The Remedy (17 page)

“You,” he breathes out.

The rain has soaked through my clothes, chilled my body. It’s almost impossible for me to flip back; I’ve been out of character for too long now. But before I answer him, I mentally review the file. Scan all the pictures and videos. Remind myself of an entire life. When I speak to Isaac, my voice has changed.

“She needs help,” I say. “I was leaving and saw her sit down on the sidewalk. No one came out after her. . . .” I trail off, caught up in the disbelieving way Isaac is staring at me. I bury my hands in the pockets of my sweater, feeling exposed.

“I heard she threw her drink on you,” he says after a long silence.

“Technically it wasn’t her drink,” I respond, darting a look at my sister. She’s not paying attention. Her head hangs as she sits with her knees up, her pose signifying that she might barf at any second. When I look back at Isaac, there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

“I hadn’t heard that part. Seems like I owe someone a cocktail,” he says.

“Well, not her.” I point to Angie and she murmurs something unintelligible. Isaac turns to talk to her, quietly brushing her hair back from her face. I take the moment to observe him. His brown hair is matted down from the rain, and every so often he slides his fingers through it to keep the water from running down his face. His salmon-colored T-shirt is soaked through, nearly red now as it clings to his body. He looks at me, catching me staring, and I smile politely trying to play it off.

“We should take her home,” he says, standing. “Let’s get her on her feet.”

I’m surprised by how easily he’s talking to me, and I jump at the chance to participate. I get on the other side of my sister, careful not to say too much now that I’m back on assignment. I don’t want her to freak again, point out to Isaac how untrue this all is. The minute I put my hand on her arm, she rips it away, dashing any hopes I had of her going quietly.

“Don’t touch me,” she says.

“Calm down,” Isaac soothes. “We’re just getting you out of here before the cops pick you up.” He reaches his arm around her waist and props her unsteady body against his hip. “Where’s your car?” he asks me. I freeze, wanting to look at the lot but afraid of drawing attention to Deacon.

“I took a cab,” I lie. Isaac swears to himself, and then glances around.

“Well,” he says. “You’re going for a ride, Angela.” He dips down and puts his arm behind her knees and then lifts her easily, resting her head against his chest. “I’m parked down the block,” he says, starting down the sidewalk.

I watch after them, noting the bits of behavior I’ve seen throughout the night. But then Isaac stops and looks back at me. “Come on,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’ll give you a ride too.”

My mouth opens in surprise, but at first nothing comes out. Then, just: “You will?”

“I’m not going to leave you in the rain,” he says. Uncertainty flips through his eyes, but then he starts walking again, expecting that I’ll follow. I turn back to where Deacon is waiting in my car.

He stares at me, but now the car is running, warmed up for me. I could walk to him, walk away from everything: that’s exactly what his expression is asking me to do. I don’t know if it’s fear of failure, desire to do the right thing, or terror at the thought of falling back in love with Deacon—but I motion down the street toward Isaac and my sister.

Deacon waits a beat and then mouths
Okay
in a simple surrender. My conscience hurts for a moment, but I turn and jog after my sister and my boyfriend, unsure of where this night will lead.

ISAAC STOPS IN FRONT OF
a white Ford F-150 with the extended cab for a backseat. He tries to balance Angie while getting out his keys, and at one point when he looks at me, there’s an awkward moment where I think he’s going to ask me to fish them out for him. He doesn’t. He finally gets them in his hand and clicks the locks, nodding for me to open the doors.

Getting my sister’s rag-doll body into the back proves difficult, and eventually I have to climb in first to help drag her onto the seat. When she’s propped up, she stares at me for a moment like she wants to call me Catalina. But then, without talking, she moves to lie down, and I climb over into the passenger seat.

Isaac gets behind the wheel and turns to me, the interior of the cab bright from the overhead light. His eyes travel over me, taking stock of my entire person. Each second that passes seems to hurt him more, and just before I tell him he shouldn’t look too closely, he licks his lips to talk.

“You’re not her,” he says in a quiet voice. “Not up close.”

His comment doesn’t warrant a response, so I sit there under his scrutiny as he tilts his head, memorizing my face. “You have freckles,” he says. “A different mouth. When I look at you, I know you’re not her.” He turns away, sadness darkening his mood, and he starts the engine. “No matter how much I want you to be.”

