The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(22)

I continue searching the room, opening and closing dresser drawers, trying to get a feel for her personality. I pause at her desk and find a checkered wallet with a broken clasp. I open it and see Catalina’s driver’s license, credit card, and student ID. No pictures. I set it down and run my finger over her closed laptop. There are stickers—random graphics and ironic phrases—covering the outside. There’s a red leather-bound journal on her desk, and I open it and recognize it’s where the pages were photocopied from. I skim, finding more of the same until I get near the end.

There are pages missing, torn out. Interesting. I set the journal aside, pull out the chair, and sit before opening the computer. I type in the password that I’ve memorized by now. The wallpaper startles me at first: Catalina and Isaac, the same picture that was in her file. She’s smiling and Isaac is watching her adoringly. There’s a tug at my heart, and I quickly click on the Internet to fill the page with something else. I sign on to her social media pages and begin sorting through them. There are other pictures of Catalina’s boyfriend, but none as telling as that wallpaper. I find images of Angie, Catalina’s sister, both girls wearing sunglasses and laughing on the beach. Catalina’s dad asleep in a recliner. Her mom wearing a visor on a golf course. The more I look through her albums, the more confused I am about the girl I’m about to become. By all accounts, she loved her family. She put their pictures on her profile page. It’s so girl-next-door cute, it seems almost fake. I furrow my brow and switch to home videos, watching short clips of Catalina talking, laughing, and I practice mimicking her until I get it right. Once done, I click back to social media and find some of her interactions with Isaac.

Good morning, beautiful, he wrote two weeks ago. She liked the comment but didn’t respond. Immediately after a death, the grief counselors shut down comments on an assignment’s page, delete anything new, at least until I leave. Catalina is frozen in time.

For a moment I wonder what it’s like to be in a relationship where you’re you all the time. To have a past, present, and future you can share with someone. To have them love you completely. I’m envious of the freedom Catalina and Isaac had, the ease of their lives. Envious of the way he adores her. The her she got to be all the time.

“Shit,” I mutter, quickly reminding myself that Catalina is dead and I’m an * for coveting her relationship. I take a second to compose my thoughts and then reach for her journal again. I start flipping pages, even though I’ve already read the passages that were included in her file. I find myself sucked in again, reading about a time Catalina and Angie had a party while their parents were out of town. A quiet ding sounds from the computer, and I turn back to it. There’s a blinking icon at the bottom of the screen, and when I click it, a small box pops up.

Are you there?

It’s from Isaac, or at least someone with his name and thumbnail picture. My stomach drops, and I don’t know what to do. My heart starts racing, and my fingers hover over the keys. I think about responding with a simple yes, but then again, I’m not Catalina—he should know that. It occurs to me that he might not be trying to contact me at all. Maybe he does this, messages her, even though she’s dead, hoping one day he’ll get an answer. I’ve seen it before—parents calling a cell phone just to hear the voice-mail recording. Leaving messages as if their child will one day call them back. But they don’t. They never will.

I start typing a y and then suddenly the small box changes and a blue line tells me that Isaac is no longer online. I’m surprised by the rush of loss I feel, and I wait, hoping he’ll sign back on. But the minutes tick by and I have work to do, so I close the message box and return to Catalina’s photo album.

The hours quickly pass, and when I feel prepared, at least prepared enough to begin the assignment, I walk to the mirror hanging on the closet door and apply the finishing touches on my makeup, accentuating certain features while downplaying others. The blond wig fits nicely and looks almost real, but I don’t totally love it. I pin up one side like I’ve seen Catalina do in a few pictures, and then I turn my head to examine the effect. I find the contacts case and with skill, since I’ve done this a million times, I put in one brown contact and then the other. When I’m all together, I wait, still under the gaze of my unfamiliar reflection.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and I turn as Marie enters alone. She presses her lips together and holds up her hands, bracelets jangling. “You ready?” she asks.

I close my eyes for a moment, and when I look at her again, I smile. “Sure,” I say in a new voice, one I’ve learned from her videos. “Did my parents give you any wardrobe suggestions?”

Marie visibly stiffens, but then she nods toward the closet. “They did. For dinner they’d like you to wear your prom dress.” I stare back at her, speechless. “I know it’s a bizarre request,” she says. “But you had a wonderful time that night, and they didn’t get a chance to get pictures before you and Isaac left.” She waves her hand. “Something about the camera battery being dead. Anyway, they’d love to see you in it now. We’re going to accommodate that.”

“Uh, okay,” I respond. This isn’t totally out of the question—I’ve been asked to wear favorite outfits before. The sweater Nana knitted for my birthday, footie pajamas on a mock Christmas morning. This will definitely be the first prom dress, though. I’ve never even tried one on before.