The Recovery (8 page)

Only certain kinds of people can become closers. There are currently fifteen of us in Oregon. Different ages, races, and genders. Enough to cover the demographic more or less. We were all selected by the grief counselors because we have certain traits: adaptability, mimicking skills, and a healthy dose of detachment. We don’t feel the same way other people do—almost like we’re numb. Or at least most of us are. While the rest of the world is bent on sharing their feelings, we study them. We learn to copy behavior patterns, facial expressions. We learn how to become other people.

Over the last couple of years there’s been a societal push to restructure our mental health institutions. As a result, people have become more cognizant of their emotions. Oregon was the first state to restructure. First there were counselors in every school, but many thought the districts weren’t keeping the kids safe enough. There was kid-on-kid violence at an alarming rate and little that could be done to stop it. Some districts shut down for good in favor of homeschooling, with online therapists assigned to help students through hormones and homework. People have their counselors on speed dial. They talk about
everything
.

The latest news claims that society’s leveling out now—finding a perfect balance with the development of better coping mechanisms. Although not a widespread practice yet, the grief department is slowly growing, the idea of closers becoming more and more appealing to those suffering from loss. I don’t question the ethics of what we do because, ultimately, I’m helping parents come to terms with their new lives. And don’t we all deserve the chance to move on?

“Quinlan,” Marie calls, her chin lifted as she studies my expression. “Your turn.” The room tips at a slow rock, and I’m not sure how much time has passed. I glance at Aaron just as he wipes his cheeks and sniffles hard.

“Be right back,” Aaron says quietly, and leaves the room. He’s going to lie down in the spare room until I’m done, let the tea wear off. Marie told us once that advisors didn’t always use the tea—a cocktail of sodium amytal—because they trusted closers to tell the truth about their assignments. But through trial and error, counselors discovered they could make faster progress with reentry if we didn’t lie all the time. They made a policy change, altering the entire system of advisement in order to prevent mistakes, like us bringing home the sadness we were meant to alleviate.

I hate that tea. I don’t like being forced to do anything, even to tell the truth. But it’s not like I have a choice. My contract isn’t up for six more months.

“Sit,” Marie says, pulling out the file with Emily Pinnacle’s name on the tab. I move to the couch and face her. “How are you feeling?” Marie asks conversationally.

“Exhausted,” I respond. I put my arm over the back of the sofa and get comfortable. There’s no telling how long this will take. Marie opens the file and jots something down. She resets her recorder and places it on the table.

“Quinlan McKee,” she announces for the recorder, and then smiles kindly at me. “Quinn,” she says in her therapy voice. “Tell me about Emily Pinnacle.”

I furrow my brow, contemplating. “She was quiet, polite. I read through her diary three times, flipped through photo albums, and studied her social media profiles. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she had an intense crush on Jared Bathman. She never told him,” I say. “She should have, right?” I ask. Marie hums something noncommittal, and I continue. “She was worried he wouldn’t like her back,” I say. “But the day she died, he finally talked to her at the basketball game. She was so excited. On the way home she texted her friend and told her the entire conversation. But she never made it home.” I look down into my lap, tears pricking my eyes. “It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair Emily had to die at sixteen.”

“You’re right,” Marie agrees. “It says here that her mother became very distraught after Emily’s death. The father hired us because she had become unstable, erratic. The counselors were very concerned about her well-being. What did you observe?”

“Heartbreak,” I murmur. “I saw a lot of heartbreak.”

“And how did it feel?”

“It was a deep, dark hollow in my chest. It felt like hopelessness.” I look up to meet Marie’s eyes. “I started to think that I was never going to see my parents again—her parents,” I correct. “I was scared. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to die.” Tears roll down my cheeks as grief and loss submerge me. “Now I’ll be alone forever.” I tried to keep these feelings at bay when I was Emily, but now I can’t lie. I can’t hide from myself.

Marie reaches to take my hand, squeezing to reassure me. “
You
will see your father tonight, Quinn. You didn’t die—Emily Pinnacle did.”

“It could have been me,” I say, shaking my head. “They all could be me.”

