The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(47)

This is progress, I think. He wants to talk. He wants to meet. That’s your job.

But then: He’s projecting. He’s using you as a stand-in for his girlfriend. He can’t heal if he won’t let go.

And finally: This would be totally acceptable if you weren’t interested in him.

My mother calls my name again, and I straighten, preparing myself to face the day. I will go with Isaac today, but I will be a total professional. I’ll let him lead his therapy, but I’ll guide it more closely. I can do this.

I go to leave the room but pause to grab my phone. I don’t have any messages or missed calls. I pull up Aaron’s name and type WHAT. THE. HELL. and hit send. I’ll continue to text him, and if I don’t hear back soon, I’m calling Marie. This is dangerous. Maybe if Aaron had been around yesterday, things wouldn’t have gotten so out of control.

I slip the phone into my pocket. Deacon will be expecting me to call him today, and really, I do owe him an apology for leaving him behind at the Warehouse. I just hope he doesn’t ask what I did after. I can’t lie to him. Even if I wanted to, he’d see right through it. And this is definitely something I don’t want him to see.

I open my bedroom door, immediately hit with the smell of bacon, and then head toward the kitchen where my mother is waiting with breakfast.

* * *

“Well, good morning,” my mother says when I enter the sunny kitchen. My father’s seated at the table, and he looks up from his coffee. Although he doesn’t smile, I can see his relief at my continued presence. I nod to him, and sit down just as my mother sets a glass of juice in front of me.

“I’m making breakfast,” she adds, and goes back to the stove, where she continues stirring a steaming batch of liquid eggs. There’s a pile of bacon in the center of the table, and I reach to grab a slice. Now that I’m moving around, I have a slight headache, a dull throb behind my eyes. Hopefully a bit of food will relieve that.

“You okay?” my father asks. I turn to him in time to see him exchange a concerned glance with my mother.

“Yeah,” I say. “Just a headache.”

My mother goes over to her purse and takes out a white bottle. “Here,” she says, trying to sound calm, but her voice is rushed. “Take two of these.” I hold out my hand and she shakes out two pills into my palm. I thank her and toss them into my mouth, wash them down with juice.

When the eggs are ready, my mother comes over with the hot pan and a spatula, dishing them onto mine and my father’s plates. She only puts a small bit on her own. Lack of appetite, I notice, filing it away for later.

My mother joins us, but she barely picks at her food. I’m starving and shovel in eggs and three strips of bacon. My mother gazes at me affectionately, and it makes eating sort of uncomfortable, so I slow down.

“Your sister called today,” she says. Panic sets in. Did Angie tell her that she saw me last night? Does my mother know I snuck out?

“How is she?” I ask, giving no indication of my anxiety.

My mother puts her elbow on the table and leans forward. “She’s . . . good, actually.” She smiles. “She was calling to check up on me and your dad.” She turns to her husband, and he nods at her, seeming heartened by her improved mood. My mother wraps her hands around her coffee cup. “She’s been worried about us. She thought maybe she could come home for the party.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised but thrilled. Although my sister can’t stand me, something I said last night must have resonated. That will give me a chance to include Angie in the final meeting. I honestly couldn’t have hoped for better news this morning. “Well, that’s great,” I tell them both.

I go back to my food, and my mother ends up making another batch of eggs and dumping them on my plate. I tell them about my lunch date with Isaac, and my mother seems thrilled at the idea. She starts talking about her friend, getting my father’s opinions although he doesn’t look too invested.

After a time, my head starts to swim. My ears feel plugged up with cotton—but it’s comforting. Insulating me from the world. I look dreamily from my father to my mother, listening to them talk. I leisurely have a bite of bacon, savoring the flavor. My mother smiles at me.

But my happiness starts to dim. I look back down at my plate, knowing something isn’t right. I don’t feel right.

“Then Maryanne told me that the butcher from the grocery store—”

“What was in those pills?” I interrupt, my voice sounding faraway. My mother’s mouth opens, then shuts while she considers her words. Her hesitation sets off an alarm bell.

“They’re from Dr. McKee,” my father says when my mother doesn’t supply a fast answer. Still underwater, I turn, sure I didn’t hear that right.

“What?”

“Dr. McKee said that in long-term . . . assignments”—he stumbles over the word—“your kind tend to get stressed. Get headaches. He advised us to give you a dose to help. I . . .” He looks at his wife, concerned, and then back at me. “I thought you knew.”

I rub my eyes, trying to clear my vision. Fight off the impending sleep. “Yeah,” I say, agreeing. “I just forgot. Thank you . . . for reminding me.” My body has slipped into panic as my mind tries to keep submerged. I stand up from the table and smile at my parents, although I’m not sure my muscles are working correctly.