The Remedy (28 page)

What did I want to be? A closer—no, never. I only did that because my father asked me to, told me how good I was at helping people. I didn’t want to be a doctor like him and Marie. I wasn’t sure what else there was.

I looked up at the mother, studying her pretty features, her soft cheeks and pink lips. “I want to be you,” I said. I meant her job, even though I didn’t know what it was. But something about my words made her face cloud over. She straightened, backing away from me. She tried to force a smile, but I saw fear instead. I didn’t understand at the time what I’d done wrong. Eventually I finished that assignment and moved on.

Now I know what she was afraid of. People don’t want to be replaced. They don’t want a stranger to come in and seamlessly take over their lives. Because that would mean they didn’t really matter. What was the point of them ever existing if I could come in and wrap it all up in a few days? I’m a walking nightmare.

The lights of a car behind me illuminate the street, and I hug my arms around myself. I try to fade away so I won’t be noticed. Rain has started to fall, and as the vehicle slows next to me, I realize it’s a truck. I turn quickly just as Isaac pulls to the curb.

I’m frozen with fear, with misery. I don’t want to hurt him, but more than anything, I don’t want him to tell me this meant nothing.

Isaac gets out of the truck and rounds the hood, his face lit up by the headlights. Even from here I can see that his eyes are red and swollen. His face is drawn. My guilt overwhelms me.

“I’m sorry,” I call to him, fresh tears springing to my eyes. Isaac continues toward me, and I flinch back just as he reaches out and wraps his arms around me. I take in a breath, waiting, but he’s holding me. His fingers slide into my wet hair, cradling my head; his lips brush my ear.

My fear starts to dissipate, and I close my eyes. Close out the pounding that’s still behind them. Isaac sways me, rocking me gently, and neither of us says a word as the rain soaks us through. After a few moments he pulls back, wipes the mascara from under my eyes with his thumbs. Checks over where my jaw still hurts. He leans in and kisses my lips.

I see in his eyes that his friends’ words haven’t changed the way he feels. Although that should comfort me, it doesn’t. It only leaves me more confused. Isaac cradles my face in his hands, staring down at me as rain runs over us.

“They can’t see you,” he says. “But I do. You’re right here, Catalina. You never left.”

I open my mouth to talk, but no words come out. My thoughts flash back to Jason’s expression tonight—the disgust. I think about my sister, my parents. I think back to the first day I met Isaac, wearing a prom dress. “This isn’t my life,” I mumble, the cold making my voice shake.

Isaac tightens his jaw and gathers me into a hug. “Yes it is,” he whispers. “Things just got screwed up tonight, but we’ll fix it. Everything will be fine tomorrow. I promise. Now let’s go home, okay?” He pulls back to look down at me, checking me over as if daring me to tell him again this isn’t real.

But I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’m weak and cold, beaten down. I nod and let Isaac help me into his truck, the world hazy around me. When Isaac gets in the driver’s seat, he gives me a worried glance. I must look terrible. I almost flip down the mirror, but I can’t stand the idea of seeing my face.

My body continues to shake, and Isaac blasts the heat. It warms my skin, but I can’t get rid of the cold. I lean my head against the passenger window, my thoughts jumbled. My identity is slipping away—but rather than pull it back, I close my eyes and let it go. It hurts too much to pretend anymore. My head just hurts.

“You’re almost home,” Isaac says, sounding concerned.

“Which home?” I murmur. I don’t think he hears me over the sound of the blowing heater, but soon he’s pulling up to a familiar grand house on a tree-lined street. I stare at it a minute, confused, and feel Isaac’s hand touch mine.

I turn to him, study his features. I feel lost. Isaac takes a deep breath, staring down at the center console, deeply troubled.

“I don’t care what they think, you know?” he says, his voice taking on a tremor. “They want to take you away, but they don’t understand. You won’t leave me again, Catalina. You love me.”

Tears wash down Isaac’s face and I watch him, unable to do anything to make this better. His grief settles over me instead, too much to absorb any longer. I place my palm on his tear-soaked cheek. Isaac lifts his eyes to mine, his emotions stripped down and bare. “Don’t cry,” I whisper.

