The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(24)

Marie flips her over her wrist and checks the time on her delicate gold watch. We exchange a glance and I can see her impatience growing. She’s not eating; she never eats. Just drinks coffee. She’s here to monitor, to make sure I’m in a safe environment, and to determine if my parents are ready for this therapy. Since she hasn’t removed me, I’m guessing she’s approved this assignment.

I take another bite of food, chewing while I feel the stares of my parents. Occasionally I glance up and smile at them politely, and my mother smiles back, relieved I’m still here. My father hasn’t touched his food, but at least he’s not crying anymore.

There’s a knock on the door, and we all turn. Marie sets down her cup hastily, rattled by the unexpected interruption. Personally, I’m grateful for the distraction. I lay my fork on my plate with spaghetti still twirled around the prongs. No one moves, and I wonder if I’m the one who usually answers the door. I start to stand, when my father jumps up and motions for me to stay.

“I’ll get it,” he says, giving me a once-over as he adjusts to my presence again.

My mother smiles nervously, glancing at Marie. “Perhaps Angie decided to join us after all.” I see the irritation in Marie’s posture, but it would be imperceptible to a client. I just know her too well.

“We want to do our best to maintain the control group, Mrs. Barnes,” Marie says. “It’s conducive for therapy.”

I watch my mother to gauge her reaction, still learning. “I understand,” she says. “But Angie’s her sister. They’re best friends.”

She’s blocking out the actual fact of my death, and reimagining our lives. I haven’t found any mentions of me being best friends with my sister. We loved each other, sure. But my mother is making more of the relationship to build me up. Build up the family. It’s another sign of her complicated grief and denial.

Voices filter in from the foyer, both male, and my mother smiles gently and then lowers her eyes to her plate. “Guess it’s not Angela,” she says, sounding disappointed, and begins to spin the spaghetti around her fork.

My new father’s voice is deep and tainted with a gruff sort of grief. “She’s in here,” he says. My heart begins to race, and I grab the napkin to wipe my mouth. He’s introducing a new variable, deviating from the expected dinner introduction. I shoot a panicked look at Marie and she holds out her hand to tell me to be steady. This is not a time to break character, especially so early in the assignment. My gut just about hits the floor when the two men stop at the entrance of the dining room, both staring straight at me, cold and uninvested in my existence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“ISAAC,” I BREATHE OUT BEFORE I think better of it. His lips part and he steps back, inadvertently putting his hand over his heart. Marie turns to me immediately, but I’m too caught up in the presence of this boy—this person who loved me so much. His eyes slowly rake over my prom dress, my necklace, my hair, and my face.

His breathing is uneven, shaking his entire frame. I stand slowly, letting him take in my appearance, completely vulnerable to his reaction. I use the moment to assess his emotional state. I notice the dark circles ringing his eyes, the drawn pull of his face. His jaw is shadowed, and his tan skin has red patches like he’s been crying. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen someone look so hollowed out. So broken. Isaac’s tall and thin, and I know from my journal that he’s a shortstop for the high school baseball team. I know that he has a birthmark on his right hip and a scar across his knee. What I don’t know is what he’s thinking right now.

“Isaac,” my mother says with a hint of scolding. “Don’t be rude. Catalina’s come down for dinner. Would you like to join us?”

His head snaps in her direction, and I see immediately from his disgust that he is not open to this therapy. A knot forms in my throat, and Marie reaches out to take my hand, reminding me of my job.

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” Isaac calls out. My father tsks and steps in front of Isaac, pushing him back a step. My dad may not have welcomed me with open arms, but he loves his wife and won’t let her be disrespected. He hasn’t forgotten that. Isaac gives him a betrayed look. “What are you doing, Barrett?” Isaac demands. “How could you do this? How could you bring that thing in here?”

I sway back, my knees hitting my seat and dropping me into it. I feel like I’ve been punched, and in an attempt to correct the situation, Marie stands—strong yet supportive—and shields me from his view.

“Mr. Perez,” she says. “I’m Marie Dev—”

“Look, lady,” Isaac says, waving his hand wildly. “I don’t give a shit who you are. That is not Catalina.” He cranes his neck and stares at me. The anger in his expression turns to utter and inconsolable grief. “You’re not her,” he barely gets out between hitched breaths. “You’re not my Catalina. You’re an impostor.”

“Mr. Perez, please,” Marie pushes on. Isaac tears his gaze away from me, openly sobbing before he puts his hands over his face, shaking his head. My father and mother begin to cry too, and this entire evening ruptures from his emotional napalm. I don’t know what to do.

“No, no, no,” Isaac murmurs until my father wraps him in a hug, each holding the other up. Isaac buries his face in my father’s shoulder, completely torn down. But it’s only a moment before he pushes back, looks accusingly around the room. “I won’t agree to this,” he says. “I won’t be a part of this.”