The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(21)

* * *

I must have dozed off, because my body jerks awake when the car pulls alongside the curb and stops. The space around me is painfully silent, and my eyes are itchy from sleep. I glance out the window and look at the expansive ranch-style home. Most of our clients are affluent. I mean, who else could afford a temporary replacement child? But this house in particular is spectacular. There’s a wide driveway with a basketball hoop off to the side; a manicured lawn with slightly overgrown rosebushes. Massive windows frame the entire front of the house; Mount Hood is silhouetted in the background. Towering pines and bright green grass—I find it charming and grand all at once, especially compared to my neglected front yard in Corvallis.

Marie turns, studying me before she speaks in her confident voice—the one reserved for moments like this. “You sure you’re ready?” she asks, as if I can just say no and walk away. I’ve never done that before, but she always acts like the possibility is still there.

I nod, and I meet my father’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “See you in two weeks,” I tell him with a catch in my throat. His eyes well up and a crushing sense of loss at losing him, losing my entire life for two weeks, presses in on me. My dad smiles sadly.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmurs. We don’t draw out our good-byes, my safe return an unspoken promise. It’s ironic—an entire department devoted to closure and yet we’re terrible at it in our real lives. Marie glances over at him and then opens the passenger door while I gather the bags and climb out. My father waits in the car, because although he’s met with the family before, seeing him now would only dredge up the reality of the situation. They’ve spoken to him about their real daughter, so Marie’s job is to step in and become their new consultant, to make me the real Catalina.

Marie touches my elbow, and together we start up the walkway to the big double doors of the home. My heart pounds; knots tighten in my stomach. I’ve always hated this part, sort of like a performer before going onstage—only this is life and not a play, a grossly exaggerated form of method acting.

I pause for a moment, a sudden attack of fear closing in around me. I worry I’m not good enough for two weeks of this, that I won’t be convincing. Marie halts and then comes back to stand next to me. She doesn’t speak, only lets my mind work out what I have to do.

I exhale a cleansing breath, closing my eyes, and once again I hollow myself out to make room. And when all the fear has drained away, the worry and sadness, I open my eyes and stare straight ahead. A machine, a vessel, a replacement. And Marie and I walk together to the front door.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NO ONE ANSWERS WHEN WE ring the bell. Marie and I stand, still as statues on the front porch, with her black bag next to me, my backpack on my shoulder. We wait a full minute, and then Marie outstretches her finger, sharp blood-red manicure, and presses the doorbell again. It seems louder, more impatient, even though it’s just the same. Perception colors everything, I think. What’s real to us anyway? Only our perception.

The door swings open suddenly, and I rock back on my heels. Before I can stop my curiosity, I look up at the man standing in the doorway. His entire face goes slack at the sight of me, and I realize my eyes are still blue—I haven’t put in the colored contacts yet. Marie quickly steps up to divert his attention.

“Mr. Barnes,” she says in her warm therapist tone. “I’m Marie Devoroux. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I move to duck slightly behind her, keeping my gaze turned away.

“Miss Devoroux,” the man says in greeting. His voice is thick with grief and despair, but I don’t sympathize. Instead I adjust the strap of my backpack on my shoulder and glance back to where my father’s Cadillac is parked. He doesn’t smile or wave. He looks at me like I’m an employee, practically a stranger. It wasn’t always like this. When I was little, there were occasions when Marie had to practically tear me from my father’s arms, reassuring him that it would be all right. I wonder if that’s why he shuts me out sometimes. Maybe he’s given me away so often that the idea of me not existing has lost its effect.

What I wouldn’t give to have him chase me down now and beg me not to go. Then again, neither of us would have a job if he did that.

Marie slips her arm around my shoulders, startling me from my thoughts, and I feel Mr. Barnes’s heavy stare.

“May we come in?” Marie asks. After a long pause, Mr. Barnes steps aside, opening the door wider so that we can enter. “It’s down the hall, second door on the left,” he says. Even though there’s a pull to look at him while I pass, I don’t. It’s too soon.

I’m not her yet.

* * *

Catalina’s bedroom is exactly the same as it was the day she died. This is one of the instructions the grief counselors give parents when they sign up for closure. I imagine it’s difficult to resist cleaning, making a bed, or hugging a pillow. Ignoring the clothes on the floor and pictures on a desk—a desire to make it perfect. Make it a shrine. But most of the time parents do exactly what Marie and my father tell them because for a few days they’ll get their child back. At least some version of them.

I drop my bag on the bed and look around the room. The décor isn’t exactly my style, but I take a moment to absorb the scene. The walls are bright blue with framed pictures—not random posters like most bedrooms. These photos are black-and-white, and after a moment I realize they’re not professional. Did she take these herself? That’s something to note for later—a small detail in her personality. Sure enough, I find a heavy-duty camera and tripod in her closet, tucked away and slightly dusty. I guess she’s not into it anymore. That’s probably why it wasn’t in her file.