He stares at me for a long moment, and then leans in to kiss me. I put my hand on his chest, holding him back just enough to break contact. There’s a flicker of images through my head—different places, people. Real memories and manufactured ones. I don’t know which belong to me anymore.

“I love you,” Isaac whispers, his breath warm on my lips. But the words are slightly off. Wrong in a way I can’t identify. I push him back and press myself against the passenger door, staring at him with an increasing anxiety. Forgetting and remembering his face. Forgetting my own.

“I’m not Catalina,” I say in a different voice, a familiar one. Isaac takes in a sharp breath as if I’ve slapped him. “You’re not in love with me,” I continue, starting to cry. “And I’m not in love with you. I’m not real, Isaac.”

He stares at me, fresh tears gathering in his eyes. “Shut up,” he murmurs. “You’re Catalina Barnes. You’re just confused.”

I shake my head, horrified that I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not. I just know that I don’t
feel
like Catalina.

Isaac rubs roughly at his face, and when he looks at me again, he’s not angry. He’s desperate. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, his teeth bared like he’s in pain. “Why are you
lying
?”

“I’m not her.”

“Yes you are!” he shouts, making me flinch back. “You’re the . . . the love of my . . .” His eyes weaken and the rest of the words get lost in his sobs. Isaac falls apart completely, his body slumped forward as he begs for me to come back, even though I’m sitting next to him. I realize then that he’s no longer talking to me. He’s talking to Catalina.

And I no longer exist.

IT WAS ALMOST TWO YEARS
ago, and I had just turned sixteen. There was only a day left on my current assignment, and the father was with me in the kitchen, frying up bacon. Now and again he’d turn away to run his finger down a list of printed items, reciting them to me.

He’d told me and Marie when we got there that, in preparation for our arrival, he’d made a list of pieces of advice he never told his daughter before she died. I didn’t know the details of her death—I think her name was Miranda—but I do know she was murdered. The killer had been caught, but her father had been unable to move on due to the circumstances. Marie stayed with me for this case, which was an unusual arrangement, but I welcomed her help with this one.

She was still asleep in the guest room as my father read items fifteen through twenty-five. But it was at the last one that he paused, choking up. I stared across the room at the back of his flannel shirt, curious about what he was going to say.

He steadied himself, and moved the bacon off the burner, the acrid smell of charred pig starting to fill the room. “Make sure the boy you marry wants you for you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Because you deserve the best kind of love.”

I’d felt those words then, felt them for a grieving father who would never attend his daughter’s wedding. Never meet her husband or her kids. Never see her love anybody.

But now I feel them in a different way. What do I deserve?

Isaac continues to mourn in the driver’s seat, and my sympathy grows. I reach over to touch his shoulder, but he moves back against the door and doesn’t look at me. “Get out,” he says in a thick voice. It’s a dagger to my heart. “Get out of my truck.”

I stare at him for a moment, rejected. Ashamed. I nod even though he can’t see, and numbly reach for the door handle. I climb out and Isaac doesn’t stop me.

My body flinches against the cold air, and I stagger, another sharp pain behind my eyes. I wince and put my palm over my forehead. It’s like there’s a vise squeezing my temples to crush my skull. I blink my eyes open and closed several times. The world tilts slightly, disorienting me even more.

I glance at the house, desperate to be inside and out of sight. Away from this world. I jog for the front door, hoping to acclimate myself. I just need to think so the confusion will clear up.

The front door of the house is unlocked, and I bust in like I’m running from someone. I trip over my feet and have to quickly steady myself against the wall.

“Catalina?” my mother calls, jumping up from the couch. She’s wearing a pink set of flowered pajamas, and I gaze at her. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

This is wrong,
I think with a streak of fear.
That’s not my mother.
I spin around the entryway, not recognizing some of the pieces. “Where are the mirrors?” I ask. “The flannel coat? I don’t . . .”

The woman comes over and puts her hands on my forearms. I jump, banging into the wall. A picture falls and smashes on the floor near my feet. I yelp, backing away from the shattered glass. On the floor is a picture of my family.
Not my family,
I correct, darting my gaze around the room, looking for something, anything, familiar.

