The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(45)

“Do you actually think this will help?” he asks. “Therapy?”

“Yes.” If I were him, I would doubt the methods too. But I’ve seen the role play work. I’ve seen families be able to move on.

“But . . .” His eyebrows knit together. “You can’t give someone closure in a few days. You can’t just take the pain away.”

“You’re right,” I agree, turning in the seat to face him. I note how near we are, closer than I normally talk to my clients. “The grief doesn’t disappear,” I continue. “I don’t have that kind of power. This therapy helps people see a bigger picture. Let go of unrealistic expectations of a deceased loved one. Once they’ve told me what they need to, they accept the death. It still hurts—I’m sure it hurts like hell. But it’s the pain of moving on. After I’m done, clients realize that they can’t ‘fix’ this. They can’t bring anyone back. They can’t build any new memories. They can only keep living and enjoying the memories they have.”

He listens, letting me continue.

“I reset them on a new path,” I say, trying not to sound like a therapist. Trying to sound like the girl he loves. “A path with less guilt or longing. You can’t imagine the degree of comfort that comes with saying good-bye. Our brains accept that, accept that it’s over. That it’s okay for it to be over. I don’t cure people,” I say sadly. “I just take away some of the sting.”

Isaac puts his hands on the wheel, gripping the rubber. Finally he turns to me, his handsome face weakened with grief. “I’m having a bad time with this,” he murmurs.

My heart aches. “I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”

He bites down on his lip, pulling it through his teeth. He shakes his head as a thought occurs to him. “Why do you do this?” he asks. “Why put yourself through this?”

I’m taken aback at the question. I debate how to answer; discussing my real life would certainly pull him from the therapy. But I also don’t want to dodge his questions. Maybe if he trusts me to tell the truth, he’ll trust me with his therapy later. “Because I can help people,” I answer.

He smiles a little, seeming to appreciate that I’m willing to talk out of character. “No.” He narrows his eyes like he can figure me out. “No one is that selfless. Why do you really do this?”

“I’m good at it. I close out people’s lives because I can.” I pause. “And because my father asks me to.” I didn’t intend to be this honest, but here in the dark and warm cab of Isaac’s truck, I let my defenses down. “People . . . people are kind of terrible to me because of what I do. Being a closer, it’s who I am . . . but I don’t ruin people’s lives. I’m trying to make them better. Instead people hate me, fear me. I’ve devoted myself to this, but I don’t always love it. Like I told you that first night, I hurt too.”

“Don’t you want your own life?” he asks. “Believe me when I say that Catalina’s was far from perfect.”

“This life seems pretty great to me,” I say, lowering my eyes to my lap. “Her family. You. I wouldn’t even know what to do with that much love.”

“Doesn’t anybody love you?” he asks. I look up at him, his dark eyes glistening in the low light. Curious and kind.

“No,” I say. “Not that way.” My own words destroy me, the truth in them ringing through my ears. My father loves me, but not like a regular dad. Not the way Catalina’s dad loved her—endlessly and unconditionally. With my dad there are expectations. Then there’s Deacon, but his hot-and-cold love tears me down sometimes. We’re just too . . . complicated.

The vision of the dark-haired woman in the hospital bed fills my mind. She loved me, I think. Whoever she was, she loved me. That might mean that the only time I’ve ever been truly loved was when I was playing someone else.

I feel tears coming on, and the burn makes me conscious of where I am, who I’m with. “I should go,” I say quickly, and open the door. “Thanks for the ride, and thanks for helping Angie.”

“Of course,” Isaac says, sitting up like he’s disappointed that I’m leaving. He doesn’t call for me to wait again. Maybe his curiosity has been satisfied, or maybe he’s remembered that he thinks I’m a “thing.” I get out and hurry toward my house, ashamed of what I said to him. Of having exposed myself like that. I know better than to break character. I was being selfish.

I stop just under my bedroom window and look back; Isaac waits at the curb. He holds up his hand in a wave, and I return it, unsure of what this means in his recovery. But, more alarmingly, what it means for my assignment.

CHAPTER SIX

I SOON REALIZE THAT GETTING out of my bedroom window was a lot easier than getting back in. The sill comes up to my chin, so pushing the pane the rest of the way open proves difficult, even on my tiptoes. But I grunt and stretch and get it far enough that I think I’ll be able to shimmy through.

I put one sneaker on the siding and grip the sill with my hands before hoisting myself up. I’m not strong enough, and the toe of my shoe slips, trying to find purchase against the house. God, if I end up having to ring the doorbell I’ll kill Deacon for letting me do this in the first place. But finally I’m able to get my elbow over the other side, and I pull myself the rest of the way up. I adjust the glass and slide in, nearly falling on the wood floor before flipping my legs around to catch myself.