The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(31)

* * *

I have two heavy bags, one from Gap and one from H&M. Although I’ve researched enough to know the right clothes to buy, I let my mother pick them out, mostly because it was fun for her. We stop in the food court and I get a slice of white pizza with veggies while my mother nibbles on a Caesar salad. The mall is bustling around us, but so far no one has thrown me a strange look or noticed me in any significant way. I’m anonymous; we’re just a typical mother and daughter, sharing a day out together. Can’t say I’ve ever had that before.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” my mother says quietly from across the table. I lift my head, worried that I’ve overstepped. I haven’t been paying attention to my words, enjoying myself instead. I set down my pizza and watch her. She stares back, silent at first, and I can see a million thoughts playing over her features.

“I’m angry with you,” she says simply. “I’m angry that you died.”

I blow out a breath, hit with a sentiment I wasn’t expecting. Weighed down by the heaviness of her grief. I reach across the table to take her hand. “I’m sorry,” I respond sincerely.

My mother purses her lips, still thinking. “But it’s not just that,” she adds miserably, squeezing my fingers. “You’d left me months before. Even Isaac saw that. You withdrew from all of us. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“We loved you so much, Catalina. We’d have done anything to help you. Why didn’t you come to us?” Her voice is clicking up in volume, and a couple at the table next to us glances over.

“I don’t know,” I repeat in a hushed voice. My mother seems unaware of the attention she’s garnering, and she shakes her head like I’m not giving her the right answers. But now I have a question of my own.

“Mom, how did I die?” I ask, leaning into the table. “What happened to me?” I hear the couple next to us gasp, and then they disappear from my peripheral vision. My mother closes her eyes, letting go of my hand. When she looks at me again, her pain is lost somewhere behind her denial.

“Doctors say I shouldn’t fixate on that,” she says. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re back to make things right. We should stop dwelling and enjoy our time together.” She sniffles hard and looks around, as if just noticing there are other people. I’m overwhelmed with disappointment, almost desperate to know the truth about myself. My mother motions to my food. “Do you want another slice?” she asks kindly.

I shake my head no. I’m not very hungry anymore.

* * *

“I called ahead and booked us nail appointments,” my mother says, leading the way into the salon. “I know you can’t . . .” She pauses, shrugging nervously. “I know you can’t get your hair done now, but you love this salon. Ty is the only person you let near you with scissors.”

I nod politely and walk with her to the reception stand, glancing around the expansive room. I’m amazed that one, a salon this nice is in a mall, and two, that I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a professional. Usually Myra cuts my hair for me.

The scent of peroxide hangs in the air, mixed with vanilla and shampoo. The girl at the desk has perfect red ringlets and a stylish black colorist’s apron. She says hi to my mom, but when her eyes fall on me, her expression falters. She quickly looks away.

“I’ll let the nail tech know you’re here,” she tells my mother, and quickly flees toward the back. My mother sits down and beckons me to join her, but my stomach is knotted up. They obviously know me here. I realize now what a terrible idea this was.

“Mom,” I say, leaning closer to her. “I don’t think—”

“Eva,” a guy says, strolling in from the main room. He’s tall and broad with short dreads he has pulled into a half ponytail. He and my mother embrace for a moment, and Ty whispers his condolences for her loss. When he pulls back, he doesn’t even acknowledge I’m standing here, like I’m invisible. He touches the ends of my mother’s hair, turning them over. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. What are we doing?” he asks.

“Sorry I haven’t been by,” she says, smiling. “Just nails, though.” She wiggles her fingers to prove her polish is chipped. Ty shushes her.

“Eva, you need a root touch-up and a trim,” he says with his right eyebrow hitched high. “No self-respecting stylist would let you walk around like this. Now grab a chair.”

She laughs, tapping sheepishly at her scalp. “Ty,” she says when they start across the room, “maybe you could . . . something for my daughter?” She motions to me, and slowly the stylist turns.

I have to give Ty credit because rather than call my mother out, call her crazy or selfish, he runs his eyes over me like he’s actually considering my hair situation.

“Yes,” he agrees, turning back to my mother. “A trim would be good. Just like before.” He winks at her and she smiles broadly, obviously relieved that he’ll play along. I, on the other hand, am slightly disturbed. I’m not used to being out in public with my clients, not like this. This is a different level of acting.

Ty has my mother sit at his station and he places me near the back, turned away from the other clients. I sit there and wait, listening as he chats with my mother, helps others. At one point he comes over, pausing behind me and staring at my reflection.