Music blasts through the radio, left on from the last time he was in the truck. I jump, startled from the melancholy moment, and Isaac reaches quickly to turn off the radio. He pulls into the road and I look back to where Deacon is parked, but the car is lost from this angle. I hate that I just ditched him, but what choice did I have? Tell Isaac I was here with my ex-boyfriend?
A closer?
That might not have been very effective in getting him to trust me. Still . . . Deacon is going to be pissed. I’ll have to apologize to him later.

The wipers scrape along the window and send streams of rain down the sides. I wish the rain would let up, show some sign of summer. Marie always says that the minute the sunshine hits Oregon, we forget about the all the months of rain, like we’re reborn. Like we’re flowers blooming. Right now, I’m sopping wet and cold and so far from feeling like a rose it isn’t funny.

“Angie’s staying at our aunt’s house,” I say quietly, afraid to look at Isaac. I debate dropping the act, but ultimately it’s not confronting Catalina that is bringing him misery. That’s the part that has to be fixed. I’m the demon he has to face.

“She told me,” he says. “She wanted to leave before you showed up.”

I worry he’s about to go on a tirade about how terrible I am for being a closer. I pray he doesn’t. I don’t think my heart can take any more tonight. I just want one minute of everyone being okay. Of me not being the source of their pain. Of not being hated.

“When I first saw you outside,” he says, “I was overcome. I . . . I thought you were her. For one fleeting moment, you looked at me just like she used to. And when I realized it was all a lie . . .” He glances over, tears in his eyes. “It fucking hurt.”

I bite down on my lip, holding back my sympathies. I don’t want to patronize him, but I’m not sure how anyone can observe this and not have it affect them too.
Be patient,
Marie’s voice tells me.
Let him lead his recovery.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says, turning back to the road. “I’ve been an asshole to you, and I don’t mean to be. Honest. It’s just . . . seeing you breaks my heart.” He takes a shaky breath and then exhales to keep from crying. When he looks at me, I see it didn’t help. “Can you fix that?” he asks, his voice choked off.

“I want to,” I say. “But I’m not the cure for a broken heart. You’re the only one who can mend that.”

He sniffles, nodding as if he understands. He seems more wilted than before, and we drive quietly the rest of the way to Lake Oswego. The only sound inside the truck is the sound of my sister snoring.

*  *  *

Isaac tells me to wait in the truck as he fishes Angie out of the backseat. He says it’ll be easier for my aunt to accept him dropping her off instead of her dead niece’s doppelgänger. He even asks me to duck down while in the driveway, which stings my pride a little. But I take off my seat belt and do as he asks.

I hear voices at the door of the small ranch, and wait for what seems like forever, crouched low in the front seat. I glance around the cramped space, looking for something to focus on to pass the time. Out of boredom, I open the glove compartment. The entire box falls out, heavy from the pile of papers stuffed inside. I curse, and quickly try to gather them up, shoving them in before Isaac returns and busts me for spying. I fit the glove box back in its slot, but before I close it, I notice what’s hidden among the usual registration and proof of insurance. There’s a bunch of crumpled notebook paper. I take one out and unfold it to see a dark spiral drawn in the center in black ink. I furrow my brow, and pull out another and another, finding more of the same.

Although I have no idea what these papers mean, they set my teeth on edge; the fact that there are so many of them—all the same—creeps me out. Are they Isaac’s? Why is he drawing them?

There’s the sound of a screen door slamming, and I quickly stuff in the rest of the papers and snap the glove compartment shut. It doesn’t close at first, but after three more tries it sticks. I barely get in a breath before the door opens and Isaac hops inside the cab.

“Well that was a shit show,” he mutters, and looks over to the passenger seat. He finds me on the floor and stifles a laugh. “I didn’t mean that low,” he says. He turns over the engine and then puts his arm over the seat to back us out of the driveway. Once we’re in the road, I sit up, slightly embarrassed, and put on my seat belt.

“Aunt Margot’s not thrilled,” Isaac says. “I don’t suspect Angie will be leaving the house anytime soon. Which, between us”—he looks over—“is probably a good thing.”

