The Remedy

by Suzanne Young

  Marie turns, studying me before she speaks in her confident voice—the one reserved for moments like this. “You sure you’re ready?” she asks, as if I can just say no and walk away. I’ve never done that before, but she always acts like the possibility is still there.

  I nod, and I meet my father’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “See you in two weeks,” I tell him with a catch in my throat. His eyes well up and a crushing sense of loss at losing him, losing my entire life for two weeks, presses in on me. My dad smiles sadly.

  “Take care of yourself,” he murmurs. We don’t draw out our good-byes, my safe return an unspoken promise. It’s ironic—an entire department devoted to closure and yet we’re terrible at it in our real lives. Marie glances over at him and then opens the passenger door while I gather the bags and climb out. My father waits in the car, because although he’s met with the family before, seeing him now would only dredge up the reality of the situation. They’ve spoken to him about their real daughter, so Marie’s job is to step in and become their new consultant, to make me the real Catalina.

  Marie touches my elbow, and together we start up the walkway to the big double doors of the home. My heart pounds; knots tighten in my stomach. I’ve always hated this part, sort of like a performer before going onstage—only this is life and not a play, a grossly exaggerated form of method acting.

  I pause for a moment, a sudden attack of fear closing in around me. I worry I’m not good enough for two weeks of this, that I won’t be convincing. Marie halts and then comes back to stand next to me. She doesn’t speak, only lets my mind work out what I have to do.

  I exhale a cleansing breath, closing my eyes, and once again I hollow myself out to make room. And when all the fear has drained away, the worry and sadness, I open my eyes and stare straight ahead. A machine, a vessel, a replacement. And Marie and I walk together to the front door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NO ONE ANSWERS WHEN WE ring the bell. Marie and I stand, still as statues on the front porch, with her black bag next to me, my backpack on my shoulder. We wait a full minute, and then Marie outstretches her finger, sharp blood-red manicure, and presses the doorbell again. It seems louder, more impatient, even though it’s just the same. Perception colors everything, I think. What’s real to us anyway? Only our perception.

  The door swings open suddenly, and I rock back on my heels. Before I can stop my curiosity, I look up at the man standing in the doorway. His entire face goes slack at the sight of me, and I realize my eyes are still blue—I haven’t put in the colored contacts yet. Marie quickly steps up to divert his attention.

  “Mr. Barnes,” she says in her warm therapist tone. “I’m Marie Devoroux. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I move to duck slightly behind her, keeping my gaze turned away.

  “Miss Devoroux,” the man says in greeting. His voice is thick with grief and despair, but I don’t sympathize. Instead I adjust the strap of my backpack on my shoulder and glance back to where my father’s Cadillac is parked. He doesn’t smile or wave. He looks at me like I’m an employee, practically a stranger. It wasn’t always like this. When I was little, there were occasions when Marie had to practically tear me from my father’s arms, reassuring him that it would be all right. I wonder if that’s why he shuts me out sometimes. Maybe he’s given me away so often that the idea of me not existing has lost its effect.

  What I wouldn’t give to have him chase me down now and beg me not to go. Then again, neither of us would have a job if he did that.

  Marie slips her arm around my shoulders, startling me from my thoughts, and I feel Mr. Barnes’s heavy stare.

  “May we come in?” Marie asks. After a long pause, Mr. Barnes steps aside, opening the door wider so that we can enter. “It’s down the hall, second door on the left,” he says. Even though there’s a pull to look at him while I pass, I don’t. It’s too soon.

  I’m not her yet.

  * * *

  Catalina’s bedroom is exactly the same as it was the day she died. This is one of the instructions the grief counselors give parents when they sign up for closure. I imagine it’s difficult to resist cleaning, making a bed, or hugging a pillow. Ignoring the clothes on the floor and pictures on a desk—a desire to make it perfect. Make it a shrine. But most of the time parents do exactly what Marie and my father tell them because for a few days they’ll get their child back. At least some version of them.

