The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(23)

I quickly scan through my memory until I recall a picture of me and Isaac under a balloon archway. I walk into the closet, but it takes a little digging before I find the emerald-green dress. The fabric is flowy and satiny, and the minute I put it on, I’m grateful it isn’t fitted. It’s at least a size too small.

I shoot a panicked look at Marie, and she crosses the room to stand behind me as we both stare in the mirror. She adjusts the shoulder straps and then pulls a small pair of thread scissors and a clip from her bag to let out the seam a little. I feel ridiculous, embarrassed that I’ll have to sit through the meal like this, but I want my parents to be happy so I let Marie fuss over the dress a little before she tells me I’m all set.

Marie turns to me, her cool hands resting on my shoulders, her eyes filled with the same concern they have every time she leaves. “You can still walk away from this,” she says. “Or if it becomes too much, contact Aaron or me. My door is always open to you.” Her intensity surpasses her usual good-bye talks, and my worry spikes. But before I can even delve into the reasoning behind it, Marie has me by the arm and is walking us toward the dining room. I’m barefoot in an emerald-green prom dress.

* * *

My feet pad along the shiny wood floor, and I’m impressed by the beauty of my house. The country-chic décor is straight out of a magazine—gorgeous and expensive, but also homey and welcoming. We round the corner, and I pause at the dining room entrance. It’s obvious that my parents have gone to a lot of trouble to welcome me home. The minute I come into view, my mother jumps up, twisting her hands nervously in front of her. She’s overdressed. Her hair is set in curls, stiff with spray, bright lipstick on her thin lips and too much blush on the apples of her cheeks. Her sleeveless black dress is cinched with a belt, and her jewelry is bulky and out of place in our dining room. Her mouth pulls into an anxious smile, and she shoots an expectant look at Marie, waiting for the introduction. My father doesn’t turn toward me; his chin rests on his folded hands, his elbows on the table. I can see his grief, see it radiating from his skin, and I make a mental note to check his emotional state after dinner.

“Good evening, Mrs. Barnes,” Marie says warmly. The advisor turns to me graciously and motions toward the table. “Please sit, Catalina,” she says without missing a beat. From the corner of my eye, I see my mother flinch at the sound of my name. Feeling vulnerable and on display, I make my way around the table to a seat with a bowl of salad already waiting. Marie follows and sits next to me, black coffee already set out in front of her. Marie doesn’t change her habits, even if she’s grown tired of the taste of coffee by now. It’s important to have some steady touchstones. I nod at my mother and take my spot at the table.

Visibly shaking, my mother moves to stand next to her husband, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “I’ve made your favorite,” my mother says, wiping a tear that has found its way onto her cheek. It leaves a flesh-colored trail through her makeup. “Spaghetti with extra meatballs,” she says, her expression hopeful. To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of pasta, but I smile eagerly anyway.

“Great,” I say. “Thanks, Mom.”

Her face goes slack and my father flinches and immediately looks at me. We’re all silent for a moment as they soak it in. My voice is so familiar to them; I know it hurts. But it’s part of the process. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my wig, wondering if it’s the right shade after all. Marie calmly sips from her coffee, letting the quiet tick on.

After what feels like an eternity, my mother swallows hard. “I’ll go get the food,” she says, and quickly leaves the room. I don’t react, caught in my father’s gaze as he studies me. He’s built like a football coach, burly and massive. I watch his green eyes well up until tears slip down his face. He makes no move to wipe them.

I can see his intense longing, his deep sadness, his inability to trust—all classic symptoms of complicated grief. If I monitor a bit longer, I’m sure I’ll find that he’s lost interest in his daily life, maybe even in life in general. He can’t find meaning without me. He’s lost in his emotions. He loves me, present tense. It won’t be easy for him to trust enough to heal.

Marie’s cup clinks against the saucer, and she sighs quietly when my mother returns, holding a large serving bowl filled with bright red strands of spaghetti, a mountain of meatballs on top. The initial awkwardness begins to fade when we start to eat. As far as Italian food goes, this is pretty good. Something about the texture of spaghetti has always bothered me, though, and the dough acts to bind my teeth together.

“I’m sorry that Angie’s not here,” my mother says, tapping her napkin on the corners of her mouth. “She’s staying at Aunt Margot’s for a few weeks to be closer to school. You know how busy she gets.”

What I know is that my sister doesn’t want to be a part of the closure. There’s an empty place set on the other side of me, and I wonder if my parents hoped she’d show up for dinner anyway.

“And I was thinking,” my mother adds, “that tomorrow we could go out. We can grab lunch and then we can stop by the salon.”

“I could get a pedicure,” I offer in a high, positive lilt. She smiles, shaky and unsure, but ultimately encouraged.

“Wonderful,” she says, pleased. “I’ll call and set it up.”