The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(32)

“It’s uncanny,” he says. “Even with this wig, you look a lot like her. I’ve never seen one of you in person before.”

One of you.

“I can trim the ends,” he offers quietly. “Catalina wore it a little shorter than this in her last few weeks. She had the bone structure for it.” He pauses a minute, and then reaches to turn my head, examining my face. “To be honest,” he says, pursing his lips, “you do too. If you want to cut it for real, I think it’d be very flattering. And the color would go well with your skin tone. Then you wouldn’t have to wear this nasty-ass wig.” He smiles and tugs gently at the lower strands. “Think about it.”

I smile in return, relieved that he didn’t say something cruel. That he actually cared enough to make a suggestion. I thank him, and then Ty leaves and directs my mother to the back to have her hair washed. Before she goes, my mother beams at me like she’s having the time of her life—proud to show off her daughter. Ty goes to the chair of another client and I lower my eyes into my lap, considering his suggestions. I’ve cut and dyed my hair like my assignments before; it wouldn’t be completely unheard of. I haven’t cut it lately because most of the dead girls have had longer hair.

I study my reflection again, trying to remember what I look like without the wig. The only image that comes to mind is the picture Deacon drew; my hair wild in comparison to this sleek bob. I glance behind my reflection; the salon is alive and vivid. The people are all genuine, and I’m hidden in the back like a horrible secret. I run my fingers through the strands of my wig, remembering a video I watched of me and Isaac—a quick clip where he kissed the top of my head and brushed his fingers through my hair, whispering how adorable I was. He couldn’t do that now. He’d see I’m not real, and it would break him all over again.

I’m not making progress, not like I hoped. My mother is in denial, my father in avoidance. My sister hates me and my boyfriend is terrified of letting me too close. This could be my chance to change things. To save them. To know them. To be a part of their lives and give them closure.

And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how much I want them to accept me. To know, for even a minute, what it would be like to have a family. Something more than just my father and a few coworkers. I want to know what it’s like to be normal.

“Ty,” I call, checking first to make sure my mother’s still gone. Ty turns to look over his shoulder at my reflection. I swivel in the chair to face him, and then grip the end of my wig and pull it off, making several people whisper around him. But my hairdresser doesn’t say a word. Instead his mouth twitches with a smile.

Ty abandons the other station and walks over, stopping in front of me and pulling scissors from the front pocket of his apron. He reaches over to pluck the wig out of my hands, staring at it before tossing it in the trash. “Thank God,” he says, and turns me in the chair, swishing my hair back and forth to examine the color and texture. When his eyes meet mine in the mirror, he lifts his eyebrow again, questioning me.

My heartbeat is so loud in my ears, I barely hear myself when I respond: “Make me real.”

PART II

YOU CAN ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT

CHAPTER ONE

SOMEWHERE AROUND MY THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY, my real thirteenth birthday, I was on an assignment where a girl had been run over in her driveway by her own mother. The girl had been fixing the chain on her bike when the mom backed up, killing her instantly. In hindsight, I think the client needed more than a thirteen-year-old girl to bring her closure. The guilt and self-loathing went far beyond grief.

The first day I showed up there, my mother lay on the floor at my feet, sobbing. Marie had to pull her away, calm her down with the help of a strong sedative. The father had left years earlier for a new marriage, and Donna Royale had made me her entire life. My death was a careless mistake. It was an accident.

Marie stayed with me the entire two days, worried the mother would dissolve again. She kept her medicated, dreamy. In the end, what my mother needed to hear was that I forgave her for killing me. That I would see her again someday. She let us leave after that, seeming more at peace. I’d never thought to look her up, find out if the remedy took. Basically Donna Royale disappeared from my life, and I never thought of her again. I’m not sure why she’s in my head now, why I’m worrying about her all these years later. Maybe it’s because my new mother reminds me of her in a way. This burden of guilt hanging around her that I can’t quite place.

“I love your hair so much,” my mother says for the third time, startling me from my thoughts. She gazes over from the driver’s seat as we take the turn into the circular driveway. Her brown eyes are kind, but lost. Loving, longing, desperate. I smile at her, close-mouthed, and then turn to face the house as we park next to my father’s car.

“Don’t you love it?” my mother asks, turning off the ignition. I nod, and flip down the mirror again to check it before we go inside. I’m shocked by my appearance, but in a good way. I brush my fingers through the blond hair, the shade tinted lighter to make it an exact match. I push the strands this way and that, enjoying it from every angle. I’ll keep this, I think. It really does suit me.

“I do,” I tell my mother, and she bites her lip, beaming with adoration. I’ve made her happy, and in turn my heart hurts with the idea that this will all crash back on her later today. One step forward, two steps back. That’s usually how the first full day goes. Her guilt will deepen because she’ll feel a connection with me, and she’ll wonder if she’s betraying her daughter’s memory. It will eat away at her, keep her from sleeping, but in the morning she’ll see me, and her anxiety will fade.