  I drop my bag on the bed and look around the room. The décor isn’t exactly my style, but I take a moment to absorb the scene. The walls are bright blue with framed pictures—not random posters like most bedrooms. These photos are black-and-white, and after a moment I realize they’re not professional. Did she take these herself? That’s something to note for later—a small detail in her personality. Sure enough, I find a heavy-duty camera and tripod in her closet, tucked away and slightly dusty. I guess she’s not into it anymore. That’s probably why it wasn’t in her file.

  I continue searching the room, opening and closing dresser drawers, trying to get a feel for her personality. I pause at her desk and find a checkered wallet with a broken clasp. I open it and see Catalina’s driver’s license, credit card, and student ID. No pictures. I set it down and run my finger over her closed laptop. There are stickers—random graphics and ironic phrases—covering the outside. There’s a red leather-bound journal on her desk, and I open it and recognize it’s where the pages were photocopied from. I skim, finding more of the same until I get near the end.

  There are pages missing, torn out. Interesting. I set the journal aside, pull out the chair, and sit before opening the computer. I type in the password that I’ve memorized by now. The wallpaper startles me at first: Catalina and Isaac, the same picture that was in her file. She’s smiling and Isaac is watching her adoringly. There’s a tug at my heart, and I quickly click on the Internet to fill the page with something else. I sign on to her social media pages and begin sorting through them. There are other pictures of Catalina’s boyfriend, but none as telling as that wallpaper. I find images of Angie, Catalina’s sister, both girls wearing sunglasses and laughing on the beach. Catalina’s dad asleep in a recliner. Her mom wearing a visor on a golf course. The more I look through her albums, the more confused I am about the girl I’m about to become. By all accounts, she loved her family. She put their pictures on her profile page. It’s so girl-next-door cute, it seems almost fake. I furrow my brow and switch to home videos, watching short clips of Catalina talking, laughing, and I practice mimicking her until I get it right. Once done, I click back to social media and find some of her interactions with Isaac.

  Good morning, beautiful, he wrote two weeks ago. She liked the comment but didn’t respond. Immediately after a death, the grief counselors shut down comments on an assignment’s page, delete anything new, at least until I leave. Catalina is frozen in time.

  For a moment I wonder what it’s like to be in a relationship where you’re you all the time. To have a past, present, and future you can share with someone. To have them love you completely. I’m envious of the freedom Catalina and Isaac had, the ease of their lives. Envious of the way he adores her. The her she got to be all the time.

  “Shit,” I mutter, quickly reminding myself that Catalina is dead and I’m an asshole for coveting her relationship. I take a second to compose my thoughts and then reach for her journal again. I start flipping pages, even though I’ve already read the passages that were included in her file. I find myself sucked in again, reading about a time Catalina and Angie had a party while their parents were out of town. A quiet ding sounds from the computer, and I turn back to it. There’s a blinking icon at the bottom of the screen, and when I click it, a small box pops up.

  Are you there?

  It’s from Isaac, or at least someone with his name and thumbnail picture. My stomach drops, and I don’t know what to do. My heart starts racing, and my fingers hover over the keys. I think about responding with a simple yes, but then again, I’m not Catali
na—he should know that. It occurs to me that he might not be trying to contact me at all. Maybe he does this, messages her, even though she’s dead, hoping one day he’ll get an answer. I’ve seen it before—parents calling a cell phone just to hear the voice-mail recording. Leaving messages as if their child will one day call them back. But they don’t. They never will.

  I start typing a y and then suddenly the small box changes and a blue line tells me that Isaac is no longer online. I’m surprised by the rush of loss I feel, and I wait, hoping he’ll sign back on. But the minutes tick by and I have work to do, so I close the message box and return to Catalina’s photo album.

