The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(57)

“Excuse me,” I murmur, and leave the family to their misery. They’ve filled me up with it, and I need a minute to process. I walk straight out of the room and through the kitchen and out the patio doors.

* * *

Michelle Blake was fourteen years old when she fell down an old well shaft. Her family’s property was a sprawling acreage just outside of Salem, and they ended up suing the former owners for not disclosing the hazard when they purchased the home. The girl’s body had gotten lodged only two feet below the opening, just close enough that her parents could reach and stroke her hair while they waited for the fire department and ambulance. Michelle had died instantly, though, so she didn’t suffer. That was all saved for her parents. Normally those sorts of grizzly details would have been left out, but Michelle’s older sister felt it was her duty to inform me of everything. She was the one who had convinced her parents to contact the department in the first place, concerned for their well-being.

She was right to be worried. Her dad attempted suicide the night before I got there. Marie almost called off the entire assignment, but my father assured us that we would be saving the family. Andrew Blake was still in the hospital when I arrived, so I spent the first day with my mother and sister. They were both very helpful and kind, and I quickly diagnosed that my father was the one with symptoms of complicated grief. I gave the family instructions on what to look out for, how to redirect. Technically, it wasn’t my job to advise them, but it helped pass the time.

When Andrew returned, everyone in the house was working toward his well-being. His recovery was swift, and even his wife said she found peace when I was around. In the end I redirected them to their daughter Hailey, helped them rebuild their family structure around her while still honoring Michelle.

I liked Hailey. She was a sister to me. Somewhere in my room at home in Corvallis, there’s a picture of Michelle and Hailey, sitting together on a porch swing. I took it from one of the photo albums stacked under the entertainment center of the Blake house. I haven’t looked at it in a while, but I used to when I first came back. It reminded me of the time I spent with my sister and mother, and how we worked together. There was a camaraderie there built on love and trust. I needed a little bit of that in my life.

And so my thoughts turn to Hailey now as I sit on the porch steps, hugging my knees to my chest. I’ve never had a real sibling. Not sure it would have worked anyway. Would my father have turned us both into closers? Would it have been cruel to only have one, while the other lived a full life? I feel a wave of homesickness, but not for my actual home. That place is so familiar it feels manufactured. Unlived—especially in comparison to this one.

This is a home . . . and I already miss it. I think back to gardening with my mother and practicing batting with my father. I’m just starting to feel better when the sliding glass doors open.

I turn and see my father, his large mass blocking out the light of the kitchen. His face is a silhouette, and I have a sudden fear that he’s here to ask me to leave. Please, no.

“Hey, kid,” he says. I sway, relieved by his approach, the warmth in his voice. As he sits down, I consider my reaction when he first came out. How much I really didn’t want to leave. It’s disconcerting to say the least—my attachment. “You okay?” he asks.

He sits on the porch step next to me, and I turn to him, suddenly feeling like a child. I nod. “Yeah. Just . . .” I’m not sure how honest I should be. I’ve never had this much negative interaction while on assignment—maybe it’s that the scale of this one is bigger, but the constant barrage of insults is weighing on me. “It just hurts my feelings,” I say, wincing once I do. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, turning to face the woods beyond the house. “You’re a human being. I can’t imagine the pressure you live with.” He looks sideways at me. “Can’t imagine a parent who would let you take that much on your shoulders, but I’m not here to judge you or them.” He nods, lowering his head. I’m no longer in character, but I think I’m the one he wants to talk to.

“I know why you’re here,” he continues. “And to be frank, I’m grateful. I like having you around. I think the toughest part of losing my little girl was the silence left behind in the house, the damned quiet.” His voice tightens, and he struggles with the start of tears. “You’ve made noise, taken up the empty space. You’ve breathed life in the empty hole that was left behind, and for that, I thank you.”

My own tears match his, and I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “You have a beautiful family,” I say. My father bites down on his lip, his bushy mustache overtaking his mouth. He then smiles painfully at me.

“Thank you.” He’s still for a minute, and then he sniffles. “Look, I know this is probably irregular, but I want to you know . . . we care about you. I care about you. It’s becoming this dreaded countdown for us until the time you’ll leave. You’ve become part of us.”

My body weakens, overcome by the sentiment. I’m part of them, I think. I’m part of a family.

“Eva and I talked about this earlier,” he says, “and we’d like you to stay longer. We’ll pay whatever you want, make any arrangements you need. We just . . .” His light eyes are heavy with grief. “We don’t want you to leave us.”