The Remedy (18 page)

The vision of the dark-haired woman in the hospital bed fills my mind.
She loved me,
I think.
Whoever she was, she loved me.
That might mean that the only time I’ve ever been truly loved was when I was playing someone else.

I feel tears coming on, and the burn makes me conscious of where I am, who I’m with. “I should go,” I say quickly, and open the door. “Thanks for the ride, and thanks for helping Angie.”

“Of course,” Isaac says, sitting up like he’s disappointed that I’m leaving. He doesn’t call for me to wait again. Maybe his curiosity has been satisfied, or maybe he’s remembered that he thinks I’m a “thing.” I get out and hurry toward my house, ashamed of what I said to him. Of having exposed myself like that. I know better than to break character. I was being selfish.

I stop just under my bedroom window and look back; Isaac waits at the curb. He holds up his hand in a wave, and I return it, unsure of what this means in his recovery. But, more alarmingly, what it means for my assignment.

I SOON REALIZE THAT GETTING
out of my bedroom window was a lot easier than getting back in. The sill comes up to my chin, so pushing the pane the rest of the way open proves difficult, even on my tiptoes. But I grunt and stretch and get it far enough that I think I’ll be able to shimmy through.

I put one sneaker on the siding and grip the sill with my hands before hoisting myself up. I’m not strong enough, and the toe of my shoe slips, trying to find purchase against the house. God, if I end up having to ring the doorbell I’ll kill Deacon for letting me do this in the first place. But finally I’m able to get my elbow over the other side, and I pull myself the rest of the way up. I adjust the glass and slide in, nearly falling on the wood floor before flipping my legs around to catch myself.

I stand up in my darkened room, out of breath and with sore arms.
Well, I won’t be doing that again.
I look toward the door and see that it’s still closed; my pillow is still tucked under the sheet like a sitcom setup. My hoodie is wet, and it feels great to peel it off my skin, lay it over my desk chair to dry. Now, in the quiet of my room, the end of the night settles over me. But mostly the final moments I shared with Isaac. Using the dim light from outside the window, I find and change into my pajamas, thinking about Isaac. I wonder if his idea of me is altered after tonight.

I’m still wired from the night out, and I know I should wash up before getting in bed, but I’m afraid the noise will wake my parents. So I grab a couple of makeup remover wipes and rub them over my face. My hair will dry crunchy from the drink my sister threw at me, but hopefully the rain washed most of it out. I check my phone, but it’s dead, so I plug it in and grab my laptop from the desk before climbing into bed to get under the covers.

In a moment I’m toasty warm. On a soft mattress with overstuffed pillows, surrounded by a nicely decorated room that smells like fresh laundry. I’m comfortable, and I consider the difference between this house and my own. This room feels permanent, and not because it’s not allowed to be changed, like my room. A person lived here, lives here. This is a home.

I open my computer and click around the different sites, checking in on what I’ve missed. I want to send Deacon an apology message, but he’s not much into e-mail. And the situation is too complicated to explain via text. I’ll have to call him in the morning.

A message flashes on the bottom of my screen, followed by the quiet
ding
. I click it, sending the message up to the middle of my screen. I let out a held breath when I see it’s Isaac.

I REALLY AM SORRY FOR THE WAY I’VE TREATED YOU,
he writes. His words repair the small hole torn in my soul tonight, and I smile with the relief.

THANK YOU,
I return.
THAT REALLY MEANS A LOT.
I should say more, but I’m afraid of ruining the moment. The screen tells me he’s writing, and then another message pops up.

I’VE BEEN REALLY LONELY,
he writes.
NO ONE UNDERSTANDS. THEY THINK I SHOULD BE OVER IT ALREADY, OR THEY WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT ENDLESSLY. I DON’T WANT EITHER OF THOSE THINGS. BUT TONIGHT, YOU MADE ME SEE HOW ALONE I AM.

I PROMISE YOU—IT WILL GET BETTER. TIME WILL MAKE IT BETTER.

YOU MADE IT A LITTLE BETTER.

My breath catches, and I glance around the dark room as if worried someone is watching. They’re not, of course—the only sign of life coming from the glow of my computer screen. But I feel guilty nonetheless. My fingers are poised over the keys, but I have no idea how to respond to his statement. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I’m not his replacement girlfriend. I have to answer, though.

