The Remedy (4 page)

Damn it, Aaron.
“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wouldn’t care if it was,” Deacon says. “I was just wondering about the T-shirt. Band?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Rolling Stones. One with the big tongue.”

“Nice.”

We’re quiet for a little bit and my eyes start to get heavy, even though my mind won’t stop racing. Deacon reaches over to slide a strand of hair behind my ear. “Although effective,” he says quietly, “your method of closing isn’t good for you, Quinn. You shouldn’t take it all on like that.”

“I know,” I tell him. “But what can I say? Sometimes my heart still beats.”

He smiles. “Then it’s a good thing I ripped mine out. It was a pain in the ass. Much like you. Be right back.” He stands and leaves the room. I hear him moving around in the kitchen, and then he returns with a glass of water. He holds out the drink and a tiny white pill that he says will help me sleep. I sit up and take both appreciatively.

“You should think about changing your methods,” he continues when I lie back down. “If not for you, then maybe for my peace of mind.” He covers me with the blanket and kisses my forehead. “Yell if you need me, okay? Unless you want me to stay.”

“No, you get some sleep,” I tell him. We pause for a long moment as he decides whether or not I mean it. I smile softly. “You’re a good friend,” I murmur.

This makes him chuckle because it’s our new go-to phrase whenever either of us has the inclination to discuss the possibility of hooking up. Keeps us grounded. “It’s too bad, right?” he asks, straightening up. “Bet it’s hell looking at this face all the time.” He models his jawline, narrowing his eyes.

“I can barely restrain myself most days,” I say. “But, luckily, you talk. And the spell is broken.”

“Asshole,” he says with a laugh. We say good night, and then Deacon goes upstairs. I listen to the creaking floorboards above me as he walks across his room, silence when he gets into bed.

Some days I really do wish it would have worked out with us—times like now, when I’m all alone. I could lie to myself—slip into his bed tonight and pretend we’re different. But in the morning Deacon would be cold, act like it was a mistake. I’d rather not tear open that old wound. We’re better off this way, just like I told Aaron.

I close my eyes, and in the quiet I think about my future: six more months of pretending before I can live my life full-time. But even then, I have to wonder if anyone will ever want me, love me—the real me. Or if they’ll only ever want me as someone else.

*  *  *

“Quinlan,” Deacon says from somewhere close by. “Quinn—your dad’s here.”

My eyes fly open, and it takes me a minute to recognize my surroundings. The room is dim, but lights from a car in the driveway filter in from behind the blinds. I sit up and stretch. When I didn’t come home, I’m sure my dad knew exactly where to find me. Deacon certainly wouldn’t have told him. My dad kind of hates him, and the feeling is entirely mutual.

Okay, “hate” is too strong a word for their relationship. When Deacon was younger, my dad held him up as the example for all of us. But toward the end, Deacon became defiant, and ended up spending almost every return in therapy. My father thought he was becoming a liability, and then boom—Deacon had a meeting and was out of his contract early, a fact I didn’t learn until after we broke up. My father asked me to stop hanging out with him, but neither Deacon nor I liked that idea.

“Did he come to the door?” I ask, standing and folding the blanket to lay it over the back of the sofa.

“No,” Deacon responds. “But he called my phone a few times and then showed up. He beeped the horn, which I’m sure my neighbors loved.”

“You were always his favorite.”

Deacon snorts a laugh and then leaves to grab my backpack from the bottom of the stairs. I slip on my shoes, readying myself for an explanation. Although I’ve come to Deacon’s upon return before, tonight was later than usual. It’s probably two in the morning. There’s a slight twinge of guilt as I think about my father worrying. I may be angry that he was checking up on me, but I didn’t mean to hurt him. He’s my dad. I love him despite his fatherly instincts.

I walk to the front, my head still foggy from the sleeping pill, and Deacon slides my backpack over my shoulders, hugging me once from behind. “Call me tomorrow,” he says before opening the door. “Tell Dad I said hi.”

“Night,” I say, and thank him before walking out the door.

When I get on the front porch, I hold up my palm to deflect the light from the car. My dad switches to the orange glow of the parking lights and I start toward him. I can just make out his silhouette behind the wheel. I might be imagining it, but his posture looks pissed.

