“And then I’ll be really sweet,” he says. All of the joking is gone from his expression, replaced with vulnerability—a look that tells me he’d do anything to be with me. Be close to me. But I’ve fallen for that look before, and it’s always ended with regret.
Truth is, I don’t know what Deacon wants anymore—it’s not just physical. Whatever it is must scare him, though, and I’m the one who ends up getting hurt. So I make the concerted effort to resist his temptation, even if sometimes I’d like nothing more than to surround myself with his affection.
“I can’t,” I say quietly, putting my hand on his cheek, unable to keep myself from touching him. Deacon turns his face to kiss the heel of my palm, his lips warm and soft. His eyes steady on mine as my resolve wavers.
“But I really want you to,” he murmurs against my skin.
My insides melt, but I don’t let that sway me. Deacon knows exactly what to say and how to say it. But this is all because I have another assignment, our feelings heightened because I’m leaving. I know better than to think it’s real.
“You’re a really good friend,” I tell him finally, ending our evening.
Despite the rejection, Deacon kisses my hand again and then leans in to quickly kiss my cheek. He grabs his bag from the floor, and I can’t decide if I want him to argue or get out before I change my mind. I’m going to miss him like crazy. And I never miss him more than I do just before I’m gone. I may be a little nostalgic right now.
“Wait,” I say. Deacon’s breath catches, but before my comment can be misinterpreted, I work the extra car key off the ring in the ignition. “So you can use it while I’m gone,” I tell him.
He smiles and holds out his hand, looking disappointed that I didn’t have a different offer. Back when we were dating, I’d leave Deacon my Honda while I was on assignment so he could use it. My father wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, saying Deacon could afford his own car. But then Deacon would ask him how big his carbon footprint was and my father would laugh and tell him to go home.
I’ll be gone for two weeks this time—longest assignment ever. Maybe I just don’t want Deacon to forget me. I set the key in his hand and Deacon closes his fingers around mine, holding for a long moment before thanking me and saying he’ll take good care of the car. I nod, knowing he will.
“Be safe, Quinlan,” he says, opening the passenger door and getting out. He ducks down to look at me one last time. “And make sure you come back,” he adds. If Deacon has a visible insecurity, it’s me. All of his arrogance fades when I’m about to go on assignment, because he always worries I won’t come back to Corvallis. I wouldn’t be the first closer to jump ship without a trace. Deacon’s afraid I’ll tire of this life and pick another.
I smile at him, not admitting that I’ll be at his door in two weeks, looking for comfort. Not admitting that seeing him with Shelly tonight annoyed me. Not admitting the way I still feel about him. Or maybe I’m just highly emotional right now and looking for any connection.
Deacon shuts the car door and heads to the front of his house. Just as he grabs the doorknob, he turns to look back at me, serious and solemn. And then he slips inside and disappears from my new life.
CHAPTER SIX
AT 6:59 A.M. I LIE flat on my back in bed, staring up at the stars on my ceiling, which have faded to a yellowish-green hue in the soft morning light. My room is stuffy because the heater kicks on full blast and neither my dad nor I have been able to figure out how to reset the timer. My hairline is damp with sweat, but I don’t make any initial moves to get up. I’m drawing out my last moments, mentally saying good-bye to my room. I’m like a little kid trying to give thanks at a holiday meal, randomly naming objects. Thank you for the lamp, I think. The stars on my ceiling. These itchy pajamas and my soft, fluffy sheets.
I sniff a laugh and roll out of bed, pausing to glance around. I really do hate leaving my room, my life. And maybe that’s why my thoughts turn to Deacon, and I wonder if he’s lying in bed thinking of me.
“Quinlan,” my father calls from downstairs. “You awake?”
“Yep,” I say back automatically, and start toward the door. The folder is still sitting on my vanity, and I’ll want to go over it several times more before we leave. After that, it’s a matter of getting to the house and looking through Catalina’s things. Smelling her perfume and trying on her clothes. I won’t do this in front of the family, of course. I can’t break the illusion. I’ll show up with my hair back, hood up. I won’t say too much at first—I won’t want them to think of my voice. Instead, Marie will bring me inside and take me to the room. After that, she’ll wait downstairs and have the initial consultation with the family. When they’re ready, which can take anywhere from thirty minutes to several hours, I’ll come in and meet them. At that point . . . I will be Catalina Barnes. I’ll continue studying her family while there, but I won’t break character if I can help it.
