The Remedy (5 page)

“What?” I ask, looking back at the picture. Closure is typically for family only. This guy . . . I study him, noticing the way he sits next to Catalina on a bench, how he stares at the side of her face, his expression a portrait of admiration. Catalina smiles for the camera, but her boyfriend seems utterly consumed by her. There’s a small twinge of longing, and I push the photo aside and turn to my dad.

“I can’t do that,” I say. “Parents and siblings are hard enough. Hell, I don’t even interact with their friends. And this guy loved her. Look how he’s watching her,” I tell him, pointing to the boyfriend’s face. “What if he tries to kiss me or something? How am I supposed to handle that?”

“The same way you defuse any situation,” my father says seriously. “You redirect, you reassert the relationship ending they require, and if that fails, you contact Marie for further intervention.”

“A boyfriend,” I repeat incredulously, glancing down at him. “What’s his name?”

“Isaac Perez.”

There are all sorts of competing emotions in my heart, the main one being fear. As a closer, I’ve occasionally had to deal with overattached parents. Okay, I’ve
often
had to deal with overattached parents. But this would be different. This is a peer, a boyfriend, a guy who’s probably made out with Catalina a hundred times, shared secrets with her. Parents ultimately know the difference between me and their daughter, their flesh and blood. Add hormones to the mix, and I’m not entirely confident in the outcome of this closure.

“Dad, I don’t think—”

“He’s refusing therapy,” my father says quietly. A quick chill shoots up my arms, hollows out my chest. As someone who hates talking, I can understand the aversion—but refusing therapy is insane.

“Refusing?” I ask, just to make sure I’m clear on the stakes. My father nods.

If Isaac refuses therapy but continues to decline, they will admit him to the psychiatric ward of the hospital. It’s what they do for people at risk—people refusing help—based on the new codes established for mental health stability. This boy will be committed, and no one knows how long it will be before he’s let out again. I think of his admiring expression and hate the idea of him being locked away.

“Isaac is only part of the assignment,” my father says, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “The parents are our main concern for now. They have another child, but she’s completed therapy and achieved success. She doesn’t want to be a part of the healing process, so she’s living with relatives during your stay.”

“And how long will that be?” I ask. My last assignment was two days, and now that I’m home, I’m ready to get back to my real life. My father’s quiet for a long moment, and I lift my eyes in his direction. “Dad? How long?”

“The assignment is for two weeks.”

I gasp, free-fall into confusion and panic. “That’s too long!” I say. “You can’t . . . what? Dad, we’re not allowed—”

“We’re making an exception. Quinn, I can’t tell you how important this assignment is. If there was anyone else . . .” He stops, pink rising on his cheeks. His response makes me pause. He doesn’t think this is a good idea either.

“You know this is dangerous,” I say. “Why is Catalina Barnes so important? She’s not the first dead teenager in Oregon, Dad.”
Ouch.
The words are insensitive, and I wince at my own callousness. Although I try not to get attached to my assignments, I know more than anybody the gravity of their situation. They’re not coming back. Their lives are over, and it’s a tragic thing.

My father’s shoulders stiffen, and he pushes the papers back into the folder and closes the file. “You’re right,” he agrees. “But this request is coming from beyond the department, from my boss. If you don’t think you can help the Barnes family, we’ll contact the other advisors again. See if another closer can be brought in in time. But it’s not likely. This one is flagged for immediate intervention.”

The words echo through the room. It’s rare that my father’s boss asks a favor. Only Deacon has ever met Arthur Pritchard, and he quit soon after. “This is dangerous,” I repeat quietly. “So why me?” I’m scared of losing myself, but I’m also scared of failing the family. Failing my father.

“You’re the best.”

“But I’m your daughter.”

My father lowers his eyes, his expression tightening as he struggles with the same thought. When he looks at me again, all I can see is how much he cares about me. How I am his pride and joy—his greatest achievement. His belief in me never wavers.

For the last eleven years, I’ve completed every assignment he’s given me without fault, except for the occasional taken item. I don’t screw up. My father is truly devoted to his patients, devoted to their well-being—and he counts on me to help them. He’s a good man, and I’m ashamed of my selfishness, guilty now that my father has made it clear what’s at stake. I swallow hard, nodding that I understand.

