The Epidemic (4 page)

“I’ve never actually met one of you before,” she says, and takes a hurried slurp from her drink. “You’re pretty,” she adds, “even though I can tell you’re trying to look plain.” She smiles and takes another sip before setting down her drink. “You didn’t cover your freckles.” Eva runs her finger in a line over her cheeks and nose to mimic where mine are. “But I like them. I wouldn’t cover them up anyway.” She turns her body toward me, and her knees nearly touch the side of my thigh.

“Thank you,” I say. “To be honest, I never really wear makeup outside of my assignments.” I smile. “Too much work.”

“Oh, I love makeup. Beauty makeup is totally my thing. But enough about me.” She bites down on her lip nervously. “I have so many questions. . . . Do you mind?”

“Ask away,” I tell her, truly not minding. She makes me feel interesting, not hated. Not feared. That’s typically the default setting, so this is a nice change.

“I’ve always wondered if closers go to regular school,” she starts. “I mean, I’m sure you’d miss a lot of classes and all that.”

“Some do,” I say. “But I haven’t gone to school in a long while.”

“Cool,” August says from the chair, as if a lack of education is the ultimate goal.

I laugh. “Not really,” I say. “I take online classes, but I kind of hate them. It’s isolating. There’s no life there. It’s all just words on a screen.”

“There’s life at school,” Eva says, “but I’m not sure it counts if all the heartbeats belong to judgmental douche bags.” She grins. “But I get what you’re saying about technology. In fact, our computer systems got shut down last month. Someone hacked into the online journals they make us keep and started leaking pages. Same thing happened in Roseburg. A sophomore girl there got really upset.” Eva takes another sip of her drink. “I think she killed herself.”

“Yep,” August says, leaning forward in the chair. “It was on the news a few weeks ago. There were two of them. Another boy killed himself in between classes.”

I feel the blood drain from my face, the realization settling
in. It’s happening there, too, just like with Catalina and Mitchel, who was Aaron’s assignment. A suicide cluster. My heart starts to beat faster.

“Do you know which school it was in Roseburg?” I ask, betting that it’s the same school Virginia Pritchard attends.

“Marshall, I think,” Eva says. “Why?”

“Just curious,” I tell her. “I hadn’t heard about it.”

“Really?” August says, sounding surprised. “It’s been all over the news here. Even on CNN. Pretty sure that’s all anyone talks about anymore.” He stands up, rolling out his shoulders as he stretches. “It’s depressing,” he adds, and then looks over at Eva. “Hey, is there any pizza left?”

“Yeah,” she tells him, waving him toward the kitchen. When she turns back to me, she smiles. Unaffected by the thought of suicides. Untouched by it. I’m envious of how clear her emotional palate is—how free of loss it seems.

August escapes into the kitchen, and Eva studies me admiringly. She leans in, her elbows on her thighs. “Have you ever wanted to stay in a role?” she asks. “Like, stay as one of the dead people?” The question catches me off guard, opening a wound in my heart.

“Once,” I tell her, surprisingly honest. “The family was very sweet to me. Accepting. I cared about them, and they wanted me to stay—even after we’d completed the closure. But I realized eventually that I didn’t want to live a life that wasn’t mine. It wouldn’t be fair to any of us.”

“I don’t think I would mind it,” she says wistfully. “Taking
someone else’s place would be nice. My life is shit. My family sucks—I left the moment I turned eighteen. Maybe a different life would be a good thing.”

There’s the loud clap of a cupboard door as August gets out a plate for his pizza. I take another look around the room. It’s painfully average in the most perfect way—an ease that can’t be replicated by any closer.

“You’re lucky,” I tell her. “This is yours. Your life is yours.”

“At least you’re not replaceable,” she tells me. “Not many people can do what you do.”

I lower my eyes. “Yeah, well. I gave up a lot to be a closer.”

This seems to pique her interest. “I bet it was hard. I can tell you’re different, though—different from us.”

My stomach twists, and I look up to meet her gaze.
Us
—she means regular people.

“Not in a bad way,” she clarifies. “I can see that you’re kind. And I think you take death more seriously than most people—death of complete strangers. But there’s also . . .” She pauses, narrowing her eyes as if trying to figure something out. “I’m not sure what it is,” she says, “but you seem . . . fluid. Like, you’re here . . . but not really.”

