The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(30)

“I hope you never have to,” I respond in an even voice. Whether it’s my words or my tone, Angie’s expression flips to uncertainty, a little bit of fear. Her friend reaches to tug the sleeve of her sweatshirt

“Ang,” she says in a hushed voice. My sister doesn’t acknowledge her, holding me fast with her glare instead. The other girl squirms in discomfort, the idea of being this near to a closer clearly unsettling her. “Please,” she mumbles to Angie, her eyes trained on the ground.

My sister looks at her and nods, reluctantly giving in to her friend’s request. But before they can walk away, Angie turns back to me.

“I hate you,” she calls. “I hate everything you stand for. You should be the one who’s dead”—her voice cracks—“not my sister.” My eyes well up as I watch Angie fall apart, cry so hard that her friend has to put her arm around her and lead her away. I know Angela’s venom was misdirected at me and that her words came from her grief and anger. I don’t believe she wants me actually dead. Still, I’m sorry for her pain. She may not be my real sister, but I care about her nonetheless.

I watch Angie and her friend walk away, wishing I wasn’t the reason that they left. It was clear how uncomfortable I made the other girl, but I understand. In a different situation, I could end up being her. The thought of me must have terrified her. And Angie, seeing me again without warning, seeing her dead sister . . . it’s almost cruel. Guilt-ridden, I slump in the bleacher, resting against the back fence to watch practice for a little longer. Alone.

* * *

The sun has shifted out of my eyes as practice winds down. I consider leaving before Isaac can confront me, but ultimately I stay to see how he’ll react. Take mental notes on his behavior. Isaac casts a few glances in my direction as the team meets on the mound, and I’m glad the others haven’t noticed me. Not like Angie did. There’s a twist in my stomach when I think about the pain in her expression. How betrayed she must feel by our parents. I push it out of my mind, though—she’s not part of this assignment. I refocus on Isaac. I have to get him to trust me if I hope to give him closure. But I can’t force it, act like a deranged lunatic and scare him away. Being a closer is about subtlety, about letting the client lead the course of their treatment.

As the players head to the dugout, Isaac turns toward me, his eyes shaded by his hat. Seeming truly torn, he starts in my direction, and I stand, unsure of what to do now that he’s on his way over. Slowly, I make my way down the stairs and meet him just as he gets to the fence. I wish I could see his eyes.

“Where’d Angie go?” he asks, looking behind me. His voice is a raspy sort of whisper, different from last night. It’s boyish and cute. He sounds like a baseball player.

“Not sure,” I tell him. “She left about twenty minutes ago.” The familiarity of my voice must startle him, and Isaac looks up, alarm and pain in his eyes. He takes in my appearance, my hair and clothes. I must look enough like her, because his resolve to distrust me weakens slightly.

“And what are you doing here?” he asks quietly, but not unkindly.

“I never miss a practice,” I say, and try to smile. “I thought we could—”

“Don’t do that,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t talk like her.”

I swallow hard. “I have to, Isaac. It’s why I’m here. You weren’t connecting with the other therapists. You wouldn’t let them in. They think this is a better way. I want to help you.”

He adjusts his hat roughly, and turns away. “Stop,” he says, his face growing redder. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want the reminder. Just . . . f*ck. Just go away.” He pushes hard against the fence, making the metal rattle, and then walks across the field, heading to the dugout.

“Isaac, wait!” I call, but he hunches his shoulders, blocking me out. I’ve hurt him again. I shouldn’t have come here, or at the very least I should have left earlier. I take a step back, absorbing my regret.

I watch as Isaac disappears into the dugout, going to the locker room. In the cool breeze I shiver, vowing to do better, to find a way inside the relationship to get him to trust me. Get my father, and maybe even my sister, to accept me.

I’m failing, I think, imagining returning early from this assignment. Heading back to my life to deal with my real father’s disappointment. He thought I could do this, but I’m screwing it up. I have to be better, smarter. I haven’t been committed enough to this role—I’ve been holding it at a distance, always trying to keep one foot in reality. If I want to help these people, truly help them, I need to be fully immersed. I need to be Catalina. I have to try harder.

* * *

I’m a bit lost when I walk into my house a while later, Isaac’s rejection coupled with Angie’s hatred enough to wear me down, eat away at my self-esteem. More than anything, I hate failure. The sensation winds its way from my gut to my heart, hollows me out.

I’m startled to find my mother waiting in the entryway for me, purse in hand. She’s thrilled to see me, and the juxtaposition with how unwanted I felt only minutes before fills up my empty soul.

Before I can even check on my father, my mother takes my elbow and we’re back in the car, heading to the mall, of all dreaded places. Although it’s not ideal, I’m happy not to be alone right now. She and I will be out in public together as mother and daughter, possibly seeing people who will know that I’m a closer. This is allowed, but I’ll have to steel myself against the public reaction. Remind myself that other people don’t really hate me. They just miss who I used to be.