The Remedy (22 page)

“I remember,” I say, glancing down at the pages lying on the bed. From beyond the door I hear my mother say my name. “I should go,” I tell Aaron, sitting up. “Call me when you find out more about Virginia.”

“I will,” he says. “And, Quinn . . . stay safe.”

I thank him just as my mother opens the door. I quickly pull the phone from my ear, and covertly slide the pages under my pillow. I smile politely and see my mother’s eyes flash with curiosity.

“Isaac,” I lie, motioning to the phone. “How’s Angie?” I attempt to distract her, relieved when I see that it works.

“She’s good.” My mother smiles. “In fact, I was coming to see if you wanted a sandwich. Maybe help me cut some vegetables for dinner? Your sister’s going to join us.”

My stomach turns abruptly. “Oh . . . that’s great.” Although I’m not sure if I’m ready for the emotional abuse Angie will want to hurl in my direction. “Yes,” I continue with fake enthusiasm. “I’d love to help.”

I climb up from the bed, checking back once to make sure the pages are safely hidden, and follow my mother from the room to assist with dinner. I’ve already lost my appetite.

*  *  *

My sister sits across from me at the table, her thin arms crossed over her chest. She glares at me, disturbed by my presence. No one has said a word since we sat down. My mother sets a plate of pork chops in the center of the table, the sweet scent of apples wafting up from the glaze that I helped her make. My father tells her it looks great, and stabs one with his fork to plop it onto his plate. Angie doesn’t make a move for the food. Neither do I.

Finally my sister groans and looks at my father. “You’re seriously going to let her stay?” she demands. My composure cracks, but I see my mother’s face twist with agony and pull it back. The last thing my mother wants is a reminder of how not happy our family really is.

My father doesn’t react so abruptly, though. He folds his hand in front of him, looking kindly at my sister. “Angie,” he starts, but she’s already scoffing.

“You always liked her better,” she says bitterly, tossing her napkin onto the table. “You even like her impostor better.”

“Angela!” he snaps, his booming voice sucking the air of the room. My sister wilts under his authority, and even my pulse has skyrocketed. A moment passes, and my father unfolds his hands, seeming to know the effect of his tone. “This is part of the process,” he says in a quieter voice. “You haven’t been here.” He meets her eyes, and I observe their interaction, tense but ultimately concerned for each other. “We’re suffering,” he says, cracking over the words. “And having . . . your sister here is helping.”

Angie flinches as if he’s slapped her. She leans in to the table, her eyes wild. “That is not my sister,” she says. “She’s a counselor, or an actor, or God knows what. You
bought
her,” she says, shooting me a hateful glare. “And if you and Mom don’t realize how twisted that is, then you really do need to be in therapy.”

“Angela,” my mother scolds. “How dare . . .” But she can’t finish her sentence. She dissolves into tears and covers her face with her hands. I immediately reach for her and my sister jumps up so quickly, I think she might attack me.

“Stay away from her!” she shouts, rounding the table to stand next to my mother. She puts her arm around her and my mother turns her face in to Angie’s side, sobbing. My father is quiet, staring down at his food.

But I’m hurting too. I feel my own body weaken with the rejection and hatred. There’s a flicker of recognition in Angie’s eyes when she looks over at me, like maybe she’s almost sorry. I’m numb as I stand from my spot at the table.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, and leave the family to their misery. They’ve filled me up with it, and I need a minute to process. I walk straight out of the room and through the kitchen and out the patio doors.

*  *  *

Michelle Blake was fourteen years old when she fell down an old well shaft. Her family’s property was a sprawling acreage just outside of Salem, and they ended up suing the former owners for not disclosing the hazard when they purchased the home. The girl’s body had gotten lodged only two feet below the opening, just close enough that her parents could reach and stroke her hair while they waited for the fire department and ambulance. Michelle had died instantly, though, so she didn’t suffer. That was all saved for her parents. Normally those sorts of grizzly details would have been left out, but Michelle’s older sister felt it was her duty to inform me of everything. She was the one who had convinced her parents to contact the department in the first place, concerned for their well-being.

