The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(74)



“This isn’t me,” I tell her, dropping into a chair at the table. “This isn’t my house. Isn’t my life. I let mine go and now I can’t find it. There’s nothing familiar to pull me back. I don’t know who I am.”

The woman rushes past me and grabs her black purse off the counter. I watch her, my breathing labored as I try to get a grip on my mind. “Do you know me?” I ask her helplessly. When she turns, she’s holding a pill bottle. She moves quickly to grab a glass and fills it at the sink. I ask her again, but she refuses to answer. She’s scared, but I don’t understand why she can’t just tell me my name.

“Emily?” I ask hopefully. The woman shakes out two pills into her palm and thrusts them in my direction. I pinch them in my fingers, staring down at them. “Susan?” The woman gives me the glass of water and brushes back my hair.

“Shh . . . ,” she says kindly. “Take these. You’ll feel better.”

I want to feel better. But I want to remember first. Think, damn it. Who are you? Different faces flash though my head. I’m everyone.

I set my water on the table and then lay the pills out in my open palm, examining them. “What are these?” I ask her. The house is too cold and I’m shivering.

The woman picks up the glass and tries to put it in my hand again. “Just something to help you relax,” she says. “Dr. McKee prescribed them for you. Do you want me to call him?”

McKee? My eyes snap to hers, and I jump up from the chair, nearly making her drop the glass. Startled, she backs up until she’s against the counter. I’m struck with a weird sense of déjà vu. “Quinlan McKee,” I say out loud to the room, as if arguing with myself. The name is a shock to my system, a cold slap in the face. I’m a closer, but I’ve been away for too long. Something has gone wrong.

Tears sting my eyes, and my headache won’t dissipate. My jaw hurts. My head starts to go fuzzy again, and I look down at the pills in my hand. “No,” I say. I turn over my palm, dropping the pills onto the tile floor. “I don’t want any pills,” I tell her. “I have to get out of here.”

My limbs are heavy, but I rush from the room and into the hallway. At the other end a door opens, and a large man with a big mustache pokes his head out, looking sleepy. He holds up his hand as if say hello to me, but I immediately try the first door on my right, finding only a bathroom. The woman appears at the other end of the hall and I’m trapped.

“Honey,” she says. “Please calm down. I’m going to call somebody to help you.”

I try the next door, and when I open it, it’s a bedroom. I rush inside and then slam and lock the door, resting my forehead against it until there’s a soft knock on the other side. I step back, my teeth beginning to shatter. “I need to think,” I tell the people on the other side. I try to call up my memories, but none of them will stick. It’s almost impossible to tell which ones are real, which are part of the assignment.

I run my hands through my wet hair, looking around. I am Quinlan, I think, but then the idea gets further away. Other faces pop into my mind, smiling girls. Online journals and video. This isn’t right; there should be something—a tether.

There was a picture, I remember desperately. I run to the trash, falling to my knees next to the desk. But when I tip it over, the bin is empty.

“No,” I say. “Where is it? There was a picture!”

I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them to me. I lower my pounding head, trying to piece together my identity. I try to call up the picture, but the image is fuzzy. But where did I get it in the first place? Where is my home?

“Deacon,” I murmur, lifting my head. I have to find Deacon.

I use the desk to pull myself up. I’m unsteady, but gaining purpose. I spy a set of keys on the top of the dresser, and I snatch them up and race for the closet. There’s a backpack on the floor and I grab a couple of items of clothing and shove them inside. I pull the straps over my shoulders and listen for a moment. The hallway has gone quiet, and I imagine the woman is on the phone, calling for help. I don’t want to be here when that help arrives.

I slide open the window and slip outside, dropping onto the ground. Splatters of rain hit my face, and I look up. It’s raining again. Or is it always raining?

The key to the Jetta is marked, and I quickly get inside, tossing my backpack onto the passenger seat. I have the vague idea that Deacon lives in Corvallis, but I don’t have a way to get ahold of him. I don’t remember his number, and I don’t know where a phone is anyway. I step on the gas, back out of the driveway, and race toward the freeway, hoping muscle memory will take me where I need to go. The pain in my head is nearly unbearable—it’s probably dangerous for me to drive. But I need help. I need something familiar.

* * *

The drive is torturous, and no matter what I do, I can’t warm up. I’ve avoided my reflection in the mirror, terrified of what I’ll see. Who I’ll see. My senses tell me I’m Quinlan McKee, but then there’s also Catalina Barnes. No, I think. She was the assignment. At least I think she was the assignment.

Even though an image of Deacon comes to mind, I can’t place him, can’t figure out how I know him. My body is on autopilot and I find the exit for Corvallis. The landmarks start to look vaguely familiar, but I can’t hold on to any specific memory. I think I’m broken.

Suzanne Young's Books