The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(53)

“You’re back early,” my mother says. “Everything okay?”

“Isaac’s doing great,” I assure her. “Really great.”

She smiles broadly, looking relieved. “I’m so glad to hear that,” she responds, choking up slightly. She glances around the garden, and then turns to me eagerly. “I’m just cleaning up the rose beds. Would you like to help me?”

“Uh . . .” What I need to do is go inside and read the journal pages, try to figure how Virginia fits into this story. Find out more about Isaac so I can complete this therapy. But my mother stares at me with her wide, brown eyes, needing me to be with her. I smile. “Sure.”

She opens the plastic tub near the house and hands me a pair of gloves and some shears. We make our way around the side, where there are at least a dozen red rosebushes. They’re breathtaking.

My mother hands me a kneeling mat, and I take a place at a bush close to where she’s working. I watch how she trims, cutting back the branches that have grown too long. I mimic her, and at one point she looks over to tell me my roses are perfect. My entire demeanor brightens under her praise. We continue on down the row.

Twenty minutes later, I swipe my gloved hand across my forehead. My back aches from bending around the roses, and I remember now why my house in Corvallis is overgrown and untamed. Gardening is hard.

“These really are beautiful,” I tell her. She takes a look for herself as if seeing them for the first time, and nods.

“You know, I planted yellow once,” she says. “Lemon-yellow roses. They died after the first freeze of the year and wouldn’t grow again. I thought the color would be cheerful, but it had the opposite effect.”

“Weird.” I wince, pricking my finger on a thorn. “Ow.” I pull off the glove and shake out the sting in my skin. “It got me through the fabric.”

“Those little suckers are nasty,” she tells me, peeking over to make sure I’m not bleeding to death. She kneels down next to me and reaches into her gardening apron. She pulls out a Band-Aid, and I watch as she takes my finger and examines the small puncture. She tsks, and pulls off the wrapper on the bandage. Lovingly, she winds the adhesive tape around my finger, taking special care not to hurt me. When she’s done, she looks at me and smiles. “There,” she murmurs, and reaches to brush a strand of hair behind my ear.

My entire body aches with loss. I feel the tears gather in my eyes: This sense of being taken care of—it’s completely enveloping. It’s warmth and comfort. For a moment I’m sure it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

She must read my expression, because she presses her lips into a smile and then goes to tidy up my rosebush. “You know,” she says quietly, considering her words before she continues, “if you wanted to stay, live here while you go to college, save some money—you can. You can stay as long as you want.”

My stomach sinks, but not because I hate the idea. I actually love the thought of sticking around longer. I love the idea of being part of this family. My training tells me I should redirect her, make it clear immediately that this is a temporary situation. There’s no way the department would let that happen, no matter how much I wanted to stay. I look over at her and smile—a moment passing between us without words. Without a no.

It’s enough for her to go back to gardening, humming a tune that sounds like a lullaby, one I’m sure I enjoyed when I was a baby. We dig in the dirt in front of a big white house, letting the sun warm our faces, happy in the idea of being together just a little longer.

* * *

I’ve forgotten most of my worries when we come back in the house, slightly achy but in that rewarding hard-work sort of way. My dad is in the kitchen, adding pieces of bread to the toaster. Sliced tomatoes and lettuce are on the table next to the leftover bacon from this morning.

“Thought we’d have some BLTs,” he says, smiling beneath his bushy mustache.

“Barrett,” my mother scolds, although it’s more playful than scoldy. “You’ll ruin dinner.”

“We’ll be hungry again in a few hours,” he says. When she sighs, he comes over and kisses her cheek as an apology. My mother laughs, shooing him away. I feel my cheeks blush; their flirting is a little embarrassing, but also completely adorable at the same time. I can honestly say that I don’t think any of my other parents liked each other this much.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me. While my parents work together to make sandwiches for us, I glance down and see it’s a message from Deacon.

FOR ALL YOU KNOW I COULD HAVE DIED FROM EXPOSURE IN THE PARKING LOT OF THAT BAR LAST NIGHT. THIS IS TO ASSURE YOU THAT I DIDN’T.

I wince. I forgot to call him today and apologize. Before I can send a pathetic I’M SORRY, another message pops up.

AARON WANTED ME TO TELL YOU THAT HE WOULDN’T KNOW MORE ABOUT THE VIRGINIA SITUATION FOR A FEW DAYS, BUT TO HANG TIGHT. HE ALSO TOLD ME HE SAW YOU TODAY. HOPE IT WAS A NICE LUNCH.

I glance at my parents, and when I see they’re still busy, I quickly type out: I’M ON ASSIGNMENT. THAT’S IT.

He waits a painfully long time to answer. YOU’RE QUINLAN MCKEE, he writes simply. There’s a sting on my face, a cold slap of reality. I slip my phone back into my pocket and begin to gnaw on my lip.

I know who I am, Deacon, I think, unnerved by his text. I do still know that.