The Remedy (12 page)

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.

*  *  *

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.