The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(50)

I grab the journal pages and drop the mattress back onto the bed. I breathe an exhausted breath and sit down. I smooth out the papers and find there are about a dozen or so. But the last few are only dark black spirals scratched onto a page. They’re the same pages I found in Isaac’s glove compartment. They must have been mine. I check them over for a minute longer, and they fill me with a sense of dread. Then I find the first page, noting that the date is earlier this year. I scan the first few lines.

Isaac is at baseball camp and I miss him. I hate that they won’t let him call. I told him I’d write, but decided what I really wanted was to read our story. I figure I’ll start from the beginning. Who knows—maybe I’ll even show him when he gets back.

The doorbell rings, and I glance at the clock, my heart rate spiking. I hear my father’s voice, naturally loud enough to travel the length of the house and back. Isaac must be here. I stand up, temporarily displaced in the room. I should put on lip gloss. Some perfume, maybe. I’m . . . nervous. I’m nervous he won’t like me today—not like last night.

My mother calls my name, and I hear her footsteps heading in my direction. The pages are still in my hand, and I bend quickly to stuff them under my mattress. I barely get them in when my door opens. I stand and pretend to adjust my covers.

“Hi, Mom,” I say casually. She beams at me.

“Isaac’s here to pick you up,” she says. The hopefulness in her expression is a bit heartbreaking. Somewhere, she must know that this is all an act, that I’m not really her daughter. But she’s buried that part of her. All she knows now is that her daughter has a date, a perfectly average occurrence for a Sunday afternoon. And it’s in the average moments that we live life. Right now, this makes me alive to her. It renews my purpose here, crashing me back to reality.

“Mom,” I start in a steady voice. “When I get back, I was hoping to talk with you and Dad. I’d like to go over some of our memories together. Would that be okay?”

Her mouth flinches, but she nods. “Of course, honey. We can talk over dinner.”

I thank her, and she turns and walks out, a little stiffer, a little sadder. She didn’t want the reminder that this is therapy, but it was necessary. And tonight, we’ll sift through some of the good memories, easing slightly into the ones that are bothering them. They need to work through their grief. I’m a Band-Aid, not a permanent solution.

Left alone for the moment, I look longingly at my bed, wishing I could read more of the journal pages. But my job isn’t to spy on my old life. I have a client to work with, and he’s waiting in the other room.

Before leaving, I stop at my dresser and dab a bit of perfume on my wrist, slide a lick of strawberry gloss over my lips. I smooth down my hair and notice that my freckles are still visible. I quickly dab some foundation over my nose and cheeks, hiding them. Hiding me.

I smile at the result, thinking I look very pretty today, and hoping that Isaac notices. With that I turn and leave my room, closing my door behind me.

* * *

When I enter the living room, I find Isaac and my dad on the couch, talking quietly. Their expressions are solemn, like seeing each other reminds them of the horrible truth. Isaac isn’t wearing his baseball hat, and I take the moment to look him over in the sunlight filtering in through the windows. The line of his jaw, his slight underbite. The way he licks his lower lip before he talks. There’s a dash of attraction, and I quickly pull myself out of it and pretend that I’ve only just walked in the room, making a wide gesture so they’ll notice me.

Isaac glances over, and his eyes widen. He’s overcome by my presence, and he visibly sways in his seat. My father puts his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and then gets up.

“Have a good time,” he tells me, sounding parental. I smile and I tell him I will, and watch him leave the room.

When I look back at Isaac, he’s gotten to his feet. He rubs his chest over his heart like it aches. He hasn’t thought this through, I realize. He forgot how much it hurts to see me.

“Hi,” I say when the quiet goes on too long. I want to tell him that we don’t have to do this, we can try a different way. But I don’t want to give him that out. I want him to interact with me, face me.

Isaac stares down at his feet, gathering his thoughts. “You,” he starts in a raspy voice. “You look nice.” He lifts his head, and we’re both caught in a gaze—a magnet between us.

“Thanks,” I say, and smile, trying to lighten the mood. “So do you.”

He laughs and brushes his hair. I think the trick with Isaac is to never let him get too self-analytical. When he lets his guard down, he also lets me in. So today I’ll keep it light and fun. I’ll plant seeds in his consciousness that he can turn over later. For now I just want him to be happy.

“You ready?” I ask.

His dark eyes travel over my face, and he’s a little breathless when he says, “Yes.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

ISAAC ASKS WHERE I WANT to eat and I recall pictures of us at a place called Pizza Buono. He smiles when I mention it, and turns on the radio as we drive there. I can tell from his movements that he’s nervous, but it’s an excited sort of feeling—not one of dread.

The sun continues to peek out from the clouds, and I suggest we sit outside to take advantage of the weather while it lasts. We grab a table that falls in a ray of sunlight, the entire scene looking hopeful. We sit and a server comes over to take our drink order. I can feel Isaac watching me while I ask for Coke, but when I turn back, he’s staring down at his menu.