I feel a twinge of affection for Isaac; the fact that he’s concerned about her is a bit endearing. They’re both a total mess, but I like that he cares. I kind of like him.

“Has she done this a lot since . . .” I trail off, deciding not to finish that thought.

Isaac swallows hard, but continues like he doesn’t know how that sentence ends. “Yeah,” he says. “Couple of her friends came to me worried, but it’s not like she listens to me. All I can do is treat her like I usually would. People get sick of hearing
sorry
, you know? I’m sick of it,” he says.

I’m afraid if I ask him questions, my clinical approach will put him off. Besides, right now he’s content here with me, and it’s the first step toward trust. Then we can start working through his unresolved issues.

My house comes up sooner than I want, and Isaac pulls into the driveway and kills the lights. It was nice, riding in comfortable silence for a few miles—like we were two regular people coming home from a night out. I decide I enjoy his company, his quiet courage. He is definitely someone I won’t forget after this assignment is over.

I zip up my hoodie, smiling my good-bye, and then reach for the handle of the door.

Isaac shifts in his seat. “Wait,” he calls softly. Surprised, I look back, wondering if I forgot something, but instead I find him with his posture stooped, staring down at the steering wheel.

“Do you actually think this will help?” he asks. “Therapy?”

“Yes.” If I were him, I would doubt the methods too. But I’ve seen the role play work. I’ve seen families be able to move on.

“But . . .” His eyebrows knit together. “You can’t give someone closure in a few days. You can’t just take the pain away.”

“You’re right,” I agree, turning in the seat to face him. I note how near we are, closer than I normally talk to my clients. “The grief doesn’t disappear,” I continue. “I don’t have that kind of power. This therapy helps people see a bigger picture. Let go of unrealistic expectations of a deceased loved one. Once they’ve told me what they need to, they accept the death. It still hurts—I’m sure it hurts like hell. But it’s the pain of moving on. After I’m done, clients realize that they can’t ‘fix’ this. They can’t bring anyone back. They can’t build any new memories. They can only keep living and enjoying the memories they have.”

He listens, letting me continue.

“I reset them on a new path,” I say, trying not to sound like a therapist. Trying to sound like the girl he loves. “A path with less guilt or longing. You can’t imagine the degree of comfort that comes with saying good-bye. Our brains accept that, accept that it’s over. That it’s okay for it to be over. I don’t cure people,” I say sadly. “I just take away some of the sting.”

Isaac puts his hands on the wheel, gripping the rubber. Finally he turns to me, his handsome face weakened with grief. “I’m having a bad time with this,” he murmurs.

My heart aches. “I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

He bites down on his lip, pulling it through his teeth. He shakes his head as a thought occurs to him. “Why do you do this?” he asks. “Why put yourself through this?”

I’m taken aback at the question. I debate how to answer; discussing my real life would certainly pull him from the therapy. But I also don’t want to dodge his questions. Maybe if he trusts me to tell the truth, he’ll trust me with his therapy later. “Because I can help people,” I answer.

He smiles a little, seeming to appreciate that I’m willing to talk out of character. “No.” He narrows his eyes like he can figure me out. “No one is that selfless. Why do you really do this?”

“I’m good at it. I close out people’s lives because I can.” I pause. “And because my father asks me to.” I didn’t intend to be this honest, but here in the dark and warm cab of Isaac’s truck, I let my defenses down. “People . . . people are kind of terrible to me because of what I do. Being a closer, it’s who I am . . . but I don’t ruin people’s lives. I’m trying to make them better. Instead people hate me, fear me. I’ve devoted myself to this, but I don’t always love it. Like I told you that first night, I hurt too.”

“Don’t you want your own life?” he asks. “Believe me when I say that Catalina’s was far from perfect.”

“This life seems pretty great to me,” I say, lowering my eyes to my lap. “Her family. You. I wouldn’t even know what to do with that much love.”

“Doesn’t anybody love you?” he asks. I look up at him, his dark eyes glistening in the low light. Curious and kind.

“No,” I say. “Not that way.” My own words destroy me, the truth in them ringing through my ears. My father loves me, but not like a regular dad. Not the way Catalina’s dad loved her—endlessly and unconditionally. With my dad there are expectations. Then there’s Deacon, but his hot-and-cold love tears me down sometimes. We’re just too . . . complicated.