The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(13)

My head feels thick and cloudy, and I climb out of bed to move around—let my brain catch up with my body. The house is quiet; my dad is probably wiped out from staying up late with me. I see my reflection in the vanity mirror and pause for a long moment. For a second, I don’t recognize myself without the red hair. I don’t recognize myself as Quinn.

The folder seizes my attention and the conversation with my father floods back. I’m going on assignment again—this time for two whole weeks. This is major. This is crazy. I pull out the small chair and sit down, resting my elbow on the vanity top. I open the file and find Catalina’s picture.

She has small features and brown eyes and blond hair, although I can’t tell if the color is natural or dyed. She doesn’t have freckles, which means I’ll have to cover mine. She wears more makeup than I normally would, but that actually helps when I’m trying to look like the subject. Her frame is similar to mine, but not as curvy. She’s average in every way. And again I wonder: Why her?

I glance at the photo of her parents and then pick through her therapy notes. She’s from Lake Oswego, a picturesque little town near Portland. I’ve had an assignment up there once before—Castle Dillon, twelve years old, drowning—but I don’t remember much from those two or three days. Scratch that. I remember her brother. He was four and hung on to my leg when I got there, thinking I was actually his sister. The entire scene was a horrific mess, and it was decided that he didn’t need to be involved in the closure process. He basically had to lose his sister twice.

I rub hard at my face, trying to rub away the icky uncertainty that comes along with these memories. If I got attached to the families, my job would become impossible. I respect them, their feelings, their lives—I don’t become part of them. I don’t love them. I’m not allowed to.

To distract myself, I dive back into the file. The death certificate is vague, and I wonder why it’s in the file in the first place. Usually if the cause of death is of any importance, my father tells me what happened. I sift through, passing the picture of Isaac, and find a letter—a photocopy from a journal. Normally I’d get the entire book. I wonder where the rest of the pages are.

The handwriting is loopy and sweet, and I mentally compare it to my own—small and printed. The craving starts: a wish to mimic. That’s the thing most people wouldn’t understand: I like to copy people. I find it fascinating, observing them, studying them, and replicating them. I’m good at it. Next to me on my dresser is a Disney cup filled with pens (a souvenir I might have lifted from Antonia Messner a few years ago), and I grab one.

I pick a piece of ripped paper out of my trash can. There’s a random number scrawled across it, but I don’t remember what it’s from. Probably a telephone number that Deacon got but threw out here. His subtle reminder that I’m the most important girl in his life—even if he dates other people. I flip over the page and then examine Catalina’s handwriting again.

This time we left before they threatened to lock the doors.

I set down the pen and pull the page in front of me, my interest piqued. Most of the assignments keep journals—it’s a class we all have to take in high school, an extension of therapy. Once upon a time education was all about data and science and math. But society reassessed its goals. Now the schools here give us the basics, but they also help us identify our weaknesses, point out flaws in our mental health so that we can work toward managing it. Journaling was actually one of my favorite classes, even though turning over our personal journals to the teacher seemed like a bit of a missed point. They’re not really our private thoughts if we have to let someone else read them. Then again, I’m a little more protective of my emotions because I know what happens to the information once we’re dead. It ends up in a file.

This time we left before they threatened to lock the doors. Isaac pulled me along in the park and we were both laughing. Angie pretty much hates him now, but she sort of hates me too. What are little sisters for, right? Me and Isaac ended up on the baseball bleachers, kissing until someone beeped their horn in the parking lot. Isaac didn’t want to leave, but his mother’s face is hard to argue with. Especially when it’s all scrunched up like that. We said good night, same way we do every time. I waited a minute longer to watch him leave, hoping he would look back. He didn’t.

My eyes widen and I reread the journal entry, glancing at the date. It was written a few weeks before she died. Has my dad seen this? The therapists? Was the couple having problems? Like it’s a marathon of a favorite TV show, I become obsessed. I spend the entire morning going through the file, studying the journal entries that were included and her parents’ interviews. Turns out it’s only two weeks until her eighteenth birthday and there was a party planned. A big bash that the mom can’t seem to get past: I already ordered the cake. It’s chocolate raspberry—her favorite. What am I supposed to do with her cake? It’ll still be her birthday. The therapists thought it would provide the needed closure if I stayed until this party, let the parents say good-bye on their terms. It’s a little morbid, but I guess I get it. I’ll be out the door right after having a huge slice of chocolate raspberry cake.

There’s nothing else out of the ordinary in Catalina’s file, so I practice her smile until I get it right. I find the links to her different social media accounts, the passwords provided by the therapists. Before I can open up my laptop, though, my stomach growls, and I go downstairs to grab a bowl of cereal.