“No,” she says. “You’re Quinlan McKee. You live at 2055 Seneca Place in Corvallis, Oregon. You’re seventeen and you drive a beat-up old Honda that your father won’t replace.” She reaches and touches my cheek to draw me back into reality. “And you’re alive, Quinn,” she whispers. “You’re here, and you’re alive.”

I let her words soak in, thinking about my crappy car—the check-engine light that won’t shut off. After a moment I’m rooted back in place. Back in my life. I clear the tears and grab a tissue to blow my nose. When I’m cleaned up, Marie resettles on the couch.

“Do you want to tell me about the T-shirt?” she asks.

My stomach drops and I shoot a betrayed look toward the back room. “Aaron told you?” I ask, angry that he’s called me out twice since we’ve been here.

“He had to.”

It’s true. Even if my friend wanted to keep a secret, he couldn’t here. “Why were you asking about me in the first place?” I demand. “I don’t like being spied on, Marie.”

“I thought we talked about this,” she says, ignoring my comment. “Taking things—retaining possessions of the dead. It isn’t healthy and it’s against the rules.”

“Emily’s dad gave me the shirt. I didn’t steal it.” My emotions are starting to bubble up, but not the sadness I felt earlier. This is different—it’s anger, defiance.

“I didn’t say you did,” Marie clarifies. “But why would you keep Emily’s shirt? Does it hold an emotional attachment?”

My thoughts swirl as I fight the impending effect of the tea. Admitting an emotional attachment to the family could send me straight into therapy.
This
is why I hate talking about my feelings.

“I just really liked the shirt,” I say, relieved at the words. Relieved . . . that I just told a small lie. I don’t react, even though my heart races. It wasn’t a huge lie—but it was evasive. The truth is that everything I keep has significance, even if it’s only slight. That T-shirt reminds me of my dad, Emily’s dad, and how he bought it for me on my birthday two years ago because he loved the Rolling Stones. We have pictures of us smiling, arms over each other’s shoulders. They may not be my memories, but I like them. And I want to keep them.

Marie studies me, and for a moment I think she can tell that I’ve skirted her question. I’m not sure how I could have, though. When she’s not looking, I glance at the teapot, wondering if the dose was lighter. Or maybe just what was in my cup. Marie writes a note in my file and closes it.

“You’re cleared to return home,” she says, and gives me a closed-lip smile. “But don’t keep anything else, Quinn. It might make the counselors think you’re too emotional to handle the assignments.”

“I’m a coldhearted bitch, Marie,” I say. “Promise.”

She chuckles, and pats my knee before standing. “Oh,” she adds. “And don’t be too hard on Aaron. He didn’t want to tell me about the shirt. It’s a new line of questioning your father added in. Aaron had to tell me the truth.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me about him?” I say, confused.

“Because the questions are only about you.” Her expression is unreadable, unapproachable, and then Marie spins—her braids swinging—and walks back to her office.

•  •  •

Aaron and I are quiet as we get into the Cadillac and start toward my house, where Aaron’s car is parked. Marie’s words clog up my mind, and I wonder why my father would add in questions about me. Why he’s checking up on me. I’m also concerned. Although I didn’t lie, I wasn’t completely honest. Did Marie . . . did she do something different this time? Am
I
different this time?

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says in a quiet voice from the driver’s seat. He doesn’t look over, but he’s raw—a little shell-shocked from his debriefing. “I didn’t want to tell her.”

“What did she ask?”

He swallows hard, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “We went through the events like usual, but at the end she asked if I noticed anything odd when I picked you up. I didn’t know what she meant at first, but she asked if I thought you were growing too attached to the clients. I . . . I told her about the shirt.” He looks over, his dark eyes miserable. “I didn’t mean to, Quinn.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, mostly to alleviate some of his stress. “She wasn’t even mad.”

Aaron’s eyes narrow slightly before he turns back to the road. “That’s good, I guess.” He pauses. “Did she ask about me?”

