Authors: Suzanne Young
I HAVE FEELINGS, YOU KNOW,
I write back, without considering what Marie would think of me engaging. But Isaac’s words have brought tears to my eyes, an ache in my chest.
Try living your entire life as different people,
I think.
How would you fucking feel? Having to watch families lose everything, losing it with them over and over and over. I have no more grief, Isaac, but I can still hurt like a real person. I hurt all the time.
Warm tears rush down my cheeks, and I slam the computer screen shut. I am real. I just lost my parents a few days ago. I lost my other parents not even two months ago. I lose
everyone
. Everything.
I curse and swipe my hands roughly over my cheeks, my mind spinning. When I look down, there’s a smear of foundation across my fingers. I stare for a moment, realizing I didn’t wash off the makeup from last night.
Last night?
Confused, I glance around the room, a mix of complicated memories flooding my head. I’m Catalina Barnes. But then there’s also Emily Pinnacle and Rosemund Harris. There’s my mother with dark hair lying in a hospital bed.
A headache starts behind my eyes, and I grind the heels of my palms into them. I get up from the desk, accidentally knocking my chair to the floor. I’m searching for Quinlan McKee, but I can’t be certain of my memories. I’m adrift in my mind, trying to ascertain which thoughts are mine. It was too soon. I need a tether.
An image pops in my mind, and I rush to the closet to find the backpack I came in with. I drop to my knees next to it, rummaging through until I turn it over and dump all of its contents onto the floor. Then I find it: the folded and slightly crumpled piece of paper. I fall back against the wall and slowly open it, smiling my relief as I examine the picture of me that Deacon drew.
Quinlan.
With a shaky finger, I trace the lines of my cartoonlike features, relieved that I can find myself through his eyes when I can’t find me on my own. That’s why Deacon was a great partner; he anticipated what I needed. He knew me better than anyone. I stare at my name, and slowly my life floods back.
* * *
The first time I met Deacon Hatcher, he was sitting at my kitchen table, eating pancakes and talking with my father. I thought I’d walked in on the wrong family, and I stood in the doorway—wearing pj’s and bed-dreads—staring at them. Deacon looked up first, paused midchew, and then stabbed another bite of pancake without a word and continued eating.
“Dad?” I said, making my father turn around.
“Oh,” he replied good-naturedly. He jumped up from the table and joined me in the doorway to observe the random teenager he’d brought home. “Glad you’re up,” my father said. “I want you to meet someone.”
“Clearly,” I responded. For his part, Deacon continued to eat as if we weren’t talking about him at all. I have to admit, I sort of liked how blasé he was about the whole thing. I turned back to my father. “But first maybe I could . . .” I motioned to my clothes, proving that I was still in my pajamas.
“It’s fine,” my father said with a shake of his head. “Deacon, this is my daughter,” he told the stranger first. Deacon held up his fork in greeting and then smiled, acknowledging in his subtle way that yes, this was weird. And yes, I was definitely still in my pajamas.
I was a little charmed. “Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you, Deacon,” I responded with sarcastic politeness, and then spun to my father. “Can I go now?”
My father tsked, and took my shoulders to turn me toward the stranger again. “Quinn, this is Deacon Hatcher. He’s our newest closer, but more important, he’s your partner.”
My stomach dropped. “What?” I demanded. “What about Marie?”
“Marie will continue on as your advisor, but a new safeguard has been put into place,” my father explained. “Deacon will check in with you throughout your assignment, find out any info you need. Extract you and then assimilate you when the assignment is up. You’ll do the same for him.”
I looked at the stranger sitting at the table, imagining all the secrets of my life that he’d now be privy to. This was a complete violation of my trust. Deacon shrugged, acknowledging he thought this was pretty crazy too. I turned back to my dad. “I don’t even know this guy,” I said. “What if he sucks?”
Deacon snorted from behind me.
My father shot him a pointed look, and then steadied his gaze on me. “I assure you,” he said in a slightly patronizing tone, “Deacon is well trained. I wouldn’t trust your safety with just anyone. He’s been on several assignments already. Glowing reviews.”
His comment didn’t alleviate any of my worries. “No,” I said definitively. And then to Deacon, just in case he didn’t get the message: “Absolutely not. I don’t need a partner.” And with that I stormed back to my room, slamming my door.