She was right to be worried. Her dad attempted suicide the night before I got there. Marie almost called off the entire assignment, but my father assured us that we would be saving the family. Andrew Blake was still in the hospital when I arrived, so I spent the first day with my mother and sister. They were both very helpful and kind, and I quickly diagnosed that my father was the one with symptoms of complicated grief. I gave the family instructions on what to look out for, how to redirect. Technically, it wasn’t my job to advise them, but it helped pass the time.

When Andrew returned, everyone in the house was working toward his well-being. His recovery was swift, and even his wife said she found peace when I was around. In the end I redirected them to their daughter Hailey, helped them rebuild their family structure around her while still honoring Michelle.

I liked Hailey. She was a sister to me. Somewhere in my room at home in Corvallis, there’s a picture of Michelle and Hailey, sitting together on a porch swing. I took it from one of the photo albums stacked under the entertainment center of the Blake house. I haven’t looked at it in a while, but I used to when I first came back. It reminded me of the time I spent with my sister and mother, and how we worked together. There was a camaraderie there built on love and trust. I needed a little bit of that in my life.

And so my thoughts turn to Hailey now as I sit on the porch steps, hugging my knees to my chest. I’ve never had a real sibling. Not sure it would have worked anyway. Would my father have turned us both into closers? Would it have been cruel to only have one, while the other lived a full life? I feel a wave of homesickness, but not for my actual home. That place is so familiar it feels manufactured. Unlived—especially in comparison to this one.

This
is a home . . . and I already miss it. I think back to gardening with my mother and practicing batting with my father. I’m just starting to feel better when the sliding glass doors open.

I turn and see my father, his large mass blocking out the light of the kitchen. His face is a silhouette, and I have a sudden fear that he’s here to ask me to leave.
Please, no.

“Hey, kid,” he says. I sway, relieved by his approach, the warmth in his voice. As he sits down, I consider my reaction when he first came out. How much I really didn’t want to leave. It’s disconcerting to say the least—my attachment. “You okay?” he asks.

He sits on the porch step next to me, and I turn to him, suddenly feeling like a child. I nod. “Yeah. Just . . .” I’m not sure how honest I should be. I’ve never had this much negative interaction while on assignment—maybe it’s that the scale of this one is bigger, but the constant barrage of insults is weighing on me. “It just hurts my feelings,” I say, wincing once I do. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, turning to face the woods beyond the house. “You’re a human being. I can’t imagine the pressure you live with.” He looks sideways at me. “Can’t imagine a parent who would let you take that much on your shoulders, but I’m not here to judge you or them.” He nods, lowering his head. I’m no longer in character, but I think I’m the one he wants to talk to.

“I know why you’re here,” he continues. “And to be frank, I’m grateful. I like having you around. I think the toughest part of losing my little girl was the silence left behind in the house, the damned quiet.” His voice tightens, and he struggles with the start of tears. “You’ve made noise, taken up the empty space. You’ve breathed life in the empty hole that was left behind, and for that, I thank you.”

My own tears match his, and I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “You have a beautiful family,” I say. My father bites down on his lip, his bushy mustache overtaking his mouth. He then smiles painfully at me.

“Thank you.” He’s still for a minute, and then he sniffles. “Look, I know this is probably irregular, but I want to you know . . . we care about you. I care about you. It’s becoming this dreaded countdown for us until the time you’ll leave. You’ve become part of us.”

My body weakens, overcome by the sentiment.
I’m part of them,
I think.
I’m part of a family.

“Eva and I talked about this earlier,” he says, “and we’d like you to stay longer. We’ll pay whatever you want, make any arrangements you need. We just . . .” His light eyes are heavy with grief. “We don’t want you to leave us.”

I stare at him, shutting off all of the training that wants to redirect. Truth is, Marie never prepared me for this. There is no answer here, only love. These people will love me, protect me. They could give me a normal life, and even the grief department should understand that—even my father and Arthur Pritchard.

I leap forward and wrap my arms around the man next to me, his body too bulky to reach around. He chuckles at my response, and pats my back gently.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”

I pull away, and he presses his lips together. I haven’t said yes, but he can tell by the smile on my face that his and his wife’s offer means the world to me.

