The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(19)

I get it; I understand the need for our brand of role-playing therapy. More often than not, parents call us when they didn’t get the chance to say good-bye, to say I love you or I’m sorry. This can lead to hurt and emotional trauma. The moms and dads I’ve met never considered a future without their child—they didn’t want one. Part of my job is to show them that it’s possible to be okay. Maybe not great, not right away. But they can get by.

I walk into the kitchen and find my dad waiting. There’s toast on the table, and the smell of strong coffee is thick in the air. I say good morning and drop down on the hardwood chair while he pours me a cup. I rub my eyes, and my dad grabs the creamer from the fridge and sets both the coffee and the cream in front of me.

“Get much sleep?” he asks.

“I slept fine,” I tell him. “Just . . . my head is a little cloudy. You know how it is on returning.”

He nods and sits across from me, watching as I pour the cream into my coffee until it’s almost white. I hate the bitterness but love the caffeine. The newspaper—a relic when it’s so much easier to Google the news, I always joke—sits between us, and I see the headline talking about an uptick in noted side effects from the latest medication craze and the impending investigation. I grab a piece of dry toast and take a bite.

“Should we go over the rules?” my father asks, adjusting his glasses and looking far too tired for someone who didn’t just get back from an assignment.

“I’d rather not,” I say hopefully. I bring my mug to my lips and blow on the coffee before taking a tentative sip. When I peer over my cup at my dad, I see he’s waiting for a different answer. “Maintain eye contact and keep facial expressions open and caring,” I say, grabbing another piece of toast and talking between chews. “Be attentive and relaxed when speaking to the clients. Don’t slouch or frown or look otherwise bored.” I smile. “Even when I am.”

“Good,” my father says, reaching for his own toast. “Anything else?”

I hold out my hand and begin counting off points on my fingers, rapid-fire. “Keep my voice sympathetic, don’t interrupt, don’t rush, and most of all, let the client lead their recovery. Did I pass the interview?” I ask sarcastically.

“I just want you to keep things in perspective, Quinn,” he says apologetically. “The clearer you are going in, the easier extraction will be later.”

He’s right, of course. I set my piece of toast on my plate, take another sip of coffee, and then exhale. “I’ll monitor Mr. and Mrs. Barnes for physical reactions to their grief,” I continue. “Change of appetite, trouble sleeping, memory problems, or erratic mood swings. Based on what I learn, I’ll target the painful memories and help the family overwrite them with positive ones. In this case, I’ll stay until the birthday party, turn eighteen, and let my family celebrate my life. That should help them with the unfinished business they’ve focused on.” I pause, narrowing my eyes as I think. “But Dad, I have no idea what to do about the boyfriend. What does he want?”

“He won’t say,” my father says, leaning forward on his elbows. “But the signs are there and the therapists flagged him. The Barnes family is paying for his closure.”

I furrow my brow. I hadn’t thought about who was paying for his treatment. “That’s awfully nice of them,” I say.

“They were all very close,” my father answers. “Apparently he’s like a son to them.”

My mind spins through the procedures and diagnoses. “They think if they keep him they’ll still be connected to her,” I offer. My father lifts one shoulder as if saying he’s not sure but it’s what he thinks too. Clients sometimes fixate on an object that reminds them of their lost loved one. I’ve seen family members fight over a key chain, a favorite blanket or stained T-shirt. Isaac may have become that object to them.

“I guess I’ll see,” I say, taking one last sip of coffee before standing. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.” The mention of Isaac is drawing me back to the file in the hope of finding more information about his and Catalina’s relationship. Secrets that may be hidden in plain sight.

My father glances at the clock on the oven and reminds me that we’re leaving shortly after lunch. I wave him off and walk out of the kitchen, heading straight for my room. I spend the next few hours checking and double-checking the file. I nearly memorize all of the journal entries, but they give me little insight into Isaac and Catalina’s relationship. I just don’t know what to expect, and I hate the uncertainty.

Just before eleven I glance around my room and close up the file. Time to get ready. I walk to the bathroom and turn the squeaky shower knob. As I undress, I try to drain away, be an emotional blank slate so that I can become Catalina later today. Numbness settles over me, and I adjust the water to scalding hot and step inside the tiled shower.

* * *

I’m wearing the jeans and T-shirt provided by Catalina’s family, the style uncomfortably tight across my hips and chest, or at least tighter than I would normally wear. I have to adjust to my assignment’s taste, so I grin and bear it, heaving my backpack onto my shoulder. I pull a zip-up hoodie off the hanger and fold it over my arm. Stuffed inside my backpack are my phone, a wig and makeup, and a second preapproved outfit of Catalina’s. I’ll sort through her closet when I get to the house.