The Remedy (8 page)

“He won’t say,” my father says, leaning forward on his elbows. “But the signs are there and the therapists flagged him. The Barnes family is paying for his closure.”

I furrow my brow. I hadn’t thought about who was paying for his treatment. “That’s awfully nice of them,” I say.

“They were all very close,” my father answers. “Apparently he’s like a son to them.”

My mind spins through the procedures and diagnoses. “They think if they keep him they’ll still be connected to her,” I offer. My father lifts one shoulder as if saying he’s not sure but it’s what he thinks too. Clients sometimes fixate on an object that reminds them of their lost loved one. I’ve seen family members fight over a key chain, a favorite blanket or stained T-shirt. Isaac may have become that object to them.

“I guess I’ll see,” I say, taking one last sip of coffee before standing. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.” The mention of Isaac is drawing me back to the file in the hope of finding more information about his and Catalina’s relationship. Secrets that may be hidden in plain sight.

My father glances at the clock on the oven and reminds me that we’re leaving shortly after lunch. I wave him off and walk out of the kitchen, heading straight for my room. I spend the next few hours checking and double-checking the file. I nearly memorize all of the journal entries, but they give me little insight into Isaac and Catalina’s relationship. I just don’t know what to expect, and I hate the uncertainty.

Just before eleven I glance around my room and close up the file. Time to get ready. I walk to the bathroom and turn the squeaky shower knob. As I undress, I try to drain away, be an emotional blank slate so that I can become Catalina later today. Numbness settles over me, and I adjust the water to scalding hot and step inside the tiled shower.

*  *  *

I’m wearing the jeans and T-shirt provided by Catalina’s family, the style uncomfortably tight across my hips and chest, or at least tighter than I would normally wear. I have to adjust to my assignment’s taste, so I grin and bear it, heaving my backpack onto my shoulder. I pull a zip-up hoodie off the hanger and fold it over my arm. Stuffed inside my backpack are my phone, a wig and makeup, and a second preapproved outfit of Catalina’s. I’ll sort through her closet when I get to the house.

I hesitate at the door of my room and then rush back to grab the Rolling Stones T-shirt I got from Emily Pinnacle’s dad and the earrings that belonged to Susan Bell. I don’t take anything significant from my life. I’m a patchwork of other people’s memories, but somehow they feel truer than my own. Maybe it’s because these items are tangible: I can touch them and know they’re real. I don’t keep souvenirs of home.

I toss one more look around the room, pausing at my reflection in the mirror. Although I’ve practiced Catalina’s posed smile—perfected it—I’ll need to study her a bit more to really get a handle on her behavior. Find out what makes her tick. Once I have access to her computer I’ll go through the rest of her information. Normally this would have already been done, but the assignment is moving quicker than usual. Part of it will have to be on-the-job training. With a deep sigh I turn around, click off my light, and head downstairs.

Dad’s waiting for me on the porch, and when we walk across the driveway past my car, I notice a note tucked under the windshield wiper and smile.

“I can just about guess,” my father says in an uninterested voice. I tell him to hush and jog over to grab the paper. I unfold it and find a quick sketch of me, cartoon-style with outlined yellow hair and freckles, a picture of me with the word “Quinlan” underneath. It doesn’t say what it means, but I already know it’s from Deacon. It’s so I can remember who I am. He used to do this all the time as a way for me to have a reminder of my real self. Plus he knows I think it’s incredibly sweet. I trace the corner of the sketch until my father comes to peek over my shoulder. I quickly fold the note and shove it in my backpack.

“Don’t be nosy,” I tell him jokingly.

“Deacon?” he asks.

“Of course. Who else would make this much effort to annoy you?”

“Good point,” he says, and adjusts his glasses in a fatherly way. He grabs my bag and opens up the trunk of his Cadillac to toss it in. I watch him, loneliness creeping over me. I’m going to miss him. I’m going to miss his half-assed dinners and his loud laugh. I’m going to miss being his daughter. My father slams the lid and catches sight of me. Without a word he rounds the car and gives me a big hug. He smells like laundry detergent and shaving cream, a smell that could only be described as Dad. I hold on a second longer, fighting back the scared-little-kid tears that threaten to fall. When I’m okay, I force a smile. He ruffles my hair in a movement I tell him I hate, but secretly enjoy. And then we get in the car and head to Marie’s apartment.

