My new father’s voice is deep and tainted with a gruff sort of grief. “She’s in here,” he says. My heart begins to race, and I grab the napkin to wipe my mouth. He’s introducing a new variable, deviating from the expected dinner introduction. I shoot a panicked look at Marie and she holds out her hand to tell me to be steady. This is not a time to break character, especially so early in the assignment. My gut just about hits the floor when the two men stop at the entrance of the dining room, both staring straight at me, cold and uninvested in my existence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“ISAAC,” I BREATHE OUT BEFORE I think better of it. His lips part and he steps back, inadvertently putting his hand over his heart. Marie turns to me immediately, but I’m too caught up in the presence of this boy—this person who loved me so much. His eyes slowly rake over my prom dress, my necklace, my hair, and my face.
His breathing is uneven, shaking his entire frame. I stand slowly, letting him take in my appearance, completely vulnerable to his reaction. I use the moment to assess his emotional state. I notice the dark circles ringing his eyes, the drawn pull of his face. His jaw is shadowed, and his tan skin has red patches like he’s been crying. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen someone look so hollowed out. So broken. Isaac’s tall and thin, and I know from my journal that he’s a shortstop for the high school baseball team. I know that he has a birthmark on his right hip and a scar across his knee. What I don’t know is what he’s thinking right now.
“Isaac,” my mother says with a hint of scolding. “Don’t be rude. Catalina’s come down for dinner. Would you like to join us?”
His head snaps in her direction, and I see immediately from his disgust that he is not open to this therapy. A knot forms in my throat, and Marie reaches out to take my hand, reminding me of my job.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Isaac calls out. My father tsks and steps in front of Isaac, pushing him back a step. My dad may not have welcomed me with open arms, but he loves his wife and won’t let her be disrespected. He hasn’t forgotten that. Isaac gives him a betrayed look. “What are you doing, Barrett?” Isaac demands. “How could you do this? How could you bring that thing in here?”
I sway back, my knees hitting my seat and dropping me into it. I feel like I’ve been punched, and in an attempt to correct the situation, Marie stands—strong yet supportive—and shields me from his view.
“Mr. Perez,” she says. “I’m Marie Dev—”
“Look, lady,” Isaac says, waving his hand wildly. “I don’t give a shit who you are. That is not Catalina.” He cranes his neck and stares at me. The anger in his expression turns to utter and inconsolable grief. “You’re not her,” he barely gets out between hitched breaths. “You’re not my Catalina. You’re an impostor.”
“Mr. Perez, please,” Marie pushes on. Isaac tears his gaze away from me, openly sobbing before he puts his hands over his face, shaking his head. My father and mother begin to cry too, and this entire evening ruptures from his emotional napalm. I don’t know what to do.
“No, no, no,” Isaac murmurs until my father wraps him in a hug, each holding the other up. Isaac buries his face in my father’s shoulder, completely torn down. But it’s only a moment before he pushes back, looks accusingly around the room. “I won’t agree to this,” he says. “I won’t be a part of this.”
“I understand your hesitance,” Marie says. She turns to look down at me sternly as if trying to snap me back to protocol. I’m so distraught; it takes me a moment before it clicks together. “But this therapy is very effective,” she says, turning to Isaac. “We want to help you overcome your loss, Isaac. All of our doctors determined you are suffering greatly. They’re worried about you.”
“You can get closure,” I say in a soft, familiar voice, making the entire room fall silent. “You can tell me everything you never got the chance to. I can hear you and react. I can make you stop longing and hurting and suffering. It’s all part of the process.” I’m not immune to the weight of my words; I know from the outside they can appear cruel or delusional. But this therapy has been tried and tested—it works. And right now, my heart aches for this boy in front of me. I understand why he’s been flagged by the grief department. He’s a risk to himself. If I can’t help him . . . I’m not sure what will become of him.
My words play across Isaac’s features—a flinch of love, of hate, of disbelief. He wants to pull me into his arms and never let me go. He wants to shove me away and tell me to never come back. He’s so conflicted I’m not sure there’s much I can do to bring him peace. I want to cross to him and wipe away his tears, stitch together his pieces. That’s what I would have done before. But right now I’m not the remedy for his breaking heart. I’m the cause.