I don’t know how I’ll deal with her boyfriend, though. It’s so out of my realm of expertise—I’ve never even been able to deal with my own boyfriend, although I’m not sure if mine and Deacon’s relationship was ever exactly typical. What Catalina had with Isaac would be more normal. I furrow my brow, my worry once again spiked—I don’t know what normal is. After another second of doubt, I push away the thoughts to steady myself. I’ll have to lose these feelings of uncertainty if I hope to be successful. A confident closer is an effective closer.
I laugh to myself, walking out to the hall. I’m starting to sound like one of Marie’s lectures. Every so often, we’re brought into the offices to go over the rules, get recertified. We review the “person-centered” approach to what we do and how our role play frees up their minds to heal. Like tricking your brain out of its grief. People think it’s a broken heart that hurts; maybe that sounds more romantic. But it’s the brain, and it can be fooled.
“The closer must demonstrate empathy and understanding toward the clients, always maintaining a professional role, especially during the assignment,” Marie would tell me in front of the panel observing us. “The goal is to use the client’s own memories to help them close their loop of grief and accept their new life. The closer helps them find their place in a new world without their loved one, maintaining the delicate balance between denial and acceptance. This is achieved through nonjudgmental and careful guidance.”
I always hate those reminders, as if I’d ever sit and judge the people I’m supposed to help. Or even act unprofessionally. I’ve been a closer most of my life—I’m more qualified than the experts on the panel. I think that should make me exempt from those horrible recert meetings.
I get it; I understand the need for our brand of role-playing therapy. More often than not, parents call us when they didn’t get the chance to say good-bye, to say I love you or I’m sorry. This can lead to hurt and emotional trauma. The moms and dads I’ve met never considered a future without their child—they didn’t want one. Part of my job is to show them that it’s possible to be okay. Maybe not great, not right away. But they can get by.
I walk into the kitchen and find my dad waiting. There’s toast on the table, and the smell of strong coffee is thick in the air. I say good morning and drop down on the hardwood chair while he pours me a cup. I rub my eyes, and my dad grabs the creamer from the fridge and sets both the coffee and the cream in front of me.
“Get much sleep?” he asks.
“I slept fine,” I tell him. “Just . . . my head is a little cloudy. You know how it is on returning.”
He nods and sits across from me, watching as I pour the cream into my coffee until it’s almost white. I hate the bitterness but love the caffeine. The newspaper—a relic when it’s so much easier to Google the news, I always joke—sits between us, and I see the headline talking about an uptick in noted side effects from the latest medication craze and the impending investigation. I grab a piece of dry toast and take a bite.
“Should we go over the rules?” my father asks, ad
justing his glasses and looking far too tired for someone who didn’t just get back from an assignment.
“I’d rather not,” I say hopefully. I bring my mug to my lips and blow on the coffee before taking a tentative sip. When I peer over my cup at my dad, I see he’s waiting for a different answer. “Maintain eye contact and keep facial expressions open and caring,” I say, grabbing another piece of toast and talking between chews. “Be attentive and relaxed when speaking to the clients. Don’t slouch or frown or look otherwise bored.” I smile. “Even when I am.”
“Good,” my father says, reaching for his own toast. “Anything else?”
I hold out my hand and begin counting off points on my fingers, rapid-fire. “Keep my voice sympathetic, don’t interrupt, don’t rush, and most of all, let the client lead their recovery. Did I pass the interview?” I ask sarcastically.
“I just want you to keep things in perspective, Quinn,” he says apologetically. “The clearer you are going in, the easier extraction will be later.”
He’s right, of course. I set my piece of toast on my plate, take another sip of coffee, and then exhale. “I’ll monitor Mr. and Mrs. Barnes for physical reactions to their grief,” I continue. “Change of appetite, trouble sleeping, memory problems, or erratic mood swings. Based on what I learn, I’ll target the painful memories and help the family overwrite them with positive ones. In this case, I’ll stay until the birthday party, turn eighteen, and let my family celebrate my life. That should help them with the unfinished business they’ve focused on.” I pause, narrowing my eyes as I think. “But Dad, I have no idea what to do about the boyfriend. What does he want?”
“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.
The Remedy Page 6