The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(92)

The apartment has changed. The furniture has been pared down; her most treasured knickknacks are gone. The bigger pieces—sofa, coffee and kitchen tables—still remain, but the room is no longer eclectic and alive. It’s been stripped of all personality. Marie is gone—I know it immediately. It’s not a complete surprise. She and my dad have been at odds for a while, so I knew that one day she would leave. This was just a really shitty way to do it.

Numbly, I walk over to the couch and sit facing the door. I let the knowledge sweep over me. The loneliness. I take out my phone and skip the return text from Deacon to dial my father’s number. Part of me worries that he’s gone too. That I’ve been completely abandoned by everyone I love. The line rings, and as it does, I glance around the now-plain room—missing Marie. Waiting to hear the jangle of her bracelets. My eyes fall on the kitchen table, and I jump to my feet. There’s a file.

I hang up the phone and move quickly toward the kitchen. If Marie took off, she wouldn’t have left this behind. She has to be coming back. Wild hope seizes me, and I sit at the table—maybe she’s on a different assignment. I turn the folder around to the look at the name on the tab.

The world stops and the hairs on my arms stand up.

QUINLAN MCKEE

This is my file. Why do I have a file? My hands are already shaking as I open the manila folder, pick up my birth certificate, and check the name to make sure it matches. Yeah, it’s mine. Has Marie been keeping notes on me? I mean, closers are careful not to give away too much because we fear being copied, but that’s never actually been done. The fear . . . I thought it was almost irrational. But my advisor has an assignment folder with my name on it.

On the inside cover someone has printed CASE 20859. I shift through the papers, surprised that much of the information is severely outdated. There’s my mother and father, smiling in a copy of the same picture that hangs in the entryway of my house. I find a photo of me, blond-haired and pigtailed. There are drawings from when I was in kindergarten, SUPERSTAR sticker from the teacher and all. I don’t understand—why have a file on me and not update it?

I find more candid photos with my parents, although I’m not sure I’ve seen these ones before. My stomach knots as I sense that something is off. Why wouldn’t I have seen these pictures before?

There’s a photo of me next to a trampoline. My father’s lips are pulled into an exaggerated frown, and I’m next to him with a cast on my arm. A cast . . . on my arm. I look down at my left wrist, forearm, elbow. Not only do I not remember breaking anything, but there’s no sign of trauma. When was this taken?

I whip my hand through my hair, pushing it back and out of my face. I sift through the pages more quickly, hungry for information. There are no journal entries, even though I’ve been required to write them before. Why aren’t they in here? My fingers are trembling so badly, I can’t even read the pieces of paper I hold. I smooth them down on the table, my body in complete panic mode.

When I see the page, I begin to hyperventilate. The room tips from side to side, my eyes blur with tears, and I brush my palm roughly over my face to clear them. I start to whimper, scared because I don’t understand what this means. I don’t know what’s happening.

I’m holding my death certificate.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I DROP THE DEATH CERTIFICATE back into my file, my entire body shaking. I can’t comprehend what this means, the idea so awful my mind won’t latch on to it. Taped in the back of the file is a DVD with my name printed across the middle with Sharpie. I wonder what other terrible secrets Marie has left for me. How could she do this? She sent Aaron away. She left. She left me with this. I need my father now. I need my dad. I call his phone, alternating between crying and failing at not crying as I wait for him to answer. I hang up when I get his voice mail. I just need to hear his voice. Hear that I’m okay.

After trying a second time, I put my phone away. I take my death certificate and fold it up before stuffing it in my pocket. I grab the DVD and start toward Marie’s office, hoping her computer is still here. I step inside the small room and find the file cabinet still hanging open. I wonder for a moment if Marie left in a hurry because she had been in danger—if I’m in danger. But my advisor wouldn’t have let me come here if that were true. Wouldn’t have left me a file. She gave me her secret—I just don’t understand. I’m sick over it, yet I won’t accept what it means.

In the cabinet, I see multiple folders, a different name on each tab. I close the drawer and make my way to the desk, and pull the computer keyboard toward me. I shake the mouse and the monitor comes to life. I stare a moment at the password entry, and then click a few buttons to see if it’ll clear. It doesn’t.

I need to know what’s on this DVD. I pause, thinking about the file that was left on the table. I type in 20859 and hit enter. The screen clears, displaying a bright white background. My heart beats wildly, and I lean down to put the DVD into the drive. I click it open. I’m terrified.

A video pops up—the freeze screen set on a stark room, not unlike the early case rooms I’ve seen in old photos. In the beginning, advisors used to introduce the closer to their clients at the facility and document the meeting. Based on the interaction, they’d decide if the case would go forward. Nowadays counselors just send us to the family and collect their money—not that it’s just about money. It helps, though.