Deacon was the one who picked me up from my assignment a week later. He became my most trusted ally. And now, at the thought of him, I’ve brought myself back.
I stay in my closet for a while, leaning against the wall with the sketch. My pulse is still racing, but I’ve found my tether to the real world. I close my eyes and think that Deacon was exactly right about something I already knew: It was too soon for a new assignment.
* * *
I shower and change into the softest T-shirt I can find, and leave my room. I’m craving comfort after this morning’s emotional outburst, debating whether or not I should call it in to Aaron. Ultimately, I decide I don’t want my brain picked over by a counselor. I can handle this. And in a way, I’m glad I broke down. I feel cleansed. First nights are always tough, like sleepaway-camp homesickness—only I have lifesickness.
I enter the kitchen and find my mother at the stove, stirring a batch of scrambled eggs. Her eyes widen at the sight of me, and I wilt, self-conscious under her attention. My mother’s face relaxes and she motions to the kitchen table.
“You’re up earlier than usual,” she says. “And good thing. I
was
making breakfast for your father, but he’s not hungry. Hope you are.” She glances back at me and I nod. “I’m excited to spend the afternoon together,” she adds. “We can buy you some new clothes.”
I smile politely, thinking more clothes would be a great idea. Other than the outfits I brought and a few T-shirts, most of Catalina’s clothes are uncomfortable, tighter than I like to wear—especially over my curves. “Sounds great,” I tell her, settling back in my seat. “Where’s Dad?” I ask when she sets a cup of orange juice in front of me. Her mouth tightens.
“He went back to bed. He’s very tired,” she says, although I detect the lie in her voice. I guess he’s avoiding me, but that’s not unusual. I sip my juice.
“Anyhow,” she says, walking over to grab the pan and a spatula, “I’m really looking forward to today. It’ll be nice for it to be just us. It’s been a long time since you’ve wanted to have a day with me.” My mother piles food on my plate, and I consider her statement, wonder about the difference between the pictures on my computer showing my family together and the truth that I hadn’t been spending time with her. I thought we were happy and perfect. Nothing is ever perfect, though.
“Well, I’m here now,” I tell her warmly, and shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth. “We can have whatever day you like.” She smiles at the statement and then goes back to the sink to wash the pan.
As I eat, I’m thinking about the pictures I saw online, what they mean, what they represent. I can’t help but think I’m missing something, like I’m keeping a secret from myself. I furrow my brow, but then my mother is there, chatting about her friend Maryanne, who just got divorced, and maybe we could stop by and bring her some groceries. I don’t think my mother quite understands the concept of closure—I’m not a replacement daughter to build new memories with, just a substitute to help her right the past and find a way to move on.
I nod along and don’t correct her, even though I know I should. This is comfortable, so I let her dote on me. I enjoy the attention and praise. For a second I wish this was all real, which I can see in her eyes too, but a nagging voice pulls me out.
Don’t get attached,
Marie warns.
It’s the worst thing a closer can ever do.
I finish my breakfast and help my mother clean up. The minute I’m back in my room, I throw open the window and let in the fresh air. I stand for a moment in the breeze and close my eyes. The weather is morning crisp, alive. My skin chills, and I walk to the closet and grab my zip-up hoodie.
I go to the computer and start clicking through the different social media outlets, trying to find something new I can think about. Instead, I’m scanning Isaac’s page, noticing the girls who have commented about his loss. Offering their condolences. I don’t personally have any accounts, any wall that people can write on. I see it as public spying, throwing your identity out there for the world to take what they want. For people to mimic. None of the closers participate, because we know how the information can be used. I rest my elbow on the desktop, wishing I at least had a few pictures of my own—something of Deacon, maybe. I smile, imagining that any picture he would put online would be completely indecent.
A reminder message pops up on my calendar, and I click it.
BASEBALL PRACTICE—10 A.M.
is highlighted. I stare a moment, and then I shake my head to clear it. I was slipping back into my real life when I should have been concentrating on my assignment. Marie was right: Deacon is distracting.
