The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(20)

I hesitate at the door of my room and then rush back to grab the Rolling Stones T-shirt I got from Emily Pinnacle’s dad and the earrings that belonged to Susan Bell. I don’t take anything significant from my life. I’m a patchwork of other people’s memories, but somehow they feel truer than my own. Maybe it’s because these items are tangible: I can touch them and know they’re real. I don’t keep souvenirs of home.

I toss one more look around the room, pausing at my reflection in the mirror. Although I’ve practiced Catalina’s posed smile—perfected it—I’ll need to study her a bit more to really get a handle on her behavior. Find out what makes her tick. Once I have access to her computer I’ll go through the rest of her information. Normally this would have already been done, but the assignment is moving quicker than usual. Part of it will have to be on-the-job training. With a deep sigh I turn around, click off my light, and head downstairs.

Dad’s waiting for me on the porch, and when we walk across the driveway past my car, I notice a note tucked under the windshield wiper and smile.

“I can just about guess,” my father says in an uninterested voice. I tell him to hush and jog over to grab the paper. I unfold it and find a quick sketch of me, cartoon-style with outlined yellow hair and freckles, a picture of me with the word “Quinlan” underneath. It doesn’t say what it means, but I already know it’s from Deacon. It’s so I can remember who I am. He used to do this all the time as a way for me to have a reminder of my real self. Plus he knows I think it’s incredibly sweet. I trace the corner of the sketch until my father comes to peek over my shoulder. I quickly fold the note and shove it in my backpack.

“Don’t be nosy,” I tell him jokingly.

“Deacon?” he asks.

“Of course. Who else would make this much effort to annoy you?”

“Good point,” he says, and adjusts his glasses in a fatherly way. He grabs my bag and opens up the trunk of his Cadillac to toss it in. I watch him, loneliness creeping over me. I’m going to miss him. I’m going to miss his half-assed dinners and his loud laugh. I’m going to miss being his daughter. My father slams the lid and catches sight of me. Without a word he rounds the car and gives me a big hug. He smells like laundry detergent and shaving cream, a smell that could only be described as Dad. I hold on a second longer, fighting back the scared-little-kid tears that threaten to fall. When I’m okay, I force a smile. He ruffles my hair in a movement I tell him I hate, but secretly enjoy. And then we get in the car and head to Marie’s apartment.

* * *

“You’re ten minutes late,” Marie says when she meets us at the car. Her braids are tied up in a bun on the top of her head; she has a heavy black bag over her shoulder. My dad is in the driver’s seat, but I waited outside to greet her. Marie casts an uncomfortable glance at my father and then turns back to me. The second our eyes meet, her expression softens.

“I’m sorry, hon,” she says, reaching out to put her hand on my upper arm. “I told him it was too soon, even if you are healthy enough.”

A lump forms in my throat, and before I can even think about it, I jump forward to hug Marie. She drops her bag and squeezes me, the closest thing to my real mother that I can remember. After a long second she pulls back and looks at me seriously.

“Now’s not the time for this,” she says, smiling painfully. “You have to let it go. Leave Quinlan at my doorstep so we can be on our way.”

“I thought I left her at my house,” I say, forcing myself to be tougher. Harder. I pick up Marie’s bag and open the back door to put it inside the car. Marie nods her thanks and climbs into the passenger seat. I walk around and sit behind my father.

There’s an initial chill when Marie and my dad say their hellos, and my father drives toward the freeway. But Marie is right: Now is not the time to worry about my life—or how their relationship affects me. I need to focus on the assignment. I open the zipper on the black bag and take out the paperwork I need to sign off on before we get to the Barnes residence. I sign my life away and Marie adds her signature to the witness line. I sort through the bag, and at the bottom is a round blue hatbox. I shoot her a pointed look, and Marie shrugs and turns back around to face the windshield.

“You never pick the right color,” she says conversationally. “Sometimes I think you’re color-blind.”

I laugh and pull off the lid to see a blond wig, the shade and length nearly right, the quality better than anything I own. Closers usually bring their own supplies, but Marie helps me out occasionally. She knows this business better than any of us. I think that might include my father.

There are a few more items—jewelry, more pictures—things that didn’t get into the file. I clasp a necklace around my neck and tie my hair back. I bring my own bag onto my lap and take out my makeup. I smear a layer of foundation over my cheeks and nose, covering up my freckles. My dad glances at me in the rearview mirror, his face a portrait of concern, and Marie hums to herself with rigid posture as she looks anywhere but at him.

I grab my black zip-up hoodie and slide in my arms. I take the wig and flip my head over to pull it on, yanking it down on the sides. Oh yeah. This is much better than what I have. My wigs tend to feel like they’re squeezing out my brains. This is almost comfortable—like wearing a beanie on a winter’s day. I take it off and replace it in its box, and check the shade of the brown contacts. I get everything in order, and when I’m done, I pull up my hood and rest back in the seat. It’ll be a while before we get there. When we do, Marie will say hello and I’ll avoid eye contact with the family. And then they’ll allow me to go into their daughter’s bedroom, where I will become Catalina Barnes.