He sniffles, nodding as if he understands. He seems more wilted than before, and we drive quietly the rest of the way to Lake Oswego. The only sound inside the truck is the sound of my sister snoring.
* * *
Isaac tells me to wait in the truck as he fishes Angie out of the backseat. He says it’ll be easier for my aunt to accept him dropping her off instead of her dead niece’s doppelgänger. He even asks me to duck down while in the driveway, which stings my pride a little. But I take off my seat belt and do as he asks.
I hear voices at the door of the small ranch, and wait for what seems like forever, crouched low in the front seat. I glance around the cramped space, looking for something to focus on to pass the time. Out of boredom, I open the glove compartment. The entire box falls out, heavy from the pile of papers stuffed inside. I curse, and quickly try to gather them up, shoving them in before Isaac returns and busts me for spying. I fit the glove box back in its slot, but before I close it, I notice what’s hidden among the usual registration and proof of insurance. There’s a bunch of crumpled notebook paper. I take one out and unfold it to see a dark spiral drawn in the center in black ink. I furrow my brow, and pull out another and another, finding more of the same.
Although I have no idea what these papers mean, they set my teeth on edge; the fact that there are so many of them—all the same—creeps me out. Are they Isaac’s? Why is he drawing them?
There’s the sound of a screen door slamming, and I quickly stuff in the rest of the papers and snap the glove compartment shut. It doesn’t close at first, but after three more tries it sticks. I barely get in a breath before the door opens and Isaac hops inside the cab.
“Well that was a shit show,” he mutters, and looks over to the passenger seat. He finds me on the floor and stifles a laugh. “I didn’t mean that low,” he says. He turns over the engine and then puts his arm over the seat to back us out of the driveway. Once we’re in the road, I sit up, slightly embarrassed, and put on my seat belt.
“Aunt Margot’s not thrilled,” Isaac says. “I don’t suspect Angie will be leaving the house anytime soon. Which, between us”—he looks over—“is probably a good thing.”
I feel a twinge of affection for Isaac; the fact that he’s concerned about her is a bit endearing. They’re both a total mess, but I like that he cares. I kind of like him.
“Has she done this a lot since . . .” I trail off, deciding not to finish that thought.
Isaac swallows hard, but continues like he doesn’t know how that sentence ends. “Yeah,” he says. “Couple of her friends came to me worried, but it’s not like she listens to me. All I can do is treat her like I usually would. People get sick of hearing sorry, you know? I’m sick of it,” he says.
I’m afraid if I ask him questions, my clinical approach will put him off. Besides, right now he’s content here with me, and it’s the first step toward trust. Then we can start working through his unresolved issues.
My house comes up sooner than I want, and Isaac pulls into the driveway and kills the lights. It was nice, riding in comfortable silence for a few miles—like we were two regular people coming home from a night out. I decide I enjoy his company, his quiet courage. He is definitely someone I won’t forget after this assignment is over.
I zip up my hoodie, smiling my good-bye, and then reach for the handle of the door.
Isaac shifts in his seat. “Wait,” he calls softly. Surprised, I look back, wondering if I forgot something, but instead I find him with his posture stooped, staring down at the steering wheel.
“Do you actually think this will help?” he asks. “Therapy?”
“Yes.” If I were him, I would doubt the methods too. But I’ve seen the role play work. I’ve seen families be able to move on.
“But . . .” His eyebrows knit together. “You can’t give someone closure in a few days. You can’t just take the pain away.”
“You’re right,” I agree, turning in the seat to face him. I note how near we are, closer than I normally talk to my clients. “The grief doesn’t disappear,” I continue. “I don’t have that kind of power. This therapy helps people see a bigger picture. Let go of unrealistic expectations of a deceased loved one. Once they’ve told me what they need to, they accept the death. It still hurts—I’m sure it hurts like hell. But it’s the pain of moving on. After I’m done, clients realize that they can’t ‘fix’ this. They can’t bring anyone back. They can’t build any new memories. They can only keep living and enjoying the memories they have.”
He listens, letting me continue.