The edges of my world start going fuzzy, and I run my palm over my face.
What is this house?
I think. I stop, and stare at the lady in front of me. “Where are my things?” I ask her. “There should be things to remind me; without them . . . I float away.”

Fear tears through my chest, and I push past her and run into the kitchen. There are memories of frying bacon and talk of boys and marriage. I turn back to the woman in pink pajamas as she enters the room; her face has gone stark white. She’s staring at me, wide-eyed.

“This isn’t me,” I tell her, dropping into a chair at the table. “This isn’t my house. Isn’t my life. I let mine go and now I can’t find it. There’s nothing familiar to pull me back. I don’t know who I am.”

The woman rushes past me and grabs her black purse off the counter. I watch her, my breathing labored as I try to get a grip on my mind. “Do you know me?” I ask her helplessly. When she turns, she’s holding a pill bottle. She moves quickly to grab a glass and fills it at the sink. I ask her again, but she refuses to answer. She’s scared, but I don’t understand why she can’t just tell me my name.

“Emily?” I ask hopefully. The woman shakes out two pills into her palm and thrusts them in my direction. I pinch them in my fingers, staring down at them. “Susan?” The woman gives me the glass of water and brushes back my hair.

“Shh . . . ,” she says kindly. “Take these. You’ll feel better.”

I want to feel better. But I want to remember first.
Think, damn it. Who are you?
Different faces flash though my head. I’m everyone.

I set my water on the table and then lay the pills out in my open palm, examining them. “What are these?” I ask her. The house is too cold and I’m shivering.

The woman picks up the glass and tries to put it in my hand again. “Just something to help you relax,” she says. “Dr. McKee prescribed them for you. Do you want me to call him?”

McKee?
My eyes snap to hers, and I jump up from the chair, nearly making her drop the glass. Startled, she backs up until she’s against the counter. I’m struck with a weird sense of déjà vu. “Quinlan McKee,” I say out loud to the room, as if arguing with myself. The name is a shock to my system, a cold slap in the face. I’m a closer, but I’ve been away for too long. Something has gone wrong.

Tears sting my eyes, and my headache won’t dissipate. My jaw hurts. My head starts to go fuzzy again, and I look down at the pills in my hand. “No,” I say. I turn over my palm, dropping the pills onto the tile floor. “I don’t want any pills,” I tell her. “I have to get out of here.”

My limbs are heavy, but I rush from the room and into the hallway. At the other end a door opens, and a large man with a big mustache pokes his head out, looking sleepy. He holds up his hand as if say hello to me, but I immediately try the first door on my right, finding only a bathroom. The woman appears at the other end of the hall and I’m trapped.

“Honey,” she says. “Please calm down. I’m going to call somebody to help you.”

I try the next door, and when I open it, it’s a bedroom. I rush inside and then slam and lock the door, resting my forehead against it until there’s a soft knock on the other side. I step back, my teeth beginning to shatter. “I need to think,” I tell the people on the other side. I try to call up my memories, but none of them will stick. It’s almost impossible to tell which ones are real, which are part of the assignment.

I run my hands through my wet hair, looking around.
I am Quinlan,
I think, but then the idea gets further away. Other faces pop into my mind, smiling girls. Online journals and video. This isn’t right; there should be something—a tether.

There was a picture,
I remember desperately. I run to the trash, falling to my knees next to the desk. But when I tip it over, the bin is empty.

“No,” I say. “Where is it? There was a picture!”

I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me. I lower my pounding head, trying to piece together my identity. I try to call up the picture, but the image is fuzzy. But where did I get it in the first place? Where is my home?

“Deacon,” I murmur, lifting my head. I have to find Deacon.

I use the desk to pull myself up. I’m unsteady, but gaining purpose. I spy a set of keys on the top of the dresser, and I snatch them up and race for the closet. There’s a backpack on the floor and I grab a couple of items of clothing and shove them inside. I pull the straps over my shoulders and listen for a moment. The hallway has gone quiet, and I imagine the woman is on the phone, calling for help. I don’t want to be here when that help arrives.

I slide open the window and slip outside, dropping onto the ground. Splatters of rain hit my face, and I look up. It’s raining again. Or is it always raining?