I understand what she means. I’m unfinished. Closers are always acting as someone else. It changes who we are and who we can be—even if I did know my real self. It’s amazing that Eva can see that.

“You probably would have been a great closer,” I say, making her smile.

“Now that I think about it,” Eva says, “maybe I just wanted to play with makeup.”

I laugh. “Well, it just so happens I’m fantastic with makeup. At least, I’m fantastic with the kind that can turn you into someone else.”

Her eyes light up. “Can you turn me into someone else?”

I shift in my seat.

“Just for fun,” she says. “No one dead or anything. I want to look completely different. Come on,” she adds. “It’ll be awesome.”

I hesitate. Although Myra and I have done this same thing a million times—she loved how different I could make her look—I’ve never done a makeover on a stranger.

The memory makes me suddenly miss my friends with a deep ache, and the only way I know how to deal with loss is to replace it. So I smile and nod my head.

“Do you have makeup?” I ask. “I don’t have any with me.”

“Girl,” Eva says, jumping up, “I work part-time at Sephora. Come on.” She reaches out her hand to me, a movement that probably means nothing to her, but to me, a person who is rarely touched by a noncloser, it shocks me. I slip my hand into hers and follow her toward the bathroom, pretending that she and I have been best friends for years.

*  *  *

Eva sits on the edge of the tub, her eyes turned up to the ceiling as I paint another layer of mascara on her lower lashes. I’ve contoured her cheeks to thin them out, overlined her lips to plump them up. I’ve made her large eyes smaller and her nose more defined.

“I hope this isn’t too personal,” she says, staring up as I finish her lashes, “but what’s your family like?”

“I don’t have one,” I say quietly, and push the mascara brush back into its tube and seal it shut. “I’m a ward of the state. Most underage closers are.”

“Oh.” Eva lowers her eyes to look at me. “Sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I lie. “The grief department takes good care of us.”

“That’s nice, I guess. I always wondered what kind of parent would let their kid be a closer. You must see some messed-up shit.”

I grab a blush brush and run it over her cheek, sharpening the contour. “I have,” I tell her. “But the clients were always good people. And we were monitored, so we were never in any danger.” What I don’t say is that the truly ‘messed-up shit’ came from my own life, not my assignments.

I straighten and look over her face, proud of my work. “All done,” I say, and step aside.

Eva flashes me a smile and then goes to the mirror, her hands on either side of the porcelain sink. Her mouth hangs open as she examines her reflection. She falls silent, and I worry that she hates the change, or worse, that she realizes what I can do. Realizes that if I really wanted to, I could buzz my hair and become her in the matter of an afternoon.

I start to put away the makeup, and when I turn around, Eva smiles at me. “You’re crazy talented,” she says. Her expression grows more thoughtful. “And I appreciate what you do,” she adds.

“You look great,” I say.

“No. Not this.” She motions to her face. “I appreciate what you do for families. I don’t have any brothers and sisters, but if I did, and if one of them . . . died, I would want your help. I would want you to save my parents from that.”

“I used to think the same way,” I tell her. “But now I wonder if we shouldn’t just feel the hurt. Maybe not hurting is hurting us.”

She nods like she’s considering my words. “I like being pain-free,” she says after a moment. “I suspect a lot of people do. Now . . .” She motions for me to follow her out of the bathroom. In the hall she glances over her shoulder at me.

“August said you needed a place to stay,” she says. “Want a beer?”

I feel embarrassed that I’ve already imposed so much. I’m a random stranger August found and brought home. I don’t belong here. I’m about to say so when Eva holds up her hand as if anticipating my excuse.

“You don’t have to be so polite, Brooke. We have an extra room. Our roommate just graduated from U of O, and it probably still smells like his feet there. But there are clean sheets in the closet, and it’s better than a park bench. We
want
you to stay.”

I thank her, overwhelmed with gratitude. But I’m afraid I’m letting my guard down just because she’s being nice to me.

Don’t I deserve this bit of kindness, though? I can go back to being a heartless closer tomorrow. “Thanks,” I tell Eva again, smiling brightly. “Now about that beer . . .”