“I reset them on a new path,” I say, trying not to sound like a therapist. Trying to sound like the girl he loves. “A path with less guilt or longing. You can’t imagine the degree of comfort that comes with saying good-bye. Our brains accept that, accept that it’s over. That it’s okay for it to be over. I don’t cure people,” I say sadly. “I just take away some of the sting.”
Isaac puts his hands on the wheel, gripping the rubber. Finally he turns to me, his handsome face weakened with grief. “I’m having a bad time with this,” he murmurs.
My heart aches. “I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
He bites down on his lip, pulling it through his teeth. He shakes his head as a thought occurs to him. “Why do you do this?” he asks. “Why put yourself through this?”
I’m taken aback at the question. I debate how to answer; discussing my real life would certainly pull him from the therapy. But I also don’t want to dodge his questions. Maybe if he trusts me to tell the truth, he’ll trust me with his therapy later. “Because I can help people,” I answer.
He smiles a little, seeming to appreciate that I’m willing to talk out of character. “No.” He narrows his eyes like he can figure me out. “No one is that selfless. Why do you really do this?”
“I’m good at it. I close out people’s lives because I can.” I pause. “And because my father asks me to.” I didn’t intend to be this honest, but here in the dark and warm cab of Isaac’s truck, I let my defenses down. “People . . . people are kind of terrible to me because of what I do. Being a closer, it’s who I am . . . but I don’t ruin people’s lives. I’m trying to make them better. Instead people hate me, fear me. I’ve devoted myself to this, but I don’t always love it. Like I told you that first night, I hurt too.”
“Don’t you want your own life?” he asks. “Believe me when I say that Catalina’s was far from perfect.”
“This life seems pretty great to me,” I say, lowering my eyes to my lap. “Her family. You. I wouldn’t even know what to do with that much love.”
“Doesn’t anybody love you?” he asks. I look up at him, his dark eyes glistening in the low light. Curious and kind.
“No,” I say. “Not that way.” My own words destroy me, the truth in them ringing through my ears. My father loves me, but not like a regular dad. Not the way Catalina’s dad loved her—endlessly and unconditionally. With my dad there are expectations. Then there’s Deacon, but his hot-and-cold love tears me down sometimes. We’re just too . . . complicated.
The vision of the dark-haired woman in the hospital bed fills my mind. She loved me, I think. Whoever she was, she loved me. That might mean that the only time I’ve ever been truly loved was when I was playing someone else.
I feel tears coming on, and the burn makes me conscious of where I am, who I’m with. “I should go,” I say quickly, and open the door. “Thanks for the ride, and thanks for helping Angie.”
“Of course,” Isaac says, sitting up like he’s disappointed that I’m leaving. He doesn’t call for me to wait again. Maybe his curiosity has been satisfied, or maybe he’s remembered that he thinks I’m a “thing.” I get out and hurry toward my house, ashamed of what I said to him. Of having exposed myself like that. I know better than to break character. I was being selfish.
I stop just under my bedroom window and look back; Isaac waits at the curb. He holds up his hand in a wave, and I return i
t, unsure of what this means in his recovery. But, more alarmingly, what it means for my assignment.
CHAPTER SIX
I SOON REALIZE THAT GETTING out of my bedroom window was a lot easier than getting back in. The sill comes up to my chin, so pushing the pane the rest of the way open proves difficult, even on my tiptoes. But I grunt and stretch and get it far enough that I think I’ll be able to shimmy through.
I put one sneaker on the siding and grip the sill with my hands before hoisting myself up. I’m not strong enough, and the toe of my shoe slips, trying to find purchase against the house. God, if I end up having to ring the doorbell I’ll kill Deacon for letting me do this in the first place. But finally I’m able to get my elbow over the other side, and I pull myself the rest of the way up. I adjust the glass and slide in, nearly falling on the wood floor before flipping my legs around to catch myself.
