The Remedy (31 page)

“About three months ago,” she says quietly, “Catalina and Isaac had an argument. Nothing earth-shattering, but when she came home she sat at the kitchen table and just . . . cried. It was totally unlike her. My Catalina was always joking, happy. This was right around the time she met that Virginia girl, and I guess Isaac didn’t really like her. He told me later that he’d only seen her once, but that he thought Virginia was a bad influence on Catalina. Said she was morbid.”

“Have you ever met Virginia?” I ask.

“No,” Mrs. Barnes says, shaking her head. “And Catalina only mentioned her twice, three times, maybe. Why?”

“Just curious,” I say. “I never did find her name in any of Catalina’s things.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Barnes says. “Catalina had stopped hanging out with her usual friends. And from what the doctors told me, her journal and pictures had been
tampered
with.” She laughs sadly. “Catalina did that herself, but they called it tampering, like it was evidence. Tell me, how can you tamper with your own life? Isn’t it up to us what we show others?” She purses her lips. “That statement has always bothered me.”

I knew that the images on Catalina’s profile seemed too perfect. Maybe she knew this would happen somehow. Maybe she was preparing for it.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Barnes continues, “I think Virginia was just someone to talk to. Isaac said he never brought her up again after the day they fought. Catalina’s reaction scared him. But no matter what we did, Catalina continued to spiral.” She stops her story. “You know,” she says. “I asked the therapists about Virginia, and Dr. Pritchard contacted me personally to say he’d already spoken to her and that she had lost contact with Catalina weeks before she died. Truth is”—she sighs out a shaky breath—“we don’t know what happened to Catalina.”

Arthur Pritchard didn’t tell them Virginia is his daughter. What did he find out? What else is he withholding?

“I’m sorry to ask this,” I say carefully. “But . . . how did Catalina die?”

Mr. Barnes gets up from the chair, and I nervously glance over to him. He doesn’t say anything, just walks out of the room and into the kitchen. I look back at his wife. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling horrible for upsetting him.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t want to hear the details.”

I’m about to tell her to forget it, hating that I’m making them dredge up painful memories, but she looks over at me, her face so terribly sad it breaks my heart.

“They were my pills,” she says. “I’d been taking them for anxiety. She . . .” Mrs. Barnes wipes away the tears that fall onto her cheeks. “She swallowed a ninety-day supply. Her dad and I were out to dinner. We got a call from Angie about eight, just before dessert. She said Catalina was locked in the bathroom and wasn’t answering. We told her to call 911. Angela . . . Angela used a baseball bat to break off the door handle and get inside. And, um . . .” She sniffles hard. “She found Catalina on the floor, covered in vomit. Uh . . . there was some blood. Angie tried to resuscitate her, but she said her sister wouldn’t wake up. The paramedics got there before we did, and they had to sedate Angie because she was hysterical.”

The air in the room is so heavy I can barely breathe. The story is awful, so much worse than I imagined. I wish she didn’t have to relive it just now. Or ever. Mrs. Barnes looks down at her pants, wiping at the tearstains. I watch her, and go numb from her grief.

*  *  *

I get Mrs. Barnes a glass of water from the kitchen, my hand shaking as I fill the glass. Catalina Barnes killed herself and no one told me. The grief department must have known, and that terrifies me. Because if that’s true, that meant my father let me take on this girl’s life, subjecting myself—in an already precarious emotional state—to whatever it was that triggered Catalina’s behavior. He could have killed me. He must have known he could have killed me.

I bring the glass back to Mrs. Barnes, and she takes it and thanks me. I can see she wants to be alone, and I decide I won’t press her any more about Catalina’s life. I’m not supposed to focus the therapy around these memories, around death. They won’t help her heal. I give her a minute to mourn now that her denial has been swept away.

Wandering back into the kitchen, I notice the light is on in the backyard. Mr. Barnes is probably out there, hitting baseballs into the woods. I think back to that first day he let me into his life, how nice that moment was. How much I wished it could have been real.

I open the patio doors and walk outside, finding him sitting at the table. He glances up when he sees me, and I stop as if asking him if it’s all right if I join him. He waves me forward, watching me approach with a thoughtful expression. The wind blows through my hair, and I tuck the strands behind my ears.