When he doesn’t answer, I try a different path. “We can talk online instead,” I offer. “That’s easier sometimes.”
He blinks, his movements slow and exhausted. If my dad wasn’t holding him up, I’m afraid he would fall. Isaac examines me again, taking a long time on the prom dress. His expression empties, as if all of his emotions have drained away.
“No,” he says simply. “I want nothing to do with you.”
Both of my parents react as if he’s really just broken up with me. As if I’m not dead and this is my future husband telling me it’s over. In truth, it does hurt. Isaac is a huge part of my history, my personality. We’ve shared so much—I’m not sure he can handle this loss either.
“Please,” my mother pleads. “The party is in two weeks, Isaac. Can’t you just make this perfect for two weeks?”
Isaac laughs softly, sadly. “I’m sorry, Eva,” he tells her. “But I can’t do that.” He moves past my dad, patting his upper arm as he does. Without even a curious glance back at me, Isaac exits the room and leaves the therapy behind. Leaves us in his emotional wake.
* * *
The rest of dinner is solemn and uneventful. My prom dress, maybe at first nostalgic, feels garish and silly now that Isaac has shattered the illusion. I stay in character, though, and Marie directs the conversation with a friendly set of questions meant to offer comfort as my parents reminisce about our lives. My dad doesn’t participate much, although he sits through the entire meal. I offer to clear the plates, and my mother chuckles and tells me not to worry about it tonight.
“Chores can start again tomorrow,” she says good-naturedly, slipping back into her denial. My mother takes my plate, but pauses next to me. She’s surrounded in the soft scent of detergent and flowery perfume, both subtle and comforting. When I look up, she brushes her hand over my hair adoringly. Her eyes are the same color as my contacts. Then she takes my dirty dish to the kitchen.
“I think we’re done for the evening,” my father says to Marie. She nods, and they both stand. For a moment I wonder if this means he wants me to leave, and I’m truly afraid of failure. “Thank you for bringing her,” he tells Marie, and presses his mouth into a closed-lip smile. I’m awash with relief.
“Of course,” she murmurs. “Now, Catalina,” she says, turning to me, “would you mind walking me to the door?”
I get up and follow her out of the room, wilting slightly under my father’s study. He doesn’t trust me, but something about the evening has made him at least willing to give therapy a shot. For that I’m grateful, because it’s obvious how much the family needs help.
By the time we get to the foyer, I’m already missing Marie—the jangling of her bracelets, the smell of her lotion. I don’t tap into those feelings, though; it’s best to keep them away when I’m on assignment. I blow out a cleansing breath, and Marie and I take a second to look each other over. She tilts her head as if giving my appearance her final approval.
“Aaron will be in touch,” she says. “Tell him everything so I can be aware of your situation and monitor it for any changes. And as I said before, you can contact me directly if you need to. You have your phone?”
I think about my cell phone tucked in my backpack upstairs, and nod, af
raid that if I try to talk, my voice will crack and give away my emotions. I’m about to be abandoned in this new life. This part is always a bit unsettling.
“Good,” she says. “Only use it for contact and extraction. No social calls.” She smiles. “At this point I want you to focus on your parents, and we’ll figure out how to deal with Isaac after I consult with the other therapists. You can reach out to him online, but don’t engage him in person. He’s unpredictable right now, so be careful.”
“I will,” I say faintly.
Marie pauses. “And stay away from Deacon,” she adds. “He distracts you.”
“I’m sure he’d love to hear that.”
Marie laughs and then reaches to pull me into a hug. I close my eyes, drinking her in, and when she lets go, I don’t allow myself to look at her again. In complete silence she walks out the door, and I close it, locking the dead bolt behind her.
* * *
After dinner, my family and I retire to the living room, where we watch my favorite show, one I’ve never seen before, and eat popcorn. They asked me to change out of my prom dress, so sitting on the couch in sweats and a T-shirt is actually relaxing, maybe even a little fun, as the three of us laugh at a few one-liners on the television. Although it’s full immersion, my father is still resistant and finds it impossible to say my name. We’ll have to work on that.