I’M GLAD,
I write. Good thing this isn’t my everyday life or he would think I’m completely boring.
I’m glad.
Really? I exhale, figuring we’re done for the night. But he sends another message, and this one makes my heart soar.

DO YOU WANT TO HAVE LUNCH TOMORROW?
he asks.
I CAN PICK YOU UP AT NOON.

I rest back against my pillows, torn on how to proceed.
This is therapy,
I remind myself.
There’s nothing to feel bad about.
But I call myself out on my bullshit. I’m happy that he asked me, and I want to go. To be perfectly honest, I just want to be around him. I liked how it felt tonight. I even liked being honest.

OKAY,
I answer, heat immediately flooding my cheeks.
SEE YOU THEN.
I click off the screen and slam my computer shut, my body pulsing with electricity. I set the computer on my nightstand and slide back under the covers in the dark. I curl up on my side, my hands folded under my cheek. Normally I don’t let myself fantasize on assignment; I keep my imagination reined in. But tonight I let my mind wander.

I imagine a different time, a different person. Isaac is there. He murmurs how much he loves me, leans in to kiss my lips softly. My fingers trail over his skin, and I stretch my leg over his thigh to press us closer.

I ache for him. Ache for him to love me like he loved her.

I have no more thoughts of closers and assignments. I drift off to sleep dreaming that I’m Catalina Barnes, lost in love with Isaac Perez.

*  *  *

“Catalina?” a soft voice calls from somewhere far away. My eyelids are heavy, and it takes me a moment to get them to stay open. My mother’s voice calls me again from the hallway.

“I’m awake,” I mumble, hopefully loud enough for her to hear.

“Breakfast, honey,” she says cheerfully, followed by the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Confused, I glance toward my alarm clock, surprised to see that it’s after nine a.m. I can’t remember the last time I slept through my internal alarm. I roll over, still tempted by the comfort of my sheets. I lie there a minute, and then I remember what I was thinking about before I fell asleep. Sure enough, in the light of day I’m ashamed. There has to be a rule about coveting your assignment’s boyfriend. Hell, coveting her life. I sit up and throw off my sheets.

A morning chill runs over my arms, and I rub my skin with my palms. Now’s not the time to psychoanalyze myself, so I get dressed. I grab a sweatshirt from the closet and I pull it over my head. I didn’t take out my contacts last night, and my eyes are itchy, but I don’t have time to clean them now. Instead I grab a small tube of eye drops and drip liquid into each eye.

“Oh God,” I say, blinking away the artificial tears as a new worry sets in. I agreed to go out to lunch with Isaac today. I didn’t consider the implications, think about what I’d tell my parents. Maybe there’s still time to cancel. I turn around, lean against the desk. My mind is swirling so fast, I can’t make sense of anything. I put my hand over my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut.

This is progress,
I think.
He wants to talk. He wants to meet. That’s your job.

But then:
He’s projecting. He’s using you as a stand-in for his girlfriend. He can’t heal if he won’t let go.

And finally:
This would be totally acceptable if you weren’t interested in him.

My mother calls my name again, and I straighten, preparing myself to face the day. I will go with Isaac today, but I will be a total professional. I’ll let him lead his therapy, but I’ll guide it more closely. I can do this.

I go to leave the room but pause to grab my phone. I don’t have any messages or missed calls. I pull up Aaron’s name and type
WHAT. THE. HELL.
and hit send. I’ll continue to text him, and if I don’t hear back soon, I’m calling Marie. This is dangerous. Maybe if Aaron had been around yesterday, things wouldn’t have gotten so out of control.

I slip the phone into my pocket. Deacon will be expecting me to call him today, and really, I do owe him an apology for leaving him behind at the Warehouse. I just hope he doesn’t ask what I did after. I can’t lie to him. Even if I wanted to, he’d see right through it. And this is definitely something I don’t want him to see.

I open my bedroom door, immediately hit with the smell of bacon, and then head toward the kitchen where my mother is waiting with breakfast.

*  *  *

“Well, good morning,” my mother says when I enter the sunny kitchen. My father’s seated at the table, and he looks up from his coffee. Although he doesn’t smile, I can see his relief at my continued presence. I nod to him, and sit down just as my mother sets a glass of juice in front of me.