I have to remind myself that I’m the wronged party here—he was spying on me. But by the time I get to the car, my resolve has faded and I apologize the minute I climb into the passenger seat.

“I fell asleep,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean to stay this late.”

“I don’t think I want the details, Quinn,” he says shortly, and flicks on his lights. “Not to mention your partner left a bunch of trail mix in my car.”

I snort a laugh, but quickly cover my mouth when my father glares at me. He puts his arm around my headrest and turns to back us out of the driveway. He cuts the wheel hard before spinning around and jetting forward, squealing the tires of the car. Yeah, I’d say he’s a little pissed. And it has nothing to do with Aaron’s lack of consideration.

He doesn’t speak again right away, but I watch him, waiting for the lecture. His powder-blue sweater is wrinkled like he pulled it on as an afterthought while storming out the door. I wonder if he’s still wearing a pajama top underneath. His thinning hair is just the same, and his wire glasses catch the glow of the streetlights as we pass under them. His tight expression and forced silence give away his mood.

“I apologized,” I say after another agonizing moment of quiet. “Is there something you’d like to say to me, Father?”

He glances over, looking annoyed that I’d even joke around. I lift my eyebrow, letting him know I’m being entirely serious—well, except for the
Father
bit.

“Yes,” he says, turning away. “Stop hanging out with Deacon.”

“No deal,” I say, slapping my palm on the dashboard like I’m a game show contestant. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth does hitch up before he purposefully straightens it. I pause, the betrayal starting to thicken in my veins.

“You do owe me an apology,” I say more quietly, and lean back in the seat, turning to look out the window. “For spying on me.”

He doesn’t deny it immediately, and an ache develops in my chest, spiraling down to open a hole in my gut. I clench my teeth and wait for an explanation.

“I’m protecting you,” he admits. “You’ve stopped talking to me about the assignments; I needed another safeguard.”

“You could ask,” I say. “You could just ask, Dad.”

He exhales, and looks over. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll let Marie know she can stop the questions. I was just . . . worried.”

“Well, I’m home now. So you can put your cape back in the drawer.” He chuckles, and the mood in the car warms. “And you don’t have to be so mean to Deacon,” I tell him. “He’s not a terrible influence. A bad one, sure. But not terrible.”

He glances at the time lit up on the dash. “It’s two forty-seven in the morning, Quinn. Please don’t give me indigestion before bed.”

“Gross.” We both laugh, our fight ended. By the time we get home, after an obligatory ride through the drive-through, we’re joking about Aaron’s facial hair and how my father should send him an official letter to cease and desist its growth before the next assignment.

The front porch light is blazing, the sky above us a midnight blue because of the overcast sky. I have a moment of assimilation as I pause in my foyer—the entire layout perfectly planned for reentry into my life. There are pictures of me growing up, baby blond braids and a gap-toothed smile. My mother, who I can’t remember, blows out birthday candles next to me. There’s a coat hanging on the rack above the shoe bench. It’s dark blue with flannel trim, hung there year-round even though I haven’t worn it in years. It’s always there to ground me. Mirrors on both sides of the room so I can check my reflection. I walk toward the kitchen through a tunnel of Quinlan McKees.

I kick off my shoes and then step over them, hearing my father tsk as he leans down to pick them up behind me. Now that I’m home, I can’t wait to get back to our boring old routines—the kind that remind me that I’m real. Three nights in a row of delivery pizza. Bad made-for-TV movies together on a Saturday night. The discussions of where to go on the family vacation we never have time to take. Those are the things I miss when I’m gone—the mundane. The only time we both forget that I’m a closer. I toss my crumpled white takeout bag on the kitchen table and sit down, ravenously hungry. I’m only one bite into my burrito when I notice the cup of coffee, half drunk, across from me at my father’s seat. The closed file with a pen next to it. My stomach sinks.

I spin around just as my father enters the room. His expression is solemn and he slips his hands into his pockets. I’m completely stunned. This is why he wanted me home so quickly.

“No,” I say, disbelieving. “I can’t go. It’s too soon.”