After telling them good night, I head to my room, drained from all the smiling and ready to think over my next steps for therapy. My room is starting to feel a bit more like mine, but I pause when I notice my computer on the desk.
I fidget, but then walk over to it and sit down. I open the screen, and sign in to my e-mail, checking for a message. My heart sinks when there’s no new note from Isaac, and I suppress my guilt and allow myself to think selfishly for a moment. Whether I truly know him or not, that picture of Isaac staring at me, that adoration . . . I want that. I want to know what it feels like to be someone’s world. And the devastated look in his eyes tonight, I want to know more about that, too. I want to know how to fix it.
I’m curious and anxious and inexplicably drawn to Isaac. And not just because of who I’ve become. I believe I can help him—save him, even. He can be my own personal case study. Closers have never dealt with a relationship like this, not that I know of. I’ll be the one to find out if role-play therapy can work. No, I’ll prove that it can. I don’t want to see Isaac locked away. I want to bring back his smile, show him he can have a full life, even after his loss. And maybe in exchange he can give me a look into what it’s like to be normal, to have a normal and perfectly average life.
Resolved, I consider contacting him. But it’s late, and I think it would be crossing a line, especially when he was so outspoken about not being involved in the therapy. Those seeking help approach us. We don’t chase them. I’ll have to give him time to come around. I believe he will.
I wait a minute longer, but without any word from him I close the screen. I take off my wig and brush it out, and then remove my contacts. When I’m stripped down to the studs, I click off the overhead light and climb into bed.
The ceiling fan swirls above me, the dangling string ticking against the glass. The grief-stricken sound of my father’s voice, the attentive manner of my mother, the entire night plays over in my head. And then there was Isaac. My existence disturbed him, upset him so much he left; he couldn’t bear the sight of me. How could you bring that thing in here?
Crushing loneliness spreads over me. I curl up on my side, hands tucked under my cheek. I hate this feeling. Closers rarely talk about their emotions; I guess we repress most of them. And we definitely don’t discuss the way people react to us. Imagine the confusion for the clients. Their reactions can switch from love to agony to hatred in a matter of moments. We’re everything they want and everything they hate to be reminded of. We’re a paradox.
And then there’s the backlash. People are afraid of us—I saw it in Isaac’s eyes tonight. I’m unrelatable and untouchable. I’m an abomination to them. A thing.
Right now, my soul feels paper thin. I’d give anything to talk to my dad, or Deacon, or Aaron. Hell, even Myra. But I’m alone in this. I close my eyes and search out a memory that will bring me comfort, make me feel loved.
I think of Anna Granger, my best friend all through junior high. We did everything together: shared classes and secrets. We even got our periods at the same time. I smile, thinking of the ridiculous picture of us at our ninth-grade semiformal, our dates in oversized suits and Anna and me with terribly cut bangs. We bailed before the end of the night and had our parents bring us to IHOP for pancakes. Anna and I were close enough to be sisters, and I miss her. I miss the thought of her.
Because I’ve never met Anna Granger. She belonged to someone else’s life.
CHAPTER NINE
I BLINK MYSELF AWAKE. THE blinds are open, letting in huge patches of unfiltered sunlight that fall across my bed. I turn to the clock on the side table, not surprised to find out it’s barely seven a.m. I open and close my jaw a few times, the muscles sore from smiling the night before. I can hear the kitchen sink running, the low murmur of a television. Seems my parents are early risers too.
I’m not quite ready to see them yet this morning, so I stand, moaning with my sleepy muscles. The wig is on my desk next to my computer, and I pick it up and brush my fingers through it again. Marie did a great job, but it still doesn’t feel right.
I drop the wig back onto the table and sit at the computer. The wallpaper startles me, the adoring picture with Isaac—so different from the way he treated me last night. I click open my e-mail and scan the messages. They’re mostly spam or people who don’t know I’ve died yet. They’re not part of this closure, so I don’t respond. They’ll find out sooner or later, I guess.
