The Remedy (7 page)

A heavy silence fills the room, no one sure what to say next, especially when Deacon is clearly pissed off. But I haven’t told them everything yet.

“I’ll have a boyfriend,” I say quietly, and take a sip from my Sprite. They all turn to me.

“What?” Aaron asks, exchanging a look with Deacon.

“Catalina has a boyfriend named Isaac,” I say. “My dad wants him to be part of the closure.”

“Tell him to fuck off,” Deacon responds. “That’s not allowed.”

I shoot him a pointed look to remind him that he’s talking about my dad. Deacon closes his eyes and I can actually see him try to gather his thoughts before speaking again.

“Sorry,” he says in a controlled voice. “Politely tell your father no, Quinn. You’re not a relationship counselor. If this dude needs closure, it’s because he’s still in love with his dead girlfriend. What if he transfers that to you? What if he falls in love with you instead? That’s why this shit isn’t allowed. And you’re not going to be yourself—you’ll be her.” He says
her
like it annoys him, like she’s already betrayed him. “What if you . . .” He stops and shakes his head out of aggravation.

“She’s not going to hook up with him, Deacon,” Myra says. “She knows the rules.” I thank her for her vote of confidence and she nods to me. See—she’s not always horrible. “Now,” Myra continues, “it’s been a long night already. Are we going to keep obsessing about Quinn’s imaginary love life, or are we going to have fun? I spent ten dollars at the damn Redbox renting crappy movies with explosions. Yeah?” She looks around at us, and Aaron laughs—the sound deep and hearty in the sad little room.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning over to kiss her. Deacon doesn’t agree, but his hand brushes my hair as he wraps his arm around the back of the sofa and settles in. We don’t mention Isaac again. We don’t mention Shelly or assignments. We spend the next few hours watching mindless entertainment and pretending our lives are normal. We’re always pretending.

*  *  *

Deacon yawns loudly from behind me while the credits roll across the screen. Aaron is braiding Myra’s hair again, but they both look like they’re about to fall asleep. I guess it’s time to call it a night. Reluctantly (because I don’t want to rush tomorrow), I climb up and stretch. When I turn, Deacon is smiling at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Can I have a lift home?” he asks sweetly. “My ride ran out of here in a blind rage, wishing me dead.” Myra glances over curiously for my response.

“Yeah, fine. Grab your stuff,” I tell him, waving my hand. He jumps up, grinning madly, and goes over to bump fists with Aaron and pick up his backpack in the corner. Myra lifts her eyebrows and I shake my head. “What?” I ask her. “He doesn’t have a ride.”

“Please, girl,” she says with a laugh. “He was planning on leaving with you all along.”

I look behind me and watch as Deacon slips on his sneakers, standing on one foot with surprising dexterity. “Either way,” I tell Myra, “I still would have given him a ride home.”

“I know.” She comes over and pulls me into a lilac-scented hug. We stay like that a long second, both knowing this a real good-bye, at least for now. That’s the thing about Myra—she may not be a closer, but she understands what the job takes and how it affects us. “We’ll see you in a few weeks, okay?” she says quietly. She pulls back and I have to press my lips together to keep from blubbering like an idiot. I nod, and then hold up my hand in a wave to Aaron. He can barely even look at me but tries to smile anyway. I say good night, and then Deacon and I leave.

*  *  *

I pull into Deacon’s driveway and he sets down the empty to-go cup we got from the drive-through. He caps the pen he grabbed from my console and then turns the cup in the holder so I can see his drawing. He draws on everything. “Look,” he says. “It’s us.” I glance at the new school–style figures and respective . . . positions before lifting my gaze to Deacon’s.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “And what exactly are we doing?”

Deacon chuckles and tosses the pen into the console before unclicking his seat belt. “Don’t be gross—we’re playing cricket, obviously.” I tilt my head and realize that with a lot of creative license, that could be true. “So . . . ,” he says with a devilish little smile. “Want to come in for a while?” Pinpricks race up my arms; there’s a flutter in my stomach under his attention. This would be so much easier if I didn’t find him completely adorable.

“Uh, no. I don’t think so,” I respond with a laugh, and look away.

“Come on,” he says playfully. “Before you have a boyfriend.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I am,” he says immediately. “I most definitely am.”

“Oh, stop,” I tell him. “He won’t really be my boyfriend, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, and looks out the windshield toward his house. When he turns back to me, his smile softens. “We’ll stay downstairs,” he offers quietly. “Clothes on.”

There’s a pang in my chest, an impending loneliness. “And then what?” I ask. I’m making a point, but part of me wants an answer I know he can’t give.

“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.

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, adjusting 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?”