The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(28)

I looked at the stranger sitting at the table, imagining all the secrets of my life that he’d now be privy to. This was a complete violation of my trust. Deacon shrugged, acknowledging he thought this was pretty crazy too. I turned back to my dad. “I don’t even know this guy,” I said. “What if he sucks?”

Deacon snorted from behind me.

My father shot him a pointed look, and then steadied his gaze on me. “I assure you,” he said in a slightly patronizing tone, “Deacon is well trained. I wouldn’t trust your safety with just anyone. He’s been on several assignments already. Glowing reviews.”

His comment didn’t alleviate any of my worries. “No,” I said definitively. And then to Deacon, just in case he didn’t get the message: “Absolutely not. I don’t need a partner.” And with that I stormed back to my room, slamming my door.

Deacon was the one who picked me up from my assignment a week later. He became my most trusted ally. And now, at the thought of him, I’ve brought myself back.

I stay in my closet for a while, leaning against the wall with the sketch. My pulse is still racing, but I’ve found my tether to the real world. I close my eyes and think that Deacon was exactly right about something I already knew: It was too soon for a new assignment.

* * *

I shower and change into the softest T-shirt I can find, and leave my room. I’m craving comfort after this morning’s emotional outburst, debating whether or not I should call it in to Aaron. Ultimately, I decide I don’t want my brain picked over by a counselor. I can handle this. And in a way, I’m glad I broke down. I feel cleansed. First nights are always tough, like sleepaway-camp homesickness—only I have lifesickness.

I enter the kitchen and find my mother at the stove, stirring a batch of scrambled eggs. Her eyes widen at the sight of me, and I wilt, self-conscious under her attention. My mother’s face relaxes and she motions to the kitchen table.

“You’re up earlier than usual,” she says. “And good thing. I was making breakfast for your father, but he’s not hungry. Hope you are.” She glances back at me and I nod. “I’m excited to spend the afternoon together,” she adds. “We can buy you some new clothes.”

I smile politely, thinking more clothes would be a great idea. Other than the outfits I brought and a few T-shirts, most of Catalina’s clothes are uncomfortable, tighter than I like to wear—especially over my curves. “Sounds great,” I tell her, settling back in my seat. “Where’s Dad?” I ask when she sets a cup of orange juice in front of me. Her mouth tightens.

“He went back to bed. He’s very tired,” she says, although I detect the lie in her voice. I guess he’s avoiding me, but that’s not unusual. I sip my juice.

“Anyhow,” she says, walking over to grab the pan and a spatula, “I’m really looking forward to today. It’ll be nice for it to be just us. It’s been a long time since you’ve wanted to have a day with me.” My mother piles food on my plate, and I consider her statement, wonder about the difference between the pictures on my computer showing my family together and the truth that I hadn’t been spending time with her. I thought we were happy and perfect. Nothing is ever perfect, though.

“Well, I’m here now,” I tell her warmly, and shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth. “We can have whatever day you like.” She smiles at the statement and then goes back to the sink to wash the pan.

As I eat, I’m thinking about the pictures I saw online, what they mean, what they represent. I can’t help but think I’m missing something, like I’m keeping a secret from myself. I furrow my brow, but then my mother is there, chatting about her friend Maryanne, who just got divorced, and maybe we could stop by and bring her some groceries. I don’t think my mother quite understands the concept of closure—I’m not a replacement daughter to build new memories with, just a substitute to help her right the past and find a way to move on.

I nod along and don’t correct her, even though I know I should. This is comfortable, so I let her dote on me. I enjoy the attention and praise. For a second I wish this was all real, which I can see in her eyes too, but a nagging voice pulls me out.

Don’t get attached, Marie warns. It’s the worst thing a closer can ever do.

I finish my breakfast and help my mother clean up. The minute I’m back in my room, I throw open the window and let in the fresh air. I stand for a moment in the breeze and close my eyes. The weather is morning crisp, alive. My skin chills, and I walk to the closet and grab my zip-up hoodie.

I go to the computer and start clicking through the different social media outlets, trying to find something new I can think about. Instead, I’m scanning Isaac’s page, noticing the girls who have commented about his loss. Offering their condolences. I don’t personally have any accounts, any wall that people can write on. I see it as public spying, throwing your identity out there for the world to take what they want. For people to mimic. None of the closers participate, because we know how the information can be used. I rest my elbow on the desktop, wishing I at least had a few pictures of my own—something of Deacon, maybe. I smile, imagining that any picture he would put online would be completely indecent.

A reminder message pops up on my calendar, and I click it. BASEBALL PRACTICE—10 A.M. is highlighted. I stare a moment, and then I shake my head to clear it. I was slipping back into my real life when I should have been concentrating on my assignment. Marie was right: Deacon is distracting.