The Remedy

  “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.

  “Are you under the influence now?” he asks parentally.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Quinlan,” he warns.

  “Don’t even,” I say, shaking my head. “They thought I knew that the doctor had prescribed me something to help with my anxiety. Guess what, Dad. You must have forgotten to mention it.”

  “I understand you’re upset,” he says in his therapist voice. “And we can talk about it. But let me first explain that this a safety measure due to the length of the assignment. I see now that I should have given you the pills directly, but I anticipated you not taking them, even if you were in trouble. Please, Quinn. You know I’m looking out for you.”

  I groan, running my hand through my hair. The world has soft edges, fraying and growing fuzzy. “You should have told me,” I say, and sit on my bed. The blanket is warm and inviting. “This assignment is a mess, Dad.” I lie back against the pillow, the phone resting on my cheek. Normally I wouldn’t tell my father that I’m having trouble, but the pills have made me a little more pliable.

  “I know,” he says sympathetically.

  I laugh. “How could you know? You’re not here. Nobody’s here but me.” I let my eyes close, and find it’s tough to reopen them. “All you ever do is send me away, Dad,” I murmur. “Sometimes I’m not even sure if you love me anymore.”

  “What?” he snaps. “Of course I do. Don’t ever question that. I have and will do anything for you.”

  I smile, comforted by the validation I would never ask for under normal circumstances.

  “It’s just that you don’t always know what’s best for you,” he continues in a quieter voice. “I want to protect you. Make you the best closer possible.”

  My stomach turns as his comforting words turn toward work once again. Always reminding me of any responsibilities. I roll onto my side, the phone pressed to my ear.

  “You know, Dad,” I say, my voice trailing off. “Sometimes you’re a real asshole.”

  He sniffs a laugh, probably realizing that I’m drugged, and also realizing I’m kind of right. “I’m proud of you, Quinlan,” he says softly. And then the line goes dead.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THERE’S A VIBRATION CLOSE TO my face. I try to swat it away, but reality crashes in on me and I sit up, looking around the room. I’m a bit hazy, but the drugs have worn off enough for me to focus. I think I called my father an asshole.

  I look down and see my phone ringing, and when I turn it over, I find Aaron’s number on the caller ID. It’s about damn time.

  “I’m going to murder you,” I say the minute I answer. Aaron chuckles in response, and I’m already grinning and hating him at the same time.

  “Dang, girl,” he says, sounding amused. “You knew I was gonna call you back.”

  “How could you leave without telling me?” I ask, and then check around when I realize how loudly I’m talking. “Seriously, Aaron.” I lower my voice. “What if Marie found out?”

  “Who do you think sent me away?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I’m on assignment. Something crazy—just like what happened to you. Your dad called me in, said it was an emergency from Arthur Pritchard. Look, I’m in Lake Oswego too.”

  “Speaking of my dad,” I say, climbing out of bed. “I just found out my father drugged me.”

  “Whoa, what?” Aaron asks, incredulous.

  “Yeah. He gave the family pills and told them to give them to me if I acted stressed out. Isn’t that nuts?”

  “Uh, yes,” he says. “Did they give you one?”

  “They gave me two. Really messed me up.”

  “Are you stressed?”

  “Of course I’m stressed. This entire assignment is a disaster. I’ve had a few small breakthroughs, but nothing like I usually do. Everyone’s acting weird. That’s why I need you.” I stop, realizing I’ve been ranting, ignoring the fact that Aaron is just as screwed as I am. “Damn,” I say apologetically. “They sent you out too? I mean, what’s going at the grief department? Two closers on back-to-back assignments? I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Me neither,” he says. “And girl, you should have seen Myra. She’s been hysterical, saying I’m going to lose myself. That I’m gonna skip town without her.”

  “Couldn’t you tell my father no?” I ask him. Aaron has the advantage of not actually being related to his boss.

  “Wasn’t really an option.”

  I turn and rest my back against the wall, my mind spinning with scenarios. “What’s your situation?” I ask.

  “It’s a shorter assignment,” he says. “But it’s got me thinking there must be something else going on. A change in the system? Change in the environment? I don’t know, but I got Deacon looking into it.”

  “Yeah, he said he was researching something for you. He’s investigating for me, too.” I smile. “He really should be on the payroll,” I add.

  “Right?” Aaron laughs. “Well, don’t worry. I’ve got you covered. That Virginia person, right?”