My computer dings, and my body tenses as I search for the blinking icon. Anxiety twists inside me the second I pull up the small screen and see Isaac’s image. He’s reaching out. There’s a short message: I DIDN’T SLEEP LAST NIGHT, he writes. Then a moment later: IT FEELS LIKE I’LL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.
My brain notes difficulty sleeping, but my heart swells because he’s asking for help. I study his thumbnail image, the vibrant ideal of the boy I met last night. I swallow nervously, and then type back.
IT WON’T ALWAYS FEEL LIKE THIS, I tell him, immediately biting my nail after I hit send. He’s typing. Then stops. Starts typing again.
I MISS HER.
I lower my arm, welling up with sadness as I imagine him sitting at his computer, frayed from lack of sleep and overwhelmed by his loss. I KNOW, I respond. I’M SORRY. The cursor blinks, neither of us writing. My training is trying to eclipse my sympathy.
I CAN HELP, I write. IF YOU LET ME.
HOW?
TALKING. WE’LL JUST TALK, ISAAC. I CAN HELP YOU FIND A WAY TO DEAL WITH THIS. HELP YOU GET OVER IT. I’m starting to sound clinical, and I immediately regret mentioning him “getting over” the love of his life. I should have just listened. Right now he needs someone to listen to him—any therapist could have told me that.
YEAH, NO THANKS, he responds, and I can taste his bitterness. I expect him to log off, but he doesn’t. We’re both sitting at the computer, waiting.
OR MAYBE YOU CAN WRITE AND I WON’T RESPOND WITH SOME HORRIBLE THERAPY-LIKE ANSWER. I try a new approach, hoping to gain his trust with a little bit of humor.
YOU’RE NOT EVEN A REAL PERSON, he responds. YOU’RE JUST A REPLACEMENT. HOW CAN I POSSIBLY TALK TO YOU?
Sickness sweeps over me. He’s not entirely wrong, but I’m insulted anyway. Each second that passes echoes his sentiment, deafeningly loud in my head. This is how some of the public sees us—cold and empty. Closers are nonpeople to them. We’re a threat.
I HAVE FEELINGS, YOU KNOW, I write back, without considering what Marie would think of me engaging. But Isaac’s words have brought tears to my eyes, an ache in my chest. Try living your entire life as different people, I think. How would you fucking feel?
Having to watch families lose everything, losing it with them over and over and over. I have no more grief, Isaac, but I can still hurt like a real person. I hurt all the time.
Warm tears rush down my cheeks, and I slam the computer screen shut. I am real. I just lost my parents a few days ago. I lost my other parents not even two months ago. I lose everyone. Everything.
I curse and swipe my hands roughly over my cheeks, my mind spinning. When I look down, there’s a smear of foundation across my fingers. I stare for a moment, realizing I didn’t wash off the makeup from last night. Last night? Confused, I glance around the room, a mix of complicated memories flooding my head. I’m Catalina Barnes. But then there’s also Emily Pinnacle and Rosemund Harris. There’s my mother with dark hair lying in a hospital bed.
A headache starts behind my eyes, and I grind the heels of my palms into them. I get up from the desk, accidentally knocking my chair to the floor. I’m searching for Quinlan McKee, but I can’t be certain of my memories. I’m adrift in my mind, trying to ascertain which thoughts are mine. It was too soon. I need a tether.
An image pops in my mind, and I rush to the closet to find the backpack I came in with. I drop to my knees next to it, rummaging through until I turn it over and dump all of its contents onto the floor. Then I find it: the folded and slightly crumpled piece of paper. I fall back against the wall and slowly open it, smiling my relief as I examine the picture of me that Deacon drew. Quinlan. With a shaky finger, I trace the lines of my cartoonlike features, relieved that I can find myself through his eyes when I can’t find me on my own. That’s why Deacon was a great partner; he anticipated what I needed. He knew me better than anyone. I stare at my name, and slowly my life floods back.
* * *
The first time I met Deacon Hatcher, he was sitting at my kitchen table, eating pancakes and talking with my father. I thought I’d walked in on the wrong family, and I stood in the doorway—wearing pj’s and bed-dreads—staring at them. Deacon looked up first, paused midchew, and then stabbed another bite of pancake without a word and continued eating.