*  *  *

“You’re ten minutes late,” Marie says when she meets us at the car. Her braids are tied up in a bun on the top of her head; she has a heavy black bag over her shoulder. My dad is in the driver’s seat, but I waited outside to greet her. Marie casts an uncomfortable glance at my father and then turns back to me. The second our eyes meet, her expression softens.

“I’m sorry, hon,” she says, reaching out to put her hand on my upper arm. “I told him it was too soon, even if you are healthy enough.”

A lump forms in my throat, and before I can even think about it, I jump forward to hug Marie. She drops her bag and squeezes me, the closest thing to my real mother that I can remember. After a long second she pulls back and looks at me seriously.

“Now’s not the time for this,” she says, smiling painfully. “You have to let it go. Leave Quinlan at my doorstep so we can be on our way.”

“I thought I left her at my house,” I say, forcing myself to be tougher. Harder. I pick up Marie’s bag and open the back door to put it inside the car. Marie nods her thanks and climbs into the passenger seat. I walk around and sit behind my father.

There’s an initial chill when Marie and my dad say their hellos, and my father drives toward the freeway. But Marie is right: Now is not the time to worry about my life—or how their relationship affects me. I need to focus on the assignment. I open the zipper on the black bag and take out the paperwork I need to sign off on before we get to the Barnes residence. I sign my life away and Marie adds her signature to the witness line. I sort through the bag, and at the bottom is a round blue hatbox. I shoot her a pointed look, and Marie shrugs and turns back around to face the windshield.

“You never pick the right color,” she says conversationally. “Sometimes I think you’re color-blind.”

I laugh and pull off the lid to see a blond wig, the shade and length nearly right, the quality better than anything I own. Closers usually bring their own supplies, but Marie helps me out occasionally. She knows this business better than any of us. I think that might include my father.

There are a few more items—jewelry, more pictures—things that didn’t get into the file. I clasp a necklace around my neck and tie my hair back. I bring my own bag onto my lap and take out my makeup. I smear a layer of foundation over my cheeks and nose, covering up my freckles. My dad glances at me in the rearview mirror, his face a portrait of concern, and Marie hums to herself with rigid posture as she looks anywhere but at him.

I grab my black zip-up hoodie and slide in my arms. I take the wig and flip my head over to pull it on, yanking it down on the sides. Oh yeah. This is much better than what I have. My wigs tend to feel like they’re squeezing out my brains. This is almost comfortable—like wearing a beanie on a winter’s day. I take it off and replace it in its box, and check the shade of the brown contacts. I get everything in order, and when I’m done, I pull up my hood and rest back in the seat. It’ll be a while before we get there. When we do, Marie will say hello and I’ll avoid eye contact with the family. And then they’ll allow me to go into their daughter’s bedroom, where I will become Catalina Barnes.

*  *  *

I must have dozed off, because my body jerks awake when the car pulls alongside the curb and stops. The space around me is painfully silent, and my eyes are itchy from sleep. I glance out the window and look at the expansive ranch-style home. Most of our clients are affluent. I mean, who else could afford a temporary replacement child? But this house in particular is spectacular. There’s a wide driveway with a basketball hoop off to the side; a manicured lawn with slightly overgrown rosebushes. Massive windows frame the entire front of the house; Mount Hood is silhouetted in the background. Towering pines and bright green grass—I find it charming and grand all at once, especially compared to my neglected front yard in Corvallis.

Marie turns, studying me before she speaks in her confident voice—the one reserved for moments like this. “You sure you’re ready?” she asks, as if I can just say no and walk away. I’ve never done that before, but she always acts like the possibility is still there.

I nod, and I meet my father’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “See you in two weeks,” I tell him with a catch in my throat. His eyes well up and a crushing sense of loss at losing him, losing my entire life for two weeks, presses in on me. My dad smiles sadly.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmurs. We don’t draw out our good-byes, my safe return an unspoken promise. It’s ironic—an entire department devoted to closure and yet we’re terrible at it in our real lives. Marie glances over at him and then opens the passenger door while I gather the bags and climb out. My father waits in the car, because although he’s met with the family before, seeing him now would only dredge up the reality of the situation. They’ve spoken to him about their real daughter, so Marie’s job is to step in and become their new consultant, to make
me
the real Catalina.

