The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(44)

The wipers scrape along the window and send streams of rain down the sides. I wish the rain would let up, show some sign of summer. Marie always says that the minute the sunshine hits Oregon, we forget about the all the months of rain, like we’re reborn. Like we’re flowers blooming. Right now, I’m sopping wet and cold and so far from feeling like a rose it isn’t funny.

“Angie’s staying at our aunt’s house,” I say quietly, afraid to look at Isaac. I debate dropping the act, but ultimately it’s not confronting Catalina that is bringing him misery. That’s the part that has to be fixed. I’m the demon he has to face.

“She told me,” he says. “She wanted to leave before you showed up.”

I worry he’s about to go on a tirade about how terrible I am for being a closer. I pray he doesn’t. I don’t think my heart can take any more tonight. I just want one minute of everyone being okay. Of me not being the source of their pain. Of not being hated.

“When I first saw you outside,” he says, “I was overcome. I . . . I thought you were her. For one fleeting moment, you looked at me just like she used to. And when I realized it was all a lie . . .” He glances over, tears in his eyes. “It f*cking hurt.”

I bite down on my lip, holding back my sympathies. I don’t want to patronize him, but I’m not sure how anyone can observe this and not have it affect them too. Be patient, Marie’s voice tells me. Let him lead his recovery.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says, turning back to the road. “I’ve been an * to you, and I don’t mean to be. Honest. It’s just . . . seeing you breaks my heart.” He takes a shaky breath and then exhales to keep from crying. When he looks at me, I see it didn’t help. “Can you fix that?” he asks, his voice choked off.

“I want to,” I say. “But I’m not the cure for a broken heart. You’re the only one who can mend that.”

He sniffles, nodding as if he understands. He seems more wilted than before, and we drive quietly the rest of the way to Lake Oswego. The only sound inside the truck is the sound of my sister snoring.

* * *

Isaac tells me to wait in the truck as he fishes Angie out of the backseat. He says it’ll be easier for my aunt to accept him dropping her off instead of her dead niece’s doppelgänger. He even asks me to duck down while in the driveway, which stings my pride a little. But I take off my seat belt and do as he asks.

I hear voices at the door of the small ranch, and wait for what seems like forever, crouched low in the front seat. I glance around the cramped space, looking for something to focus on to pass the time. Out of boredom, I open the glove compartment. The entire box falls out, heavy from the pile of papers stuffed inside. I curse, and quickly try to gather them up, shoving them in before Isaac returns and busts me for spying. I fit the glove box back in its slot, but before I close it, I notice what’s hidden among the usual registration and proof of insurance. There’s a bunch of crumpled notebook paper. I take one out and unfold it to see a dark spiral drawn in the center in black ink. I furrow my brow, and pull out another and another, finding more of the same.

Although I have no idea what these papers mean, they set my teeth on edge; the fact that there are so many of them—all the same—creeps me out. Are they Isaac’s? Why is he drawing them?

There’s the sound of a screen door slamming, and I quickly stuff in the rest of the papers and snap the glove compartment shut. It doesn’t close at first, but after three more tries it sticks. I barely get in a breath before the door opens and Isaac hops inside the cab.

“Well that was a shit show,” he mutters, and looks over to the passenger seat. He finds me on the floor and stifles a laugh. “I didn’t mean that low,” he says. He turns over the engine and then puts his arm over the seat to back us out of the driveway. Once we’re in the road, I sit up, slightly embarrassed, and put on my seat belt.

“Aunt Margot’s not thrilled,” Isaac says. “I don’t suspect Angie will be leaving the house anytime soon. Which, between us”—he looks over—“is probably a good thing.”

I feel a twinge of affection for Isaac; the fact that he’s concerned about her is a bit endearing. They’re both a total mess, but I like that he cares. I kind of like him.

“Has she done this a lot since . . .” I trail off, deciding not to finish that thought.

Isaac swallows hard, but continues like he doesn’t know how that sentence ends. “Yeah,” he says. “Couple of her friends came to me worried, but it’s not like she listens to me. All I can do is treat her like I usually would. People get sick of hearing sorry, you know? I’m sick of it,” he says.

I’m afraid if I ask him questions, my clinical approach will put him off. Besides, right now he’s content here with me, and it’s the first step toward trust. Then we can start working through his unresolved issues.

My house comes up sooner than I want, and Isaac pulls into the driveway and kills the lights. It was nice, riding in comfortable silence for a few miles—like we were two regular people coming home from a night out. I decide I enjoy his company, his quiet courage. He is definitely someone I won’t forget after this assignment is over.

I zip up my hoodie, smiling my good-bye, and then reach for the handle of the door.

Isaac shifts in his seat. “Wait,” he calls softly. Surprised, I look back, wondering if I forgot something, but instead I find him with his posture stooped, staring down at the steering wheel.