“Think about it,” he says. My father motions to the patio doors. “Now, we should head back in. I’ve told Angela to behave herself, but you shouldn’t let her get to you. She’ll come to accept you in time. I promise. She’s been through a lot.”

I nod, agreeing that she’s endured too much. I let myself feel compassion for her, let it wash away my anger and hurt. She’s had a chance to vent, so maybe we can finish the meal in peace. At least I hope so. My appetite has finally returned.

*  *  *

Angie doesn’t speak to me at dinner, but she stays throughout the meal, and even talks to her parents about school. She’s been running on the track in the evenings and told them it helps her clear her head. She glances at me once when she says it, probably thinking about my death. But at least she doesn’t tell me to drop dead or call me a monster. That’s progress.

“Banana cream pie,” my mother says, bringing it in to set in the center of the table. I notice the dusting of almonds on the top, and my anxiety starts to build. I’m allergic to nuts and I don’t eat them. Marie should have advised them about this before I arrived.

My mother dishes out the dessert to each of us. My sister takes a bite immediately and tells my mother it’s awesome. For a brief moment, everyone is happy—and I fit with them. I don’t want to ruin that.

I pick at the pie, not wanting to eat any of it and risk having a bad reaction when I’m supposed to go out with Isaac tonight. They’re all taking a painfully long time, though, and my avoidance becomes obvious.

“Catalina,” my mother says. “You haven’t had any pie.” My father looks over, mildly curious, and this time Angie doesn’t flinch at the use of my name.

“Sorry,” I say, smiling politely. “I’m . . . really full.”

“Nonsense.” She waves her fork. “It’s your favorite. Eat up.” She laughs and takes another large bite. I stare down at the pie, debating letting my face swell just to keep up the illusion. But ultimately, I can’t do it.

“I’m allergic,” I murmur, not looking at her.

“What’s that?” my mother asks, leaning in to hear me better.

I lift my head. “I’m allergic to the almonds.”

She stares at me for a long moment, and a passing flash of recognition immediately followed by grief plays across her expression. “Yes,” she says, and sets down her fork. “I forgot. I’m sorry.”

Everyone’s quiet after that, and my mother doesn’t finish her pie. My sister only nibbles on hers. At one point I look at my father and he nods encouragingly, letting me know that it’s okay. That I didn’t do anything wrong. I appreciate his support, his clearheaded resolve in the face of so much tragedy.

So later, after Angela’s gone and my parents watch a bit of television with me, I take special care to say good night to my father, giving him a kiss on the cheek before going to my room.

ISAAC SENDS ME AN INSTANT
message on the computer around eleven thirty, telling me he’ll be by in fifteen minutes. Nervousness creeps over me, and I go to the mirror to check my appearance. I brush my fingers through my hair, telling myself once again how much I love the cut. My freckles are hidden, makeup flawless to capture my features just right. Winged eyeliner and soft pink gloss on my lips. I press them together and have a wild thought that maybe they’ll be kissed tonight. I quickly spin away from the mirror, ashamed of where my mind went, and walk to the bed to pull out the plastic aerobic step from underneath.

I open my window and see exactly where I would have hidden it in the bushes. I drop the step into place, glad my return won’t be as difficult as it was last night. One more check of my clothes: a sleeveless turquoise shirt, not entirely weather appropriate but insanely flattering against my skin. I smile, thinking that Isaac will like this. It’s different from what I would have normally worn with him, but in a good way. An idealized way.

I see the shine of headlights quickly flick off, and I know that Isaac is here. Anticipation builds inside of me, and I’m at the window before I realize I left my phone on the side table. I glance back, knowing I should take it in case there’s an emergency, either with me or with Aaron. But then, with a careless turn, I leave it behind. I leave it all behind.

The grass is damp, and as I jog across, my shoes slip, almost sending me headlong into the mud. I steady myself, and when I get to Isaac’s truck, he’s trying to hide his smile.

“That would
not
have been funny,” I say, although I’m nearly cracking up myself. He turns, and under the interior lights he gets his first glimpse of me. His smile fades; his eyes widen as they take me in. We sit idling at the curb in front of my house, and I briefly wonder what would happen if my parents looked out the window. Would they be mad that I snuck out? Would it be okay because it was with Isaac?