Marie touches my elbow, and together we start up the walkway to the big double doors of the home. My heart pounds; knots tighten in my stomach. I’ve always hated this part, sort of like a performer before going onstage—only this is life and not a play, a grossly exaggerated form of method acting.

I pause for a moment, a sudden attack of fear closing in around me. I worry I’m not good enough for two weeks of this, that I won’t be convincing. Marie halts and then comes back to stand next to me. She doesn’t speak, only lets my mind work out what I have to do.

I exhale a cleansing breath, closing my eyes, and once again I hollow myself out to make room. And when all the fear has drained away, the worry and sadness, I open my eyes and stare straight ahead. A machine, a vessel, a replacement. And Marie and I walk together to the front door.

NO ONE ANSWERS WHEN WE
ring the bell. Marie and I stand, still as statues on the front porch, with her black bag next to me, my backpack on my shoulder. We wait a full minute, and then Marie outstretches her finger, sharp blood-red manicure, and presses the doorbell again. It seems louder, more impatient, even though it’s just the same.
Perception colors everything,
I think. What’s real to us anyway? Only our perception.

The door swings open suddenly, and I rock back on my heels. Before I can stop my curiosity, I look up at the man standing in the doorway. His entire face goes slack at the sight of me, and I realize my eyes are still blue—I haven’t put in the colored contacts yet. Marie quickly steps up to divert his attention.

“Mr. Barnes,” she says in her warm therapist tone. “I’m Marie Devoroux. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I move to duck slightly behind her, keeping my gaze turned away.

“Miss Devoroux,” the man says in greeting. His voice is thick with grief and despair, but I don’t sympathize. Instead I adjust the strap of my backpack on my shoulder and glance back to where my father’s Cadillac is parked. He doesn’t smile or wave. He looks at me like I’m an employee, practically a stranger. It wasn’t always like this. When I was little, there were occasions when Marie had to practically tear me from my father’s arms, reassuring
him
that it would be all right. I wonder if that’s why he shuts me out sometimes. Maybe he’s given me away so often that the idea of me not existing has lost its effect.

What I wouldn’t give to have him chase me down now and beg me not to go. Then again, neither of us would have a job if he did that.

Marie slips her arm around my shoulders, startling me from my thoughts, and I feel Mr. Barnes’s heavy stare.

“May we come in?” Marie asks. After a long pause, Mr. Barnes steps aside, opening the door wider so that we can enter. “It’s down the hall, second door on the left,” he says. Even though there’s a pull to look at him while I pass, I don’t. It’s too soon.

I’m not her yet.

*  *  *

Catalina’s bedroom is exactly the same as it was the day she died. This is one of the instructions the grief counselors give parents when they sign up for closure. I imagine it’s difficult to resist cleaning, making a bed, or hugging a pillow. Ignoring the clothes on the floor and pictures on a desk—a desire to make it perfect. Make it a shrine. But most of the time parents do exactly what Marie and my father tell them because for a few days they’ll get their child back. At least some version of them.

I drop my bag on the bed and look around the room. The décor isn’t exactly my style, but I take a moment to absorb the scene. The walls are bright blue with framed pictures—not random posters like most bedrooms. These photos are black-and-white, and after a moment I realize they’re not professional. Did she take these herself? That’s something to note for later—a small detail in her personality. Sure enough, I find a heavy-duty camera and tripod in her closet, tucked away and slightly dusty. I guess she’s not into it anymore. That’s probably why it wasn’t in her file.

I continue searching the room, opening and closing dresser drawers, trying to get a feel for her personality. I pause at her desk and find a checkered wallet with a broken clasp. I open it and see Catalina’s driver’s license, credit card, and student ID. No pictures. I set it down and run my finger over her closed laptop. There are stickers—random graphics and ironic phrases—covering the outside. There’s a red leather-bound journal on her desk, and I open it and recognize it’s where the pages were photocopied from. I skim, finding more of the same until I get near the end.