“Nope,” I say. His mouth flinches with a smile, but he quickly straightens it. Aaron doesn’t want anything to mess up his contract. In just a few weeks he’ll have his lump-sum payment, enough to start over somewhere else. He hasn’t been a closer for nearly as long as I have, but then again, my father is the head of the department, so I’ve gotten double the pressure to continue. I’m jealous that Aaron will be gone soon, living his own life. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have that, or if my father will find a way to keep extending my contract.

The typical contract is for three years’ time, although many closers sign on for a second term. Rarely beyond that, though. It’s not recommended, because the stress puts a closer at risk for a whole host of problems—like losing oneself completely. I’m on my fourth contract. Even now, I couldn’t say which of my favorite childhood memories actually happened to
me
. The lines blur. Occasionally, I look through old photo albums, but there are a few pictures that don’t fit with my memories, and vice versa.

One of my most confusing memories is that of my mother—her shiny dark hair and wide smile, even as she lay in a hospital bed, obviously sick. I would crawl up the white sheets to be next to her, and she’d read me a story, tell me she loved me, and kiss my hair.

But
my
mother had blond hair and blue eyes. She was delicate and pretty, and then she was gone. She died in a car accident, and I never saw her in the hospital, never saw her after that day. I can find no pictures of the other woman from my memory, and when I ask my father, he insists I must be remembering an assignment, even though he can’t pinpoint exactly which one.

That’s part of my problem—the lives of my assignment blend together after a while, blend with mine. That uncertainty haunts me on occasion, especially when I’m deep in my role playing and longing for a connection. Then again, they all haunt me, all the girls I’ve portrayed, so I try not to dwell on the reality too much.

My most recent contract expired when I was fifteen, but somehow my father convinced them (and me) to sign another one. He’s always logical, and it’s hard to argue with him. It’s even harder to disappoint him. In the end I’ll get four times the money, plus a bonus. He says I’ll be able to pay for college outright, be able to buy a house. He tells me I’ll be set for life. Although those things sound nice to him, I think I’d rather go to prom or something frivolous like that.

Corvallis still has two open high schools, but I don’t attend anymore. Closure kept me away too much. Online high school just doesn’t have the same drama. The biggest scandal I’ve seen was when the servers crashed and the teachers had to reset our passwords. Deacon went to my old school until he dropped out. I never understood why he wanted to quit; I would kill to go back to regular high school.

Aaron takes the exit for my house, and I groan. I’m angry about my father checking on me, and I don’t want to show up so pissed off. “Want to swing by Deacon’s?” I ask. Aaron shakes his head.

“Myra’s waiting up for me. I can drop you there, though.”

“What about your car?” I ask.

“I’ll park the Caddy and hop in my ride before your dad can even look out the window,” he says. “Let him know the keys will be in the visor.”

I agree, and settle back against the seat when Aaron passes the turn for my house. My father is probably at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee so he won’t sleep through my arrival home, but I don’t mind making him wait a little longer. That’s what he gets for spying on me. Now that the stress of going home passes, I realize how incredibly tired I am. How drained.

Like my soul is wearing thin.

DEACON OWNS A LITTLE CRAFTSMAN-STYLE
house close to the college. He exited his contract eight months ago, but he still got paid for his first three years. He gets nothing for the extra year he put in because he broke the second contract. He ended up putting the money down on a home, which was way more responsible of him than any of us expected. He also dropped out of high school and got his GED instead. Deacon’s parents died when he was a baby, and my father found him in foster care. An angry fourteen-year-old boy who he thought would make a perfect closer. Deacon was good, too—almost as good as me. His charisma draws people in, even if it’s only a façade.

Aaron drops me off, still quieter than usual. I know he’s feeling guilty about turning me in for the T-shirt, but I’m too tired to convince him I’m not mad about it. I get out, saying I’ll call him tomorrow, and then watch as he drives away.

A headache has started, and I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and then climb the front porch of Deacon’s house. I knock, my backpack weighing me down. I slide it onto one shoulder. Although I’ve only been gone a weekend, I feel like I haven’t seen Deacon in months.

It’s a weird side effect of returning: It’s like I’m an actor in my own life. Like I’m not the real one. It takes about twenty-four hours to become me again.