I stand up in my darkened room, out of breath and with sore arms. Well, I won’t be doing that again. I look toward the door and see that it’s still closed; my pillow is still tucked under the sheet like a sitcom setup. My hoodie is wet, and it feels great to peel it off my skin, lay it over my desk chair to dry. Now, in the quiet of my room, the end of the night settles over me. But mostly the final moments I shared with Isaac. Using the dim light from outside the window, I find and change into my pajamas, thinking about Isaac. I wonder if his idea of me is altered after tonight.
I’m still wired from the night out, and I know I should wash up before getting in bed, but I’m afraid the noise will wake my parents. So I grab a couple of makeup remover wipes and rub them over my face. My hair will dry crunchy from the drink my sister threw at me, but hopefully the rain washed most of it out. I check my phone, but it’s dead, so I plug it in and grab my laptop from the desk before climbing into bed to get under the covers.
In a moment I’m toasty warm. On a soft mattress with overstuffed pillows, surrounded by a nicely decorated room that smells like fresh laundry. I’m comfortable, and I consider the difference between this house and my own. This room feels permanent, and not because it’s not allowed to be changed, like my room. A person lived here, lives here. This is a home.
I open my computer and click around the different sites, checking in on what I’ve missed. I want to send Deacon an apology message, but he’s not much into e-mail. And the situation is too complicated to explain via text. I’ll have to call him in the morning.
A message flashes on the bottom of my screen, followed by the quiet ding. I click it, sending the message up to the middle of my screen. I let out a held breath when I see it’s Isaac.
I REALLY AM SORRY FOR THE WAY I’VE TREATED YOU, he writes. His words repair the small hole torn in my soul tonight, and I smile with the relief.
THANK YOU, I return. THAT REALLY MEANS A LOT. I should say more, but I’m afraid of ruining the moment. The screen tells me he’s writing, and then another message pops up.
I’VE BEEN REALLY LONELY, he writes. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS. THEY THINK I SHOULD BE OVER IT ALREADY, OR THEY WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT ENDLESSLY. I DON’T WANT EITHER OF THOSE THINGS. BUT TONIGHT, YOU MADE ME SEE HOW ALONE I AM.
I PROMISE YOU—IT WILL GET BETTER. TIME WILL MAKE IT BETTER.
YOU MADE IT A LITTLE BETTER.
My breath catches, and I glance around the dark room as if worried someone is watching. They’re not, of course—the only sign of life coming from the glow of my computer screen. But I feel guilty nonetheless. My fingers are poised over the keys, but I have no idea how to respond to his statement. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I’m not his replacement girlfriend. I have to answer, though.
I’M GLAD, I write. Good thing this isn’t my everyday life or he would think I’m completely boring. I’m glad. Really? I exhale, figuring we’re done for the night. But he sends another message, and this one makes my heart soar.
DO YOU WANT TO HAVE LUNCH TOMORROW? he asks. I CAN PICK YOU UP AT NOON.
I rest back against my pillows, torn on how to proceed. This is therapy, I remind myself. There’s nothing to feel bad about. But I call myself out on my bullshit. I’m happy that he asked me, and I want to go. To be perfectly honest, I just want to be around him. I liked how it felt tonight. I even liked being honest.
OKAY, I answer, heat immediately flooding my cheeks. SEE YOU THEN. I click off the screen and slam my computer shut, my body pulsing with electricity. I set the computer on my nightstand and slide back under the covers in the dark. I curl up on my side, my hands folded under my cheek. Normally I don’t let myself fantasize on assignment; I keep my imagination reined in. But tonight I let my mind wander.
I imagine a different time, a different person. Isaac is there. He murmurs how much he loves me, leans in to kiss my lips softly. My fingers trail over his skin, and I stretch my leg over his thigh to press us closer.
I ache for him. Ache for him to love me like he loved her.
I have no more thoughts of closers and assignments. I drift off to sleep dreaming that I’m Catalina Barnes, lost in love with Isaac Perez.
* * *
“Catalina?” a soft voice calls from somewhere far away. My eyelids are heavy, and it takes me a moment to get them to stay open. My mother’s voice calls me again from the hallway.
“I’m awake,” I mumble, hopefully loud enough for her to hear.
“Breakfast, honey,” she says cheerfully, followed by the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hall.