I grab a purse and stuff in a few essentials, and then head out into the hallway. Why is Isaac’s practice on my calendar? And why am I even considering going? He was clear that he didn’t want anything to do with this therapy. Then again, he showed up here last night, reached out to me in that message. Sure, he was a jerk, but at least he opened up a little. Marie said not to engage him in person, but what if I’m only observing him? That doesn’t totally count as breaking her rules. Especially not if I can help him.
I enter the family room, searching for my mother, and find her sitting on the couch alone, an album opened on her lap. She jumps when she realizes I’m there, and I feel a tug of sympathy at the sadness in her expression.
“Hi,” she says brightly, wiping tears quickly off her cheeks. She sees my hoodie and purse. “Are you going somewhere?” She sounds worried, but not because she’s afraid people will see me; she’s afraid I won’t come back.
“I . . .” Now I’m torn about leaving her. I motion to the outside. “There’s a baseball practice?” I phrase it as a question, because I’m not sure if I would actually go to see Isaac. Maybe I just kept tabs on him.
“Oh,” my mother says with a small laugh. “That’s right. It’s Saturday. How could I forget?”
I shrug because I don’t know what she means by
Saturday
. I want her to clarify, but I’m afraid to ask. I have to be careful how I phrase things, or I could pull her out of the illusion of me. I fidget with the zipper on my hoodie, nervous as if I’m actually asking permission to go out.
We’re quiet for a moment before my mother closes the book, a family photo album, and sets it aside on the couch. She seems to realize my hesitance, and points to the sofa table, where the car keys lie in a small wicker basket. “You can use the Jetta,” she says. “It’s yours. On Saturdays you normally watch Isaac’s practices. Although sometimes you go out with Virginia instead.”
My lips part in surprise. Virginia—I didn’t know about her. She’s not in the file. She’s not anywhere on my social media pages. Pinpricks race up my arms because, once again, I’ve been keeping secrets.
“I think it’s a great idea, Catalina,” she adds, standing and brushing off her beige skirt. “Your father needs a little time alone, and I’m sure Isaac would want you there today. You never miss a practice. At least . . . you never used to.” My mother crosses the room and pauses in front of me, studying my every feature as if trying to memorize the new me. I want to hug her, but I resist.
She smiles gently and reaches her finger to smooth the crease between my eyebrows, startling me with the kindness of her touch. “Don’t look so worried,” she says. “He’ll come around.” She pats my arm before turning to walk toward the bedrooms, leaving me wondering if she’s talking about Isaac or my father.
A WARM BREEZE BLOWS THROUGH
my hair, tickling the back of my neck. I’m not used to wearing my hair so short. I slam the car door and tug up the zipper of my hoodie, wishing that I’d changed into something a little more appealing before leaving the house. After talking with my mother, I almost didn’t come at all. But her words echoed in my head, telling me I wouldn’t normally miss a practice, that Isaac would appreciate seeing me. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure this is the opposite of how Marie wanted me to handle this. But if I’m going to help him, I need more information.
My phone is set to vibrate in my back pocket in case Aaron calls. I sent him a message earlier, asking him to check into a girl named Virginia. When I get back home, I’ll read through the journal again—look for clues. For now I start down the side of the field, combing my fingers through my wig to keep it looking natural. The baseball team practices on my left, and I squint against the sun toward the metal bleachers on my right, relieved to find them mostly empty.
There is a low murmur from the girls sitting on the bottom row, but I keep my eyes downcast and climb up to the very top. My nerves start to take over, and I consider running off before anyone else notices me, but I don’t want to walk past those girls again so soon. I sit down, feeling the warmth of the sun-heated metal through my jeans. The red-headed girl from the front row glances over her shoulder at me, but I pretend not to notice. I stare past her, scanning the field for Isaac.
In uniform all the guys look the same, but my gaze eventually finds the shortstop. Isaac’s biceps stretch the sleeves of his jersey; the tight pin-striped pants accentuate his lean frame. As if sensing my stare, Isaac turns his head in the direction of the bleachers. He adjusts the brim of his hat, and when I see a flash of his dark eyes, I lift my hand in a self-conscious wave. He stills, his reaction completely unreadable, and I’m sure I’ve made a mistake in coming here. He’s not ready. But then, just as awkwardly, Isaac raises his hand in return.