The Remedy (13 page)

Ty abandons the other station and walks over, stopping in front of me and pulling scissors from the front pocket of his apron. He reaches over to pluck the wig out of my hands, staring at it before tossing it in the trash. “Thank God,” he says, and turns me in the chair, swishing my hair back and forth to examine the color and texture. When his eyes meet mine in the mirror, he lifts his eyebrow again, questioning me.

My heartbeat is so loud in my ears, I barely hear myself when I respond: “Make me real.”

SOMEWHERE AROUND MY THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY,
my real thirteenth birthday, I was on an assignment where a girl had been run over in her driveway by her own mother. The girl had been fixing the chain on her bike when the mom backed up, killing her instantly. In hindsight, I think the client needed more than a thirteen-year-old girl to bring her closure. The guilt and self-loathing went far beyond grief.

The first day I showed up there, my mother lay on the floor at my feet, sobbing. Marie had to pull her away, calm her down with the help of a strong sedative. The father had left years earlier for a new marriage, and Donna Royale had made me her entire life. My death was a careless mistake. It was an accident.

Marie stayed with me the entire two days, worried the mother would dissolve again. She kept her medicated, dreamy. In the end, what my mother needed to hear was that I forgave her for killing me. That I would see her again someday. She let us leave after that, seeming more at peace. I’d never thought to look her up, find out if the remedy took. Basically Donna Royale disappeared from my life, and I never thought of her again. I’m not sure why she’s in my head now, why I’m worrying about her all these years later. Maybe it’s because my new mother reminds me of her in a way. This burden of guilt hanging around her that I can’t quite place.

“I love your hair so much,” my mother says for the third time, startling me from my thoughts. She gazes over from the driver’s seat as we take the turn into the circular driveway. Her brown eyes are kind, but lost. Loving, longing, desperate. I smile at her, close-mouthed, and then turn to face the house as we park next to my father’s car.

“Don’t you love it?” my mother asks, turning off the ignition. I nod, and flip down the mirror again to check it before we go inside. I’m shocked by my appearance, but in a good way. I brush my fingers through the blond hair, the shade tinted lighter to make it an exact match. I push the strands this way and that, enjoying it from every angle.
I’ll keep this,
I think.
It really does suit me.

“I do,” I tell my mother, and she bites her lip, beaming with adoration. I’ve made her happy, and in turn my heart hurts with the idea that this will all crash back on her later today. One step forward, two steps back. That’s usually how the first full day goes. Her guilt will deepen because she’ll feel a connection with me, and she’ll wonder if she’s betraying her daughter’s memory. It will eat away at her, keep her from sleeping, but in the morning she’ll see me, and her anxiety will fade.

That’s one of the toughest things about this job: Seeing the heartbreak is never easy, but watching them accept me is almost worse. Seeing how they miss their child so much that they’ll love a stranger in her place just to feel close to her a minute longer. They don’t care if it’s real. They’re too broken to care.

“Where’d you go?” my mother asks softly, reaching out to touch my arm. I blink rapidly and focus on her, seeing that she’s concerned.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was just . . . thinking about Isaac,” I lie. My mother nods knowingly.

“I’m guessing he wasn’t happy to see you today?” she asks.

Would she understand how Isaac’s rejection made me feel? Is it improper to ask her advice?

“It’s okay,” my mother says, reading my hesitance. “You can tell me.” Around us the temperature in the car has risen now that the engine is off. Beads of sweat form in my hairline, under my bra strap. At the same time, the warmth is comforting. Suffocating my doubts. “We used to talk about him a lot,” my mother adds. “Especially in the beginning.”

“He’s suffering,” I say, letting down my guard. “I see it and I’m frustrated because he won’t let me help him. How can I get through to him?”

My mother tilts her head from side to side as if saying there isn’t an easy answer. “Isaac doesn’t put himself out there. He never has. He’s a reserved boy, kind of like your father. That’s why it feels so special when people like them give you their love. Like you’re the only person in the world who matters.”