  The hours quickly pass, and when I feel prepared, at least prepared enough to begin the assignment, I walk to the mirror hanging on the closet door and apply the finishing touches on my makeup, accentuating certain features while downplaying others. The blond wig fits nicely and looks almost real, but I don’t totally love it. I pin up one side like I’ve seen Catalina do in a few pictures, and then I turn my head to examine the effect. I find the contacts case and with skill, since I’ve done this a million times, I put in one brown contact and then the other. When I’m all together, I wait, still under the gaze of my unfamiliar reflection.

  There’s a soft knock on the door, and I turn as Marie enters alone. She presses her lips together and holds up her hands, bracelets jangling. “You ready?” she asks.

  I close my eyes for a moment, and when I look at her again, I smile. “Sure,” I say in a new voice, one I’ve learned from her videos. “Did my parents give you any wardrobe suggestions?”

  Marie visibly stiffens, but then she nods toward the closet. “They did. For dinner they’d like you to wear your prom dress.” I stare back at her, speechless. “I know it’s a bizarre request,” she says. “But you had a wonderful time that night, and they didn’t get a chance to get pictures before you and Isaac left.” She waves her hand. “Something about the camera battery being dead. Anyway, they’d love to see you in it now. We’re going to accommodate that.”

  “Uh, okay,” I respond. This isn’t totally out of the question—I’ve been asked to wear favorite outfits before. The sweater Nana knitted for my birthday, footie pajamas on a mock Christmas morning. This will definitely be the first prom dress, though. I’ve never even tried one on before.

  I quickly scan through my memory until I recall a picture of me and Isaac under a balloon archway. I walk into the closet, but it takes a little digging before I find the emerald-green dress. The fabric is flowy and satiny, and the minute I put it on, I’m grateful it isn’t fitted. It’s at least a size too small.

  I shoot a panicked look at Marie, and she crosses the room to stand behind me as we both stare in the mirror. She adjusts the shoulder straps and then pulls a small pair of thread scissors and a clip from her bag to let out the seam a little. I feel ridiculous, embarrassed that I’ll have to sit through the meal like this, but I want my parents to be happy so I let Marie fuss over the dress a little before she tells me I’m all set.

  Marie turns to me, her cool hands resting on my shoulders, her eyes filled with the same concern they have every time she leaves. “You can still walk away from this,” she says. “Or if it becomes too much, contact Aaron or me. My door is always open to you.” Her intensity surpasses her usual good-bye talks, and my worry spikes. But before I can even delve into the reasoning behind it, Marie has me by the arm and is walking us toward the dining room. I’m barefoot in an emerald-green prom dress.

  * * *

  My feet pad along the shiny wood floor, and I’m impressed by the beauty of my house. The country-chic décor is straight out of a magazine—gorgeous and expensive, but also homey and welcoming. We round the corner, and I pause at the dining room entrance. It’s obvious that my parents have gone to a lot of trouble to welcome me home. The minute I come into view, my mother jumps up, twisting her hands nervously in front of her. She’s overdressed. Her hair is set in curls, stiff with spray, bright lipstick on her thin lips and too much blush on the apples of her cheeks. Her sleeveless black dress is cinched with a belt, and her jewelry is bulky and out of place in our dining room. Her mouth pulls into an anxious smile, and she shoots an expectant look at Marie, waiting for the introduction. My father doesn’t turn toward me; his chin rests on his folded hands, his elbows on the table. I can see his grief, see it radiating from his skin, and I make a mental note to check his emotional state after dinner.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Barnes,” Marie says warmly. The advisor turns to me graciously and motions toward the table. “Please sit, Catalina,” she says without missing a beat. From the corner of my eye, I see my mother flinch at the sound of my name. Feeling vulnerable and on display, I make my way around the table to a seat with a bowl of salad already waiting. Marie follows and sits next to me, black coffee already set out in front of her. Marie doesn’t change her habits, even if she’s grown tired of the taste of coffee by now. It’s important to have some steady touchstones. I nod at my mother and take my spot at the table.

  Visibly shaking, my mother moves to stand next to her husband, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “I’ve made your favorite,” my mother says, wiping a tear that has found its way onto her cheek. It leaves a flesh-colored trail through her makeup. “Spaghetti with extra meatballs,” she says, her expression hopeful. To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of pasta, but I smile eagerly anyway.