He nods in agreement, but there’s no change in his resolve. “I’m sorry, but they need you,” he responds. “You leave the day after tomorrow.”

ABOUT FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, RENOWNED
physician Arthur Pritchard built on the idea of role playing in trauma counseling by embedding therapists in people’s lives. He figured out that grief sometimes led to depression and thought that if he could eradicate one, he could lessen the other. Working under Dr. Pritchard, my father used the initial theories and expanded on the research. Closers were established and sold as a remedy for the brokenhearted, the cure for grief. Of course, grief isn’t
curable
, but it can be treated. Controlled. Eventually, my father and Marie, who was his assistant, took over the grief department entirely, selling their services to those who could afford the peace of mind. My dad set up safeguards to protect the closers, to protect me. And one of the strictest rules of all is that closers never have back-to-back assignments.

When the department was first created, closers were paid per assignment rather than on contract. As a result, many took on multiple roles to make extra cash. But then Alexander Kell happened. He leaped off the fifth-floor roof of the hospital where his mother worked. He’d recently finished three long-term jobs back-to-back, and his advisor had stuck him in therapy indefinitely to control his erratic behavior. Just before he jumped, Alexander told his mother he’d rather be dead than start over again.

The next month, Felicia Ross disappeared from her dorm room while on assignment at college. She was playing the part of an incoming freshman—the parents wanting her to attend the first day of school since their real daughter never got the chance. Felicia had only been home from her last assignment for a week when my father offered her this one. She was gone four days later, and no one has heard from her since.

As more and more closers ran off, the effect was devastating to both my father and the others in the grief department. Contracts with strict guidelines were created to keep closers from overworking. Those rules were established for our well-being, and I can’t imagine why my father would want to break them now.

I drop my burrito on its wrapper, my appetite thoroughly stomped out. He wouldn’t ask this of me if it wasn’t important, but I’m still jarred by the request. At the same time, the closer part of me is curious. I’ve been on too many assignments to count, but I’ve rarely been sent out in the same month, let alone the same week. Why now? Why her?

My father sits across from me at the table and slides the file in my direction. He takes a swig of his cold coffee without wincing. I drag the folder in front of me and scan the name on the tab.

CATALINA BARNES

I open the cover and flip the photo right side up to study my new assignment. I’m immediately struck by her eyes—a deep dark brown with false lashes and winged eyeliner. They sparkle, but they’re also thoughtful and interesting. I’ll have to wear colored contacts again to hide my blue eyes.

“She died a little over a week ago,” my father says, reaching to take a page from the file and setting it in front of me. It’s a death certificate. I scan it and find the immediate cause of death listed as “undetermined.” I’ve never seen the death certificate before; they’re not usually in the file. Already I can tell Catalina’s different—there are more therapy notes from doctors who have studied her case. I glance up at my father, but he’s searching through the file for another picture.

“These are Catalina’s parents,” he continues, tapping the photo of a typical suburban couple. “They’re not coping well,” my father says. “I’ve been treating them myself, but this is one of the toughest cases I’ve ever had. They’ve made themselves sick over it, and they need closure.” He takes off his glasses to pinch his fingers across the bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted. I glance down at the picture.

The mom appears to be in her thirties, short hair and soft features. She seems sweet, like the kind of mother who packs lunch bags with notes that say
I LOVE YOU
. The father is big and stocky, a teddy-bear type with a bushy mustache and graying brown hair. They’re both lovely, and I’m immediately sorry that they’ve lost their daughter. I’m sure they loved her a lot.

“How did she die?” I ask quietly, flipping back to the picture of Catalina. My father seems taken aback by the question. Although I usually know how the assignments died (car accident, for instance), it’s morbid and disrespectful to ask for details. And it makes playing them that much more difficult. To be her, I have to imagine her alive. Alive and breathing with thoughts and desires and goals. Otherwise I’m just another counselor.

“We’re still waiting for the autopsy results,” my father says. He pulls out another picture, and I feel the weight of his stare. “This is about more than Catalina’s family, though,” he says, snapping the corner of a photo as he lays it in front of me. I immediately turn to him, confused and alarmed. “This is Catalina’s boyfriend,” he says. “He’s part of the closure.”