I think again about the picture of me and Isaac, wondering if that’s how it felt for him to love me. Like I was the only thing that mattered, inhabiting a place that was just ours. I know Deacon cares about me, but our relationship is too hard. Too painful. With Isaac it’d be different.

I reach to run my hand across my forehead, wiping away a bead of sweat. My mind has spun out, and I quickly try to reel it back in. “I’m just so confused,” I admit. My mother laughs softly.

“It was like that in the beginning, too. You weren’t sure how you felt about Isaac. Then suddenly you loved him like crazy. Couldn’t be without him. But then . . .” Her expression falters slightly.

“Then what?” I ask, my heart rate picking up. “Did things change?”

My mother’s face settles into a calm, resigned expression. All at once, I don’t feel like her daughter anymore. I feel like a stranger.

“Yes,” she says sadly. “Yes, everything changed.” She turns to look at the house. “Everything good, at least.” Without a backward glance at me, she grabs her purse and climbs out of the car. I’m stunned, rooted in place until I see her nearly at the front door. I quickly get out and grab the bags from the backseat. My mother doesn’t wait for me before she goes inside.

I scold myself for pushing too hard, pushing for selfish reasons. I’d promised to be better—this was not the way. I think I need to talk to Marie, find out what exactly was going on in Catalina’s life. These pieces are not adding up to what I’ve seen online and in her journal. They’re not matching the information provided—but do I have all the information? Or is someone purposely hiding facts? If so, why would they hide them from me? I’m here to help, not judge.

I stop on the front porch, the shopping bags hanging on either side of me, heavy in my hands. I stare into the house at my mother, watching as she drops her keys into the bowl on the entry table. The false world fades around me. This assignment required more research; I have no idea who I was before I died. My job may not include solving mysteries the deceased left behind, but if my parents and the grief department want me to fix this, to cure this, I need the information.

I walk inside the house and shut the door behind me.

*  *  *

My mother decides to lie down for a while before starting dinner. I offer to help with the meal, and she agrees, although I can see her mind is elsewhere. As she disappears down the hall, I go to the kitchen to grab a drink. I fish out my phone and check for any messages from Aaron about Virginia. I meant to casually ask my mother about her, but there never seemed to be the right moment. Prying into my past would only pull my mother out of the role play. I’ll have to try old-fashioned research first. Besides, parent information is sometimes unreliable.

I hear a hollow crack from outside, and I spin quickly to the sliding glass doors. I’m surprised when I find my father in the yard, a metal bat in his hand. He tosses up another baseball and swings, smacking it through the air and beyond our back fence into the woods. At his feet there are at least a dozen more balls, and I wonder how long he’s been at this. I watch for a moment, taking a sip from my soda as I debate what to do. I slide my phone into my pocket.

My father doesn’t want to talk; he’s been avoiding me. From my journal, I know we were close. I was Daddy’s little girl while my sister was my mother’s protégé, at least until recently. My sympathy peaks as I watch this huge man roll his shoulders, obviously tired. Overwhelmed with pain he has nowhere to place. No way to work out the kinks in his heart. I have a muddy sense of homesickness, reminded of a time with my own father. We had been mini-golfing when he got the call that one of his patients had died. He didn’t react at first; we finished the game and he let me win. But at home that night, after I’d gone to bed, I heard him crying in the living room. I snuck downstairs and found him with files spread all over the coffee table, a bottle of rum on the carpet near to where he sat. I didn’t interrupt him. It was his grief to process.

But after he fell asleep, I cleaned up the papers and covered him with a blanket from the couch. We didn’t talk about it the next day, but I could tell he was glad I was there. Some people don’t want to be confronted with their grief. They just want to know they’re not alone.

I take one last swig from my soda and set it down, watching my father through the glass. I brush my hair to the side, self-conscious of how he might react to my change. I build myself up to approach him, running through several possible starting points in the conversation.

Can I play?

Do you want some company?

I saw Isaac today. Oh, and by the way, my sister hates me. She’s pretty pissed at you, too.