“Why two weeks?” I ask. “Why so long?”

“It’s all in the file.” He taps the closed folder. “Quinn,” he says, leaning into the table. “I know I sprung this on you, but I promise you’re strong enough. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“Is this why Marie was asking Aaron about my state of mind?” I ask, realizing now the purpose of the new line of questioning. “Did she tell you I was fit for the job?”

He nods. “She did. I wanted to make sure before I sent you in. Look, I have no doubt you can do this, but it’s a big commitment. One I hope you’ll never have to repeat.” My father stands up and pushes in his chair.

“It’s gotten late,” he says. “Why don’t you take the night to think about it and we’ll talk more in the morning.” He leans down to kiss the top of my head, but I stare straight ahead, overwhelmed by my responsibility. I murmur a “good night” right after he walks out, and then look down at the file waiting on the kitchen table. Look at the life I’m about to finish.

*  *  *

After tossing my uneaten burrito in the trash, I grab my backpack and go upstairs. I take a quick shower to wash the red dye out of my hair, and then head to my room. When I walk in, I’m temporarily displaced by its familiarity. My tall queen bed—not made, never made—with dark wood frame. My pale pink walls dotted with a white and silver pattern that Deacon designed. I told him it looked like a flower—he told me it was a cricket. Either way, it’s pretty cool. I set the file on my vanity table and cross to the walk-in closet, my backpack heavy on my shoulder. My jaw clicks when I yawn.

The closet is filled with everything I could need for an assignment. Wigs along the top shelf—different colors and lengths. An organizer with drawers for extensions and contacts cases. From the file picture, it looked like Catalina had short blond hair in a shade lighter than mine. I scan the wigs, thinking I’ll have to adjust the length once I find the right color. I reach into my bag and pull out the hair extensions, combing my fingers through them to smooth them out. After I untangle them, I open the drawer and lay them next to the others, and drop my bag on the floor.

Again I yawn, my eyes too heavy to keep open much longer. I’ll have to read through Catalina’s file to see what sort of clothes she wore—what kind of makeup. Sometimes the photos are outdated, so each assignment takes a careful case study. But there’s not much time for that. I click off the closet light and run my fingers along my wall, touching the raised pattern as I walk. I pull the first pair of pajamas I find out of my dresser drawer.

“Catalina Barnes,” I murmur out loud. I wonder what her voice sounded like, if it’ll be easy to mimic. If she had any quirks or interests that I can’t master. I switch off the overhead light and lie in bed, staring up at the glow-in-the dark stars still stuck to my ceiling from a time I can’t remember. Each blink lasts longer, and just before I close my eyes completely, I whisper, “What happened to you?”

*  *  *

I’ve never needed an alarm clock. I wake early every morning no matter what time I go to bed, like my body automatically dispenses a bucket of caffeine into my circulatory system. My internal clock is permanently set at seven a.m., no matter how much sleep I get the night before. Still, by afternoon I’ll probably crash and end up napping.

My head feels thick and cloudy, and I climb out of bed to move around—let my brain catch up with my body. The house is quiet; my dad is probably wiped out from staying up late with me. I see my reflection in the vanity mirror and pause for a long moment. For a second, I don’t recognize myself without the red hair. I don’t recognize myself as Quinn.

The folder seizes my attention and the conversation with my father floods back. I’m going on assignment again—this time for two whole weeks. This is major. This is crazy. I pull out the small chair and sit down, resting my elbow on the vanity top. I open the file and find Catalina’s picture.

She has small features and brown eyes and blond hair, although I can’t tell if the color is natural or dyed. She doesn’t have freckles, which means I’ll have to cover mine. She wears more makeup than I normally would, but that actually helps when I’m trying to look like the subject. Her frame is similar to mine, but not as curvy. She’s average in every way. And again I wonder: Why her?