“I’m making breakfast,” she adds, and goes back to the stove, where she continues stirring a steaming batch of liquid eggs. There’s a pile of bacon in the center of the table, and I reach to grab a slice. Now that I’m moving around, I have a slight headache, a dull throb behind my eyes. Hopefully a bit of food will relieve that.

“You okay?” my father asks. I turn to him in time to see him exchange a concerned glance with my mother.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just a headache.”

My mother goes over to her purse and takes out a white bottle. “Here,” she says, trying to sound calm, but her voice is rushed. “Take two of these.” I hold out my hand and she shakes out two pills into my palm. I thank her and toss them into my mouth, wash them down with juice.

When the eggs are ready, my mother comes over with the hot pan and a spatula, dishing them onto mine and my father’s plates. She only puts a small bit on her own.
Lack of appetite,
I notice, filing it away for later.

My mother joins us, but she barely picks at her food. I’m starving and shovel in eggs and three strips of bacon. My mother gazes at me affectionately, and it makes eating sort of uncomfortable, so I slow down.

“Your sister called today,” she says. Panic sets in. Did Angie tell her that she saw me last night? Does my mother know I snuck out?

“How is she?” I ask, giving no indication of my anxiety.

My mother puts her elbow on the table and leans forward. “She’s . . . good, actually.” She smiles. “She was calling to check up on me and your dad.” She turns to her husband, and he nods at her, seeming heartened by her improved mood. My mother wraps her hands around her coffee cup. “She’s been worried about us. She thought maybe she could come home for the party.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised but thrilled. Although my sister can’t stand me, something I said last night must have resonated. That will give me a chance to include Angie in the final meeting. I honestly couldn’t have hoped for better news this morning. “Well, that’s great,” I tell them both.

I go back to my food, and my mother ends up making another batch of eggs and dumping them on my plate. I tell them about my lunch date with Isaac, and my mother seems thrilled at the idea. She starts talking about her friend, getting my father’s opinions although he doesn’t look too invested.

After a time, my head starts to swim. My ears feel plugged up with cotton—but it’s comforting. Insulating me from the world. I look dreamily from my father to my mother, listening to them talk. I leisurely have a bite of bacon, savoring the flavor. My mother smiles at me.

But my happiness starts to dim. I look back down at my plate, knowing something isn’t right. I don’t feel right.

“Then Maryanne told me that the butcher from the grocery store—”

“What was in those pills?” I interrupt, my voice sounding faraway. My mother’s mouth opens, then shuts while she considers her words. Her hesitation sets off an alarm bell.

“They’re from Dr. McKee,” my father says when my mother doesn’t supply a fast answer. Still underwater, I turn, sure I didn’t hear that right.

“What?”

“Dr. McKee said that in long-term . . . assignments”—he stumbles over the word—“your kind tend to get stressed. Get headaches. He advised us to give you a dose to help. I . . .” He looks at his wife, concerned, and then back at me. “I thought you knew.”

I rub my eyes, trying to clear my vision. Fight off the impending sleep. “Yeah,” I say, agreeing. “I just forgot. Thank you . . . for reminding me.” My body has slipped into panic as my mind tries to keep submerged. I stand up from the table and smile at my parents, although I’m not sure my muscles are working correctly.

“Is it okay if I go back to bed for a while?” I ask. “I’d love to sleep off this headache and be fresh for the day.”

My mother nods, seeming to think that’s a good idea. “Of course, honey,” she says. “You have some time before Isaac comes. Can I get you anything else?” She looks worried.

“No,” I tell her. “I’m good. See you in a bit.” This forced happiness is leaving a terrible taste in my mouth, but I take the extra step to put my dish in the sink and head back toward my bedroom. My hands are shaking.

The minute I close my door, I scramble to get my phone out of my pocket. I’m growing disoriented and I am
pissed
.

“Quinlan,” my father says immediately upon answering. “Are you okay? You know calling me is against protocol.”

“Did you advise Mr. and Mrs. Barnes to drug me?” I demand. He sighs, and I can imagine him in his leather chair, annoyed that I’m asking questions because he thinks he knows what’s best for me.