  My stomach drops
, and I straighten up away from the wall. “You found something?”

  “Hell yeah. There were some deleted messages, but they were coded. Luckily, I’m super dope at this spy shit, so I plan to have it figured by the end of the day.”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “I know.” He chuckles. “And don’t worry—I’m on it. I’ll find her.”

  “I’m just glad she’s real,” I say, feeling relieved. “At least my mother wasn’t lying about that.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “What else is going on there?”

  “It’s just . . . weird inconsistencies. It’s like everybody’s keeping secrets. Especially the girl I used to be.”

  “Check your journal.”

  “I did, but it’s total Pollyanna. I loved my family. Loved my life. I can’t find one bad thing about me, and yet it seems like everyone was walking on eggshells or handling me with kid gloves. I can’t explain it.”

  “Think about it,” Aaron says. “If you were into some bad shit, you wouldn’t have kept it out in the open for counselors, right? You’d probably hide it.”

  “You have a point,” I say. “And come to think of it, there were some missing pages, but I didn’t look for them. I’ve been . . . distracted.”

  He laughs. “You didn’t search the room yet? I thought you knew better.”

  “I did a basic sweep, but no—I didn’t turn the place over. I didn’t think I’d have to.” I wonder briefly if my parents are still in the kitchen, buying me time to search this room properly. “Aaron,” I say. “You mentioned that your assignment was like mine. What did you mean by that?”

  “Emergency situation,” he says, like he’s thinking. “Death certificate in the file. Long-term—”

  “Wait. Did you read the death certificate?” I ask.

  “Sure. But it was ‘undetermined.’ ”

  “So was mine. What the hell do you think that means?”

  “To be honest, I’d normally say it was a coincidence, but your dad was acting pretty shady. He even asked if I thought Deacon would consider returning to the department.”

  “Well, shit,” I say. “Then something is definitely wrong.” The sink in the kitchen turns on, and I realize I’m running out of private time. “Look, Aaron, I’ve got to go. Let me know when you turn up something on Virginia. Otherwise I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

  “Be safe,” he says, and we hang up.

  I set my phone on the desk and exhale, looking around the room. Aaron’s right—if I were keeping secrets, I wouldn’t leave them in a journal that someone would read. There were pages missing. Question is: Did I keep them?

  I pace the length of the room, looking at it from every angle. Trying to see it in a different light. Nothing sticks out, so I open the dresser drawers and run my hands along the bottom. Nothing. I look underneath in case I got all covert, but nothing is taped there.

  My closet is small, so it doesn’t take me much time to thoroughly check it. Still nothing. The bedside table, the desk—I even check behind the framed photos on the wall.

  This is frustrating, but Aaron totally called it. I should have done this the first day. I glance at the time and see it’s nearly noon. Isaac will be here any second. “Damn it,” I say, running my hand through my hair. My fingers get stuck in the tangles and I groan. I’ll have to set my mission aside and take a quick shower. I want to feel human again, or at the very least have clean hair when I see Isaac. Before I lose any more time, I grab a fresh set of clothes and head to the bathroom.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m running a comb through my short hair, grateful for how fast it dries now. I walk back into my room and survey the scene. Where would I have hidden journal pages? I wander around until I come to pause at the edge of my bed. I duck down to check underneath, but there are only a few dust bunnies and a plastic aerobic step. I straighten, defeated. Hmm . . . I tilt my head, examining the bed frame.

  “No way,” I say, making my way to the other side. I get down on my knees and slip my hand in between the box spring and the mattress. Something scratches me, and I wince, yanking out my hand. There’s a small scrape near my knuckle.

  There’s something hidden in my mattress. Are you kidding me? The most clichéd hiding spot in the world, and that’s where I put things I didn’t want anyone to find? I can’t decide if it’s genius or pure stupidity. I shake off the sting on my hand and push up on the mattress, balancing it on my shoulder while I peek underneath. There’s a small square of folded papers. I found them.

  I grab the journal pages and drop the mattress back onto the bed. I breathe an exhausted breath and sit down. I smooth out the papers and find there are about a dozen or so. But the last few are only dark black spirals scratched onto a page. They’re the same pages I found in Isaac’s glove compartment. They must have been mine. I check them over for a minute longer, and they fill me with a sense of dread. Then I find the first page, noting that the date is earlier this year. I scan the first few lines.

  Isaac is at baseball camp and I miss him. I hate that they won’t let him call. I told him I’d write, but decided what I really wanted was to read our story. I figure I’ll start from the beginning. Who knows—maybe I’ll even show him when he gets back.

