The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(80)

“What do you mean when you say Catalina was sick?” I ask carefully, at first uncomfortable being out of character in front of them. But what disturbs me more is Arthur Pritchard’s lie. This is not a common occurrence. Especially not for me.

Mrs. Barnes winces, and I can see that this is difficult for her. Her husband doesn’t step in or cut her off. He lets her talk, and I admire him. The respect he gives her feelings. I have a moment of longing for him to be my real dad, but then Mrs. Barnes starts talking again, and I look away.

“About three months ago,” she says quietly, “Catalina and Isaac had an argument. Nothing earth-shattering, but when she came home she sat at the kitchen table and just . . . cried. It was totally unlike her. My Catalina was always joking, happy. This was right around the time she met that Virginia girl, and I guess Isaac didn’t really like her. He told me later that he’d only seen her once, but that he thought Virginia was a bad influence on Catalina. Said she was morbid.”

“Have you ever met Virginia?” I ask.

“No,” Mrs. Barnes says, shaking her head. “And Catalina only mentioned her twice, three times, maybe. Why?”

“Just curious,” I say. “I never did find her name in any of Catalina’s things.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Barnes says. “Catalina had stopped hanging out with her usual friends. And from what the doctors told me, her journal and pictures had been tampered with.” She laughs sadly. “Catalina did that herself, but they called it tampering, like it was evidence. Tell me, how can you tamper with your own life? Isn’t it up to us what we show others?” She purses her lips. “That statement has always bothered me.”

I knew that the images on Catalina’s profile seemed too perfect. Maybe she knew this would happen somehow. Maybe she was preparing for it.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Barnes continues, “I think Virginia was just someone to talk to. Isaac said he never brought her up again after the day they fought. Catalina’s reaction scared him. But no matter what we did, Catalina continued to spiral.” She stops her story. “You know,” she says. “I asked the therapists about Virginia, and Dr. Pritchard contacted me personally to say he’d already spoken to her and that she had lost contact with Catalina weeks before she died. Truth is”—she sighs out a shaky breath—“we don’t know what happened to Catalina.”

Arthur Pritchard didn’t tell them Virginia is his daughter. What did he find out? What else is he withholding?

“I’m sorry to ask this,” I say carefully. “But . . . how did Catalina die?”

Mr. Barnes gets up from the chair, and I nervously glance over to him. He doesn’t say anything, just walks out of the room and into the kitchen. I look back at his wife. “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling horrible for upsetting him.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t want to hear the details.”

I’m about to tell her to forget it, hating that I’m making them dredge up painful memories, but she looks over at me, her face so terribly sad it breaks my heart.

“They were my pills,” she says. “I’d been taking them for anxiety. She . . .” Mrs. Barnes wipes away the tears that fall onto her cheeks. “She swallowed a ninety-day supply. Her dad and I were out to dinner. We got a call from Angie about eight, just before dessert. She said Catalina was locked in the bathroom and wasn’t answering. We told her to call 911. Angela . . . Angela used a baseball bat to break off the door handle and get inside. And, um . . .” She sniffles hard. “She found Catalina on the floor, covered in vomit. Uh . . . there was some blood. Angie tried to resuscitate her, but she said her sister wouldn’t wake up. The paramedics got there before we did, and they had to sedate Angie because she was hysterical.”

The air in the room is so heavy I can barely breathe. The story is awful, so much worse than I imagined. I wish she didn’t have to relive it just now. Or ever. Mrs. Barnes looks down at her pants, wiping at the tearstains. I watch her, and go numb from her grief.

* * *

I get Mrs. Barnes a glass of water from the kitchen, my hand shaking as I fill the glass. Catalina Barnes killed herself and no one told me. The grief department must have known, and that terrifies me. Because if that’s true, that meant my father let me take on this girl’s life, subjecting myself—in an already precarious emotional state—to whatever it was that triggered Catalina’s behavior. He could have killed me. He must have known he could have killed me.

I bring the glass back to Mrs. Barnes, and she takes it and thanks me. I can see she wants to be alone, and I decide I won’t press her any more about Catalina’s life. I’m not supposed to focus the therapy around these memories, around death. They won’t help her heal. I give her a minute to mourn now that her denial has been swept away.

Wandering back into the kitchen, I notice the light is on in the backyard. Mr. Barnes is probably out there, hitting baseballs into the woods. I think back to that first day he let me into his life, how nice that moment was. How much I wished it could have been real.

I open the patio doors and walk outside, finding him sitting at the table. He glances up when he sees me, and I stop as if asking him if it’s all right if I join him. He waves me forward, watching me approach with a thoughtful expression. The wind blows through my hair, and I tuck the strands behind my ears.