EVA AND I ARE ON
the couch while August, complaining that he’s still hungry, grabs me a beer from the kitchen before going back in to make mac ’n’ cheese. For a while Eva and I don’t talk about anything too serious—mostly about TV shows and music. But halfway through my drink, my inhibitions are lowered, and my mind keeps turning back to the things I miss, to the life I miss—the one that wasn’t even my own.

“Is it hard to make friends?” Eva asks. “I mean, I think you’re lovely”—she grins—“but I’m guessing other girls might be threatened by you. You know, because you can
be
them.”

“I have a few friends,” I say, although I make “few” sound like it means more than literally three people. I didn’t have any friends growing up. Not a damn one. I had my father, and then
I had Deacon, and then Aaron and Myra. Now that I think about it, it’s a wonder I’m not more screwed up.

Eva closes her eyes, exhaling heavily. I turn back to the television, which is playing an hour-long commercial for moisturizer. There’s a buzz under my skin, and I find myself smiling when August comes back into the room, holding a blue bowl. He sits in the chair across from me and uses an oversize spoon to scoop a heap of macaroni into his mouth. When he finishes, he tilts his head inquisitively.

“Are you dating anyone?” he asks. The minute the words are out of his mouth, his cheeks start to redden. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean it to sound . . .” He laughs. “Honestly just curious. I mean, would you have to date another closer? Do other people understand what you do?”

My insides scream as he opens a wound that I’ve tried to close, and the pleasant tingle on my skin turns to needle pricks. I don’t want to think about Deacon. I can’t let myself feel this.

“Being a closer definitely doesn’t go over well at parties,” I tell August, trying to keep my tone upbeat, but ultimately I fail. Sadness creeps in along with thoughts of Deacon. “I’ve only had one relationship,” I add. “And he did happen to be a closer. It’s not easy, you know.” I lean back on the couch cushion, the weight of my head suddenly heavy after I take the final sip of my drink. “Even though another closer understands the difficulties of what we do, the fact is, he’s a liar,” I say. “We’re all liars. Our entire life is a system of pretending. And when you’re trained to be a skilled liar, it starts to come naturally.”

August furrows his brow, and I realize I’ve said too much. Given away too much of my truth. I lift my head. “Sorry,” I say, flashing a smile. “I think I’ve had too much.” I wiggle the empty bottle and then lean forward to set it on the trunk with a clink. When I look to the side, I see that Eva has fallen asleep on the couch. August watches me, his uncertainty easy to read.

“Do you want another?” he asks, motioning toward the beer. “It’s still early.”

“No, I’m going to go to bed,” I say. August sits up straighter, like he doesn’t want me to go. “I’ve had a long day,” I add politely. “Thanks again for bringing me back here. Hope I worked out better than the dog.”

“We rehomed him,” August says, his tone flat. “I really hope you find your forever home soon, Brooke.”

“I hope so too,” I tell him.

He smiles then, friendly, like he’s known me for years. “You could always leave the country, you know,” he says. “Go to Europe and start over. Fake mustache and all that.”

My heart skips a beat. Deacon and I used to talk about going to Europe to escape my father—that
exact
joke, in fact. But coming from August, the idea is absurd. I stand quickly, uncomfortable with the mood in the room. I grab my jacket and bag and murmur my good night. I start down the hall to where Eva showed me the extra room. The minute I close the door, I lock it—just in case. After all, they are strangers.

I grab the clean sheets out of the closet and smooth them onto the bare mattress. When I lie down, a coil pokes my back,
but if I shift to the side, I don’t even notice. I lie there, light filtering in the window from the streetlamps, and stare at the closet door. I only had one drink, but I feel fuzzy. And it could be from the alcohol or just the general fucked-up-ness of my life, but my emotions have come to the surface, like I can’t hold them back. I’m submerged in a loneliness that is deep and dark and absolutely crushing.

“My name is Quinlan McKee,” I whisper, trying to pull myself out of it. But I can’t even finish my mantra, the one that used to keep me grounded after an assignment. I’m not Quinlan McKee. I’m no one.

I turn to the side and see a phone on the side table, a landline, and my fingers itch to pick it up. Tears gather in my eyes: Who can I call? Deacon is working against me, because no matter who sent that text, it was outside us. We should have been everything to each other—it was the only way to ensure our safety. He betrayed that. I would hate him for it if I could. I want to.