The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(73)

He stares at me for a long moment, and then leans in to kiss me. I put my hand on his chest, holding him back just enough to break contact. There’s a flicker of images through my head—different places, people. Real memories and manufactured ones. I don’t know which belong to me anymore.

“I love you,” Isaac whispers, his breath warm on my lips. But the words are slightly off. Wrong in a way I can’t identify. I push him back and press myself against the passenger door, staring at him with an increasing anxiety. Forgetting and remembering his face. Forgetting my own.

“I’m not Catalina,” I say in a different voice, a familiar one. Isaac takes in a sharp breath as if I’ve slapped him. “You’re not in love with me,” I continue, starting to cry. “And I’m not in love with you. I’m not real, Isaac.”

He stares at me, fresh tears gathering in his eyes. “Shut up,” he murmurs. “You’re Catalina Barnes. You’re just confused.”

I shake my head, horrified that I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not. I just know that I don’t feel like Catalina.

Isaac rubs roughly at his face, and when he looks at me again, he’s not angry. He’s desperate. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, his teeth bared like he’s in pain. “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not her.”

“Yes you are!” he shouts, making me flinch back. “You’re the . . . the love of my . . .” His eyes weaken and the rest of the words get lost in his sobs. Isaac falls apart completely, his body slumped forward as he begs for me to come back, even though I’m sitting next to him. I realize then that he’s no longer talking to me. He’s talking to Catalina.

And I no longer exist.

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS ALMOST TWO YEARS ago, and I had just turned sixteen. There was only a day left on my current assignment, and the father was with me in the kitchen, frying up bacon. Now and again he’d turn away to run his finger down a list of printed items, reciting them to me.

He’d told me and Marie when we got there that, in preparation for our arrival, he’d made a list of pieces of advice he never told his daughter before she died. I didn’t know the details of her death—I think her name was Miranda—but I do know she was murdered. The killer had been caught, but her father had been unable to move on due to the circumstances. Marie stayed with me for this case, which was an unusual arrangement, but I welcomed her help with this one.

She was still asleep in the guest room as my father read items fifteen through twenty-five. But it was at the last one that he paused, choking up. I stared across the room at the back of his flannel shirt, curious about what he was going to say.

He steadied himself, and moved the bacon off the burner, the acrid smell of charred pig starting to fill the room. “Make sure the boy you marry wants you for you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Because you deserve the best kind of love.”

I’d felt those words then, felt them for a grieving father who would never attend his daughter’s wedding. Never meet her husband or her kids. Never see her love anybody.

But now I feel them in a different way. What do I deserve?

Isaac continues to mourn in the driver’s seat, and my sympathy grows. I reach over to touch his shoulder, but he moves back against the door and doesn’t look at me. “Get out,” he says in a thick voice. It’s a dagger to my heart. “Get out of my truck.”

I stare at him for a moment, rejected. Ashamed. I nod even though he can’t see, and numbly reach for the door handle. I climb out and Isaac doesn’t stop me.

My body flinches against the cold air, and I stagger, another sharp pain behind my eyes. I wince and put my palm over my forehead. It’s like there’s a vise squeezing my temples to crush my skull. I blink my eyes open and closed several times. The world tilts slightly, disorienting me even more.

I glance at the house, desperate to be inside and out of sight. Away from this world. I jog for the front door, hoping to acclimate myself. I just need to think so the confusion will clear up.

The front door of the house is unlocked, and I bust in like I’m running from someone. I trip over my feet and have to quickly steady myself against the wall.

“Catalina?” my mother calls, jumping up from the couch. She’s wearing a pink set of flowered pajamas, and I gaze at her. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

This is wrong, I think with a streak of fear. That’s not my mother. I spin around the entryway, not recognizing some of the pieces. “Where are the mirrors?” I ask. “The flannel coat? I don’t . . .”

The woman comes over and puts her hands on my forearms. I jump, banging into the wall. A picture falls and smashes on the floor near my feet. I yelp, backing away from the shattered glass. On the floor is a picture of my family. Not my family, I correct, darting my gaze around the room, looking for something, anything, familiar.

The edges of my world start going fuzzy, and I run my palm over my face. What is this house? I think. I stop, and stare at the lady in front of me. “Where are my things?” I ask her. “There should be things to remind me; without them . . . I float away.”

Fear tears through my chest, and I push past her and run into the kitchen. There are memories of frying bacon and talk of boys and marriage. I turn back to the woman in pink pajamas as she enters the room; her face has gone stark white. She’s staring at me, wide-eyed.