’d already spoken to her and that she had lost contact with Catalina weeks before she died. Truth is”—she sighs out a shaky breath—“we don’t know what happened to Catalina.”
Arthur Pritchard didn’t tell them Virginia is his daughter. What did he find out? What else is he withholding?
“I’m sorry to ask this,” I say carefully. “But . . . how did Catalina die?”
Mr. Barnes gets up from the chair, and I nervously glance over to him. He doesn’t say anything, just walks out of the room and into the kitchen. I look back at his wife. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling horrible for upsetting him.
“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t want to hear the details.”
I’m about to tell her to forget it, hating that I’m making them dredge up painful memories, but she looks over at me, her face so terribly sad it breaks my heart.
“They were my pills,” she says. “I’d been taking them for anxiety. She . . .” Mrs. Barnes wipes away the tears that fall onto her cheeks. “She swallowed a ninety-day supply. Her dad and I were out to dinner. We got a call from Angie about eight, just before dessert. She said Catalina was locked in the bathroom and wasn’t answering. We told her to call 911. Angela . . . Angela used a baseball bat to break off the door handle and get inside. And, um . . .” She sniffles hard. “She found Catalina on the floor, covered in vomit. Uh . . . there was some blood. Angie tried to resuscitate her, but she said her sister wouldn’t wake up. The paramedics got there before we did, and they had to sedate Angie because she was hysterical.”
The air in the room is so heavy I can barely breathe. The story is awful, so much worse than I imagined. I wish she didn’t have to relive it just now. Or ever. Mrs. Barnes looks down at her pants, wiping at the tearstains. I watch her, and go numb from her grief.
* * *
I get Mrs. Barnes a glass of water from the kitchen, my hand shaking as I fill the glass. Catalina Barnes killed herself and no one told me. The grief department must have known, and that terrifies me. Because if that’s true, that meant my father let me take on this girl’s life, subjecting myself—in an already precarious emotional state—to whatever it was that triggered Catalina’s behavior. He could have killed me. He must have known he could have killed me.
I bring the glass back to Mrs. Barnes, and she takes it and thanks me. I can see she wants to be alone, and I decide I won’t press her any more about Catalina’s life. I’m not supposed to focus the therapy around these memories, around death. They won’t help her heal. I give her a minute to mourn now that her denial has been swept away
.
Wandering back into the kitchen, I notice the light is on in the backyard. Mr. Barnes is probably out there, hitting baseballs into the woods. I think back to that first day he let me into his life, how nice that moment was. How much I wished it could have been real.
I open the patio doors and walk outside, finding him sitting at the table. He glances up when he sees me, and I stop as if asking him if it’s all right if I join him. He waves me forward, watching me approach with a thoughtful expression. The wind blows through my hair, and I tuck the strands behind my ears.
“I apologize for leaving so abruptly,” he says when I sit across from him. “I’d rather not think of her like that.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell him. “It’s completely understandable. I just wanted to say . . .” I trail off, not sure if it’s selfish for me to continue. But ultimately, I hope my words can set at least one part of him at ease. “You were a great father,” I blurt out quickly. “The best I’ve ever had.” I look at him, smiling sadly. “Catalina was lucky to have you. I just . . . I wanted you to know that.”
His expression weakens for a moment, and he stretches his neck from side to side as if his grief is a pulled muscle. He looks at me again, his face cleared. “I know this situation is unorthodox,” he starts. “But I’m glad you came to us. You. I’m not sure how you separate yourself from what you do, but I wanted you to know that you matter. Even if you’re not my real daughter, you matter to us because we care for you. We want good things for you.”
My breath catches, and I have to put my hand on my chest to subdue the ache that’s started there. I’m speechless.
“Maybe you thought you were playing my daughter flawlessly,” he says, smiling softly. “But the real you was always there. I could always see the difference.”
I have a quick flash of embarrassment because I did think I was portraying her perfectly. But I guess it really doesn’t matter anymore.
The Remedy Page 24