  The doorbell rings, and I glance at the clock, my heart rate spiking. I hear my father’s voice, naturally loud enough to travel the length of the house and back. Isaac must be here. I stand up, temporarily displaced in the room. I should put on lip gloss. Some perfume, maybe. I’m . . . nervous. I’m nervous he won’t like me today—not like last night.

  My mother calls my name, and I hear her footsteps heading in my direction. The pages are still in my hand, and I bend quickly to stuff them under my mattress. I barely get them in when my door opens. I stand and pretend to adjust my covers.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say casually. She beams at me.

  “Isaac’s here to pick you up,” she says. The hopefulness in her expression is a bit heartbreaking. Somewhere, she must know that this is all an act, that I’m not really her daughter. But she’s buried that part of her. All she knows now is that her daughter has a date, a perfectly average occurrence for a Sunday afternoon. And it’s in the average moments that we live life. Right now, this makes me alive to her. It renews my purpose here, crashing me back to reality.

  “Mom,” I start in a steady voice. “When I get back, I was hoping to talk with you and Dad. I’d like to go over some of our memories together. Would that be okay?”

  Her mouth flinches, but she nods. “Of course, honey. We can talk over dinner.”

  I thank her, and she turns and walks out, a little stiffer, a little sadder. She didn’t want the reminder that this is therapy, but it was necessary. And tonight, we’ll sift through some of the good memories, easing slightly into the ones that are bothering them. They need to work through their grief. I’m a Band-Aid, not a permanent solution.

  Left alone for the moment, I look longingly at my bed, wishing I could read more of the journal pages. But my job isn’t to spy on my old life. I have a client to work with, and he’s waiting in the other room.

  Before leaving, I stop at my dresser and dab a bit of perfume on my wrist, slide a lick of strawberry gloss over my lips. I smooth down my hair and notice that my freckles are still visible. I quickly dab some foundation over my nose and cheeks, hiding them. Hiding me.

  I smile at the result, thinking I look very pretty today, and hoping that Isaac notices. With that I turn and leave my room, closing my door behind me.

  * * *

  When I enter the living room, I find Isaac and my dad on the couch, talking quietly. Their expressions are solemn, like seeing each other reminds them of the horrible truth. Isaac isn’t wearing his baseball hat, and I take the moment to look him over in the sunlight filtering in through the windows. The line of his jaw, his slight underbite. The way he licks his lower lip before he talks. There’s a dash of attraction, and I quickly pull myself out of it and pretend that I’ve onl
y just walked in the room, making a wide gesture so they’ll notice me.

  Isaac glances over, and his eyes widen. He’s overcome by my presence, and he visibly sways in his seat. My father puts his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and then gets up.

  “Have a good time,” he tells me, sounding parental. I smile and I tell him I will, and watch him leave the room.

  When I look back at Isaac, he’s gotten to his feet. He rubs his chest over his heart like it aches. He hasn’t thought this through, I realize. He forgot how much it hurts to see me.

  “Hi,” I say when the quiet goes on too long. I want to tell him that we don’t have to do this, we can try a different way. But I don’t want to give him that out. I want him to interact with me, face me.

  Isaac stares down at his feet, gathering his thoughts. “You,” he starts in a raspy voice. “You look nice.” He lifts his head, and we’re both caught in a gaze—a magnet between us.

  “Thanks,” I say, and smile, trying to lighten the mood. “So do you.”

  He laughs and brushes his hair. I think the trick with Isaac is to never let him get too self-analytical. When he lets his guard down, he also lets me in. So today I’ll keep it light and fun. I’ll plant seeds in his consciousness that he can turn over later. For now I just want him to be happy.

  “You ready?” I ask.

  His dark eyes travel over my face, and he’s a little breathless when he says, “Yes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ISAAC ASKS WHERE I WANT to eat and I recall pictures of us at a place called Pizza Buono. He smiles when I mention it, and turns on the radio as we drive there. I can tell from his movements that he’s nervous, but it’s an excited sort of feeling—not one of dread.

  The sun continues to peek out from the clouds, and I suggest we sit outside to take advantage of the weather while it lasts. We grab a table that falls in a ray of sunlight, the entire scene looking hopeful. We sit and a server comes over to take our drink order. I can feel Isaac watching me while I ask for Coke, but when I turn back, he’s staring down at his menu.