Before I’ve committed to a course of action, I’m sliding open the heavy glass door and stepping out into the sunshine. My father glances back, at first disinterested, but then he bristles as he takes in my appearance. Running his gaze slowly over my hair. My clothes. He sways, but then sniffles hard and grabs a ball from the ground and hits it so hard, the crack of the bat against it makes me jump. Nothing I can say would reach him, I decide. I walk past the house to where a few bats lie in a pile on the ground next to the shed. I pick one up and test its weight, and then decide on the biggest one. Without a word, I walk over to where my father’s standing, looking into the trees beyond our yard like I’m measuring the distance. I feel him turn to me, watch as I lean down to pick up a ball.

I blow out a breath and then toss the ball in the air, swinging with all my might. I miss. My arms continue through the swing, spinning me in my shoes.
Ouch.
That can’t be good for my shoulder. There’s a snort, and I look over to see my father covering his mouth with his hand. I fight back my own embarrassed smile.

“That looked really stupid, huh?” I ask.

“It was quite possibly the worst swing I’ve ever seen,” he says, trying to stay straight-faced. “You nearly screwed yourself into the dirt.”

I laugh and bend to pick up the ball. I narrow my eyes, looking at the trees, my lips pressed tight together while I concentrate. And then I try it again and barely get a piece of the ball, making it land
behind
me.

“That was actually negative progress,” I say, glancing sideways at my dad. “Good thing we’re not keeping score.”

“Good thing for you,” he says. He picks up a ball and smacks it beyond the fence with what looks like little effort.

“Show-off,” I mumble, and then try again. He doesn’t offer advice or show me how to choke up on the bat. He’s clear on the difference between me and his daughter, still keeping his distance. But the fact that he’s letting me be here at all is a step forward.

It takes me five tries before I hit the ball in any measurable way.

“There you go,” my father says, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief from his back pocket. Sweat rings his underarms and patterns a V across his chest. We take a few more swings, my arms and back already aching, and I look longingly at the patio set.

“Let’s take a break,” my father says, reaching for my bat. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but I appreciate the gesture and give him the metal bat before following behind him to the table. I sit down first, and he takes a spot across from me, looking over my head at the woods. I’m thirsty, but I don’t want to interrupt our moment by going inside.

Birds are chirping and a slight wind picks up. The sun fades behind a few scattered clouds. My father exhales heavily and meets my eyes from across the table.

“How long have you been doing this for?” he asks. His question startles me, breaks me from my role play.

“Since I was six,” I tell him, still using his daughter’s voice. His eyebrows pull together, whether in sympathy or disbelief, I’m not sure. “I’ve been well trained,” I assure him. “I’m the best.” He smiles softly at this, but sadness overwhelms his expression.

“Have you ever lost anyone?” he asks.

“I lose someone every time I have an assignment,” I say. He shakes his head.

“I mean in the real world. Have you ever lost anyone close to you?”

Tiny pricks of grief that I can’t quite place break over my skin. “Yeah,” I tell him, my face growing hot. “My mother.”

He swallows hard, looking apologetic for bringing it up. He leans forward, his elbows on the table.

“How did you get over it?” he asks. “How did you learn to do that?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my shoulders hunching. “I don’t remember anything about her.” I look up and meet his eyes. “I’ve forgotten her completely.”

My father’s lips part in surprise, and he watches me for a long moment. “Well, that’s almost worse, isn’t it?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

He looks back at the trees, but his eyes have glassed over. He feels sorry for me, and all at once I’m the vulnerable one. I lower my head, staring down at my hands on my lap. “I still miss her, though,” I say. “It’s just . . . a gnawing sense of loss. One that isn’t attached to an actual memory. An ache that never goes away.” When my father doesn’t respond, I look up to find him staring at me sadly. I shrug, trying to lighten this heavy moment I’ve brought down around us.

“I’m sorry,” he tells me sincerely. “You don’t deserve that. You’re . . . you’re just a kid.”

“Who deserves pain, then?” I ask. “Not you or your wife. Not Isaac or Angie. No one deserves what’s happened to your family. If I can make that go away . . .” I pause. “It’s worth it.”