  “Great,” I say. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Her face goes slack and my father flinches and immediately looks at me. We’re all silent for a moment as they soak it in. My voice is so familiar to them; I know it hurts. But it’s part of the process. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my wig, wondering if it’s the right shade after all. Marie calmly sips from her coffee, letting the quiet tick on.

  After what feels like an eternity, my mother swallows hard. “I’ll go get the food,” she says, and quickly leaves the room. I don’t react, caught in my father’s gaze as he studies me. He’s built like a football coach, burly and massive. I watch his green eyes well up until tears slip down his face. He makes no move to wipe them.

  I can see his intense longing, his deep sadness, his inability to trust—all classic symptoms of complicated grief. If I monitor a bit longer, I’m sure I’ll find that he’s lost interest in his daily life, maybe even in life in general. He can’t find meaning without me. He’s lost in his emotions. He loves me, present tense. It won’t be easy for him to trust enough to heal.

  Marie’s cup clinks against the saucer, and she sighs quietly when my mother returns, holding a large serving bowl filled with bright red strands of spaghetti, a mountain of meatballs on top. The initial awkwardness begins to fade when we start to eat. As far as Italian food goes, this is pretty good. Something about the texture of spaghetti has always bothered me, though, and the dough acts to bind my teeth together.

  “I’m sorry that Angie’s not here,” my mother says, tapping her napkin on the corners of her mouth. “She’s staying at Aunt Margot’s for a few weeks to be closer to school. You know how busy she gets.”

  What I know is that my sister doesn’t want to be a part of the closure. There’s an empty place set on the other side of me, and I wonder if my parents hoped she’d show up for dinner anyway.

  “And I was thinking,” my mother adds, “that tomorrow we could go out. We can grab lunch and then we can stop by the salon.”

  “I could get a pedicure,” I offer in a high, positive lilt. She smiles, shaky and unsure, but ultimately encouraged.

  “Wonderful,” she says, pleased. “I’ll call and set it up.”

  Marie flips her over her wrist and checks the time on her delicate gold watch. We exchange a glance and I can see her impatience growing. She’s not eating; she never eats. Just drinks coffee. She’s here to monitor, to make sure I’m in a safe environment, and to determine if my parents are ready for this therapy. Since she hasn’t removed me, I’m guessing she’s approved this assignment.


  I take another bite of food, chewing while I feel the stares of my parents. Occasionally I glance up and smile at them politely, and my mother smiles back, relieved I’m still here. My father hasn’t touched his food, but at least he’s not crying anymore.

  There’s a knock on the door, and we all turn. Marie sets down her cup hastily, rattled by the unexpected interruption. Personally, I’m grateful for the distraction. I lay my fork on my plate with spaghetti still twirled around the prongs. No one moves, and I wonder if I’m the one who usually answers the door. I start to stand, when my father jumps up and motions for me to stay.

  “I’ll get it,” he says, giving me a once-over as he adjusts to my presence again.

  My mother smiles nervously, glancing at Marie. “Perhaps Angie decided to join us after all.” I see the irritation in Marie’s posture, but it would be imperceptible to a client. I just know her too well.

  “We want to do our best to maintain the control group, Mrs. Barnes,” Marie says. “It’s conducive for therapy.”

  I watch my mother to gauge her reaction, still learning. “I understand,” she says. “But Angie’s her sister. They’re best friends.”

  She’s blocking out the actual fact of my death, and reimagining our lives. I haven’t found any mentions of me being best friends with my sister. We loved each other, sure. But my mother is making more of the relationship to build me up. Build up the family. It’s another sign of her complicated grief and denial.

  Voices filter in from the foyer, both male, and my mother smiles gently and then lowers her eyes to her plate. “Guess it’s not Angela,” she says, sounding disappointed, and begins to spin the spaghetti around her fork.