“I apologize for leaving so abruptly,” he says when I sit across from him. “I’d rather not think of her like that.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell him. “It’s completely understandable. I just wanted to say . . .” I trail off, not sure if it’s selfish for me to continue. But ultimately, I hope my words can set at least one part of him at ease. “You were a great father,” I blurt out quickly. “The best I’ve ever had.” I look at him, smiling sadly. “Catalina was lucky to have you. I just . . . I wanted you to know that.”

His expression weakens for a moment, and he stretches his neck from side to side as if his grief is a pulled muscle. He looks at me again, his face cleared. “I know this situation is unorthodox,” he starts. “But I’m glad you came to us.
You.
I’m not sure how you separate yourself from what you do, but I wanted you to know that you matter. Even if you’re not my real daughter, you matter to us because we care for you. We want good things for you.”

My breath catches, and I have to put my hand on my chest to subdue the ache that’s started there. I’m speechless.

“Maybe you thought you were playing my daughter flawlessly,” he says, smiling softly. “But the real you was always there. I could always see the difference.”

I have a quick flash of embarrassment because I
did
think I was portraying her perfectly. But I guess it really doesn’t matter anymore.

“When you came out that one night,” he says, glancing toward the trees, “I was still angry. But when I saw you, really looked at you, I realized you were just a kid. And I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why your parents would let you do this job. If you were mine, I never would have. After that, I wanted to protect you. I wanted to be your father.”

“I liked being your daughter,” I say, tears flooding my eyes. “I really did.”

Mr. Barnes sniffles, and lowers his head. He brings his fist to his lips, holding back his cry. “Yeah,” he says in a choked voice. “I really liked it too.”

We both sit and cry for a bit, a sad little moment that is just as much a good-bye for me as it is for him. I don’t want to leave, I realize. I wanted this so much. I think it might be all I’ve ever wanted. Someone to love me. Someone to look out for me. And this time, I found it. And it was almost real.

THE PATIO DOORS OPEN, AND
I quickly wipe my face and turn, finding Mrs. Barnes looking out at us. She walks over, her face tearstained. She sits on the arm of her husband’s chair, putting her hand supportively on his shoulder.

They’re a picture, sitting like that—holding each other up. I realize then that they’ll be okay. Neither one will let the other fall. “You have a wonderful family,” I tell them sincerely. “I wish I could change things for you, take away what happened. I really do.”

“I know you do, honey,” Mrs. Barnes says. “And maybe you needed someone too. I hope . . . we hope”—she smiles at her husband—“when this is all over, you’ll still come see us once in a while. Would you consider that?”

I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I’d really like that.”

“Good,” she says, clearing the emotion from her voice as if it’s settled. “Now, I was thinking you should go see Isaac today. His mother called me last night, very worried. His friends contacted her, expressing worry about your . . . relationship. I was hoping you could . . .” She shrugs slowly, waiting for me to supply the answer.

“I planned to talk to him,” I assure her. “Things got out of hand, but I’m going to set things right.”

“I’m glad,” she says. “He’s a good boy, but he has a lot of guilt. What happened to Catalina, it wasn’t his fault. He needs to know that.”

“It wasn’t your fault either,” I say quickly. Catalina’s decision to end her life had nothing to do with them. They’re not to blame. Mrs. Barnes nods silently, and I see a small bit of acceptance, just enough to break the spell of complicated grief. That guilt of not having stopped Catalina’s death will never go away, but we all have guilt. It just can’t be all that we have.

I stand up, glancing around the yard once more, knowing that my time in this house is almost over. In fact, I could probably leave now if they wanted me to. I turn to Mrs. Barnes. “About the party . . . ,” I start, but she holds up her hand.

“It’s a celebration,” she interrupts. “A celebration of Catalina’s life. We’ve invited her friends and extended family. It was time.”

There’s a moment of sadness when I realize I won’t be part of the celebration, but ultimately I know that my attendance would make people uncomfortable. I’m a closer, after all. I nod, and start toward the house, unsure of what that means for this assignment. Is it officially over?

“Hey,” Mr. Barnes calls. I turn to look back at him. “You really can stay as long as you want,” he says. I thank him, considering at least spending one more night here.