I glance at the photo of her parents and then pick through her therapy notes. She’s from Lake Oswego, a picturesque little town near Portland. I’ve had an assignment up there once before—Castle Dillon, twelve years old, drowning—but I don’t remember much from those two or three days. Scratch that. I remember her brother. He was four and hung on to my leg when I got there, thinking I was actually his sister. The entire scene was a horrific mess, and it was decided that he didn’t need to be involved in the closure process. He basically had to lose his sister twice.

I rub hard at my face, trying to rub away the icky uncertainty that comes along with these memories. If I got attached to the families, my job would become impossible. I respect them, their feelings, their lives—I don’t become part of them. I don’t love them. I’m not allowed to.

To distract myself, I dive back into the file. The death certificate is vague, and I wonder why it’s in the file in the first place. Usually if the cause of death is of any importance, my father tells me what happened. I sift through, passing the picture of Isaac, and find a letter—a photocopy from a journal. Normally I’d get the entire book. I wonder where the rest of the pages are.

The handwriting is loopy and sweet, and I mentally compare it to my own—small and printed. The craving starts: a wish to mimic. That’s the thing most people wouldn’t understand: I like to copy people. I find it fascinating, observing them, studying them, and replicating them. I’m good at it. Next to me on my dresser is a Disney cup filled with pens (a souvenir I might have lifted from Antonia Messner a few years ago), and I grab one.

I pick a piece of ripped paper out of my trash can. There’s a random number scrawled across it, but I don’t remember what it’s from. Probably a telephone number that Deacon got but threw out here. His subtle reminder that I’m the most important girl in his life—even if he dates other people. I flip over the page and then examine Catalina’s handwriting again.

This time we left before they threatened to lock the doors.

I set down the pen and pull the page in front of me, my interest piqued. Most of the assignments keep journals—it’s a class we all have to take in high school, an extension of therapy. Once upon a time education was all about data and science and math. But society reassessed its goals. Now the schools here give us the basics, but they also help us identify our weaknesses, point out flaws in our mental health so that we can work toward managing it. Journaling was actually one of my favorite classes, even though turning over our personal journals to the teacher seemed like a bit of a missed point. They’re not really our private thoughts if we have to let someone else read them. Then again, I’m a little more protective of my emotions because I know what happens to the information once we’re dead. It ends up in a file.

This time we left before they threatened to lock the doors. Isaac pulled me along in the park and we were both laughing. Angie pretty much hates him now, but she sort of hates me too. What are little sisters for, right? Me and Isaac ended up on the baseball bleachers, kissing until someone beeped their horn in the parking lot. Isaac didn’t want to leave, but his mother’s face is hard to argue with. Especially when it’s all scrunched up like that. We said good night, same way we do every time. I waited a minute longer to watch him leave, hoping he would look back. He didn’t.

My eyes widen and I reread the journal entry, glancing at the date. It was written a few weeks before she died. Has my dad seen this? The therapists? Was the couple having problems? Like it’s a marathon of a favorite TV show, I become obsessed. I spend the entire morning going through the file, studying the journal entries that were included and her parents’ interviews. Turns out it’s only two weeks until her eighteenth birthday and there was a party planned. A big bash that the mom can’t seem to get past:
I already ordered the cake. It’s chocolate raspberry—her favorite. What am I supposed to do with her cake? It’ll still be her birthday.
The therapists thought it would provide the needed closure if I stayed until this party, let the parents say good-bye on their terms. It’s a little morbid, but I guess I get it. I’ll be out the door right after having a huge slice of chocolate raspberry cake.

There’s nothing else out of the ordinary in Catalina’s file, so I practice her smile until I get it right. I find the links to her different social media accounts, the passwords provided by the therapists. Before I can open up my laptop, though, my stomach growls, and I go downstairs to grab a bowl of cereal.

My father isn’t in the kitchen, and I’m about to call for him when I realize that it’s Thursday. He’s probably at the hospital. My days are mixed up, and I’m only half aware of what I’m doing as I pull out the box of Frosted Flakes and the milk.

“I’m Quinlan McKee,” I murmur, repeating Marie’s words from last night. “I live at 2055 Seneca Place in Corvallis, Oregon. I’m seventeen and I drive a beat-up old Honda that my father won’t replace.” I sit at the table and stare down at my bowl. “I’m Quinlan McKee,” I whisper.