Confused, I glance toward my alarm clock, surprised to see that it’s after nine a.m. I can’t remember the last time I slept through my internal alarm. I roll over, still tempted by the comfort of my sheets. I lie there a minute, and then I remember what I was thinking about before I fell asleep. Sure enough, in the light of day I’m ashamed. There has to be a rule about coveting your assignment’s boyfriend. Hell, coveting her life. I sit up and throw off my sheets.
A morning chill runs over my arms, and I rub my skin with my palms. Now’s not the time to psychoanalyze myself, so I get dressed. I grab a sweatshirt from the closet and I pull it over my head. I didn’t take out my contacts last night, and my eyes are itchy, but I don’t have time to clean them now. Instead I grab a small tube of eye drops and drip liquid into each eye.
“Oh God,” I say, blinking away the artificial tears as a new worry sets in. I agreed to go out to lunch with Isaac today. I didn’t consider the implications, think about what I’d tell my parents. Maybe there’s still time to cancel. I turn around, lean against the desk. My mind is swirling so fast, I can’t make sense of anything. I put my hand over my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut.
This is progress, I think. He wants to talk. He wants to meet. That’s your job.
But then: He’s projecting. He’s using you as a stand-in for his girlfriend. He can’t heal if he won’t let go.
And finally: This would be totally acceptable if you weren’t interested in him.
My mother calls my name again, and I straighten, preparing myself to face the day. I will go with Isaac today, but I will be a total professional. I’ll let him lead his therapy, but I’ll guide it more closely. I can do this.
I go to leave the room but pause to grab my phone. I don’t have any messages or missed calls. I pull up Aaron’s name and type WHAT. THE. HELL. and hit send. I’ll continue to text him, and if I don’t hear back soon, I’m calling Marie. This is dangerous. Maybe if Aaron had been around yesterday, things wouldn’t have gotten so out of control.
I slip the phone into my pocket. Deacon will be expecting me to call him today, and really, I do owe him an apology for leaving him behind at the Warehouse. I just hope he doesn’t ask what I did after. I can’t lie to him. Even if I wanted to, he’d see right through it. And this is definitely something I don’t want him to see.
I open my bedroom door, immediately hit with the smell of bacon, and then head toward the kitchen where my mother is waiting with breakfast.
* * *
“Well, good morning,” my mother says whe
n I enter the sunny kitchen. My father’s seated at the table, and he looks up from his coffee. Although he doesn’t smile, I can see his relief at my continued presence. I nod to him, and sit down just as my mother sets a glass of juice in front of me.
“I’m making breakfast,” she adds, and goes back to the stove, where she continues stirring a steaming batch of liquid eggs. There’s a pile of bacon in the center of the table, and I reach to grab a slice. Now that I’m moving around, I have a slight headache, a dull throb behind my eyes. Hopefully a bit of food will relieve that.
“You okay?” my father asks. I turn to him in time to see him exchange a concerned glance with my mother.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just a headache.”
My mother goes over to her purse and takes out a white bottle. “Here,” she says, trying to sound calm, but her voice is rushed. “Take two of these.” I hold out my hand and she shakes out two pills into my palm. I thank her and toss them into my mouth, wash them down with juice.
When the eggs are ready, my mother comes over with the hot pan and a spatula, dishing them onto mine and my father’s plates. She only puts a small bit on her own. Lack of appetite, I notice, filing it away for later.
My mother joins us, but she barely picks at her food. I’m starving and shovel in eggs and three strips of bacon. My mother gazes at me affectionately, and it makes eating sort of uncomfortable, so I slow down.
“Your sister called today,” she says. Panic sets in. Did Angie tell her that she saw me last night? Does my mother know I snuck out?
“How is she?” I ask, giving no indication of my anxiety.
My mother puts her elbow on the table and leans forward. “She’s . . . good, actually.” She smiles. “She was calling to check up on me and your dad.” She turns to her husband, and he nods at her, seeming heartened by her improved mood. My mother wraps her hands around her coffee cup. “She’s been worried about us. She thought maybe she could come home for the party.”