“Oh,” his wife adds, holding up her finger. “Can we . . . Can you not mention this to your supervisors?” she asks, looking slightly worried. “We signed that agreement, and—”

“My lips are sealed.” I pretend to lock my lips, and she laughs. My gaze flows over to Mr. Barnes. He stands, and I wait as he makes his way toward me. I’m already crying when he gathers me into a big bear hug.

“Just in case we don’t see you again,” he murmurs, “you take care of yourself. We’ll be here if you need anything. Understand?” I nod against his big shoulder, clutching on to his shirt. “You’re not alone.”

I pull back with an embarrassed laugh, sort of humiliated that these people seem to be more helpful than me. His eyes are sympathetic as he looks down at me.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as if he’s been wondering for a while.

For a moment, I’m speechless. I’ve never been asked by an assignment before. They never wanted to know who I really was. “Quinlan,” I say, breaking another of Marie’s rules. It feels good being able to speak it out loud to him. He smiles.

“That’s a pretty name,” he says.

I can tell by the fading sun that it’s starting to get late in the afternoon, and I need to find Isaac and talk to him. I tell the Barnes family good-bye again, tell them I might see them later tonight. They say they hope so.

I grab my backpack on the way out and borrow the Jetta for another trip. I have to talk to Isaac.

*  *  *

When I get outside, I pull a hoodie from my backpack and slip my arms in, knowing the day will only get colder as the sun goes down. I’m in the middle of zipping it up as I round my car near a large set of overgrown bushes.

There’s a flurry of movement and someone grabs me from behind, one hand over my mouth, the other around my waist. I’m struck down with fear, and I try to shout for help. I kick back my foot as hard as I can, connecting with a leg and sending my attacker to the ground. I spin, chest heaving, stomach churning.

“Aaron?” I say, incredulous. I shoot a look at the Barneses’ house before kneeling down next to him to check his ankle. My sneaker scuffed off a good chunk of skin, and a thick line of red blood runs down his leg. His eyes are pained, but before he can lecture me, I stand, putting my hand on my hip. “Are you nuts?” I whisper forcefully. “Didn’t you think I’d fight back?”

“I was trying to keep you quiet so we could talk in private.”

“Uh, how about you call my name?”

“I was afraid you would run.”

“What?” I ask confused. “Aaron—I wasn’t thinking straight the other day, but I’m better now. I should have called you. I’m sorry.”

He nods as if he understands, rubbing at the skin just above the cut on his leg. “I was looking out for you,” he says, but not bitterly. “You should have known better.”

I smile, lowering myself to the ground next to him. “So you’re here to say I told you so?”

“Not hardly. I had to talk to you,” he says. “The guy—my assignment, Mitchel? He knew Catalina. They were friends.”

I furrow my brow. “Are you sure? I haven’t seen anything about him.” Although now it’s obvious that there was a lot about Catalina I didn’t know.

“Yeah,” Aaron says. “After Catalina died, Mitchel, he . . . he killed himself. Took something he called QuikDeath—a poison cocktail, I guess.”

I fold my legs underneath me, this revelation a punch in the gut. Two suicides so close together—this town must be reeling. And yet no one has mentioned it. The fact that Mitchel and Catalina were friends is especially troubling.

“Catalina committed suicide too,” I tell Aaron quietly, feeling like I’m betraying her by revealing this secret. “Coincidence?”

“Well, if it is,” Aaron says, “it doesn’t end there. Guess who Mitchel’s girlfriend was.”

I’m stumped at first, but then my breath catches. “Virginia Pritchard?” I ask in disbelief. Aaron nods, and I turn back to the house, wondering if I should go inside, ask for their help. But I can’t tell them about Arthur Pritchard’s connection to their daughter’s death. They’re just getting well, and this could compromise their entire recovery.

“We have to call Marie,” I say. She’s the only person I can think of who might know how to help.

“And what would we tell her?” Aaron asks. “Marie
knows
everything. Do you really think she didn’t know about this before sending us in? She practically runs the department.”

There’s a pit in my stomach, a hint of betrayal at the thought of Marie purposely putting us in harm’s way. I’m not sure I’m ready to believe that yet.