“Thank you.” He’s still for a minute, and then he sniffles. “Look, I know this is probably irregular, but I want to you know . . . we care about you. I care about you. It’s becoming this dreaded countdown for us until the time you’ll leave. You’ve become part of us.”
My body weakens, overcome by the sentiment. I’m part of them, I think. I’m part of a family.
“Eva and I talked about this earlier,” he says, “and we’d like you to stay longer. We’ll pay whatever you want, make any arrangements you need. We just . . .” His light eyes are heavy with grief. “We don’t want you to leave us.”
I stare at him, shutting off all of the training that wants to redirect. Truth is, Marie never prepared me for this. There is no answer here, only love. These people will love me, protect me. They could give me a normal life, and even the grief department should understand that—even my father and Arthur Pritchard.
I leap forward and wrap my arms around the man next to me, his body too bulky to reach around. He chuckles at my response, and pats my back gently.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”
I pull away, and he presses his lips together. I haven’t said yes, but he can tell by the smile on my face that his and his wife’s offer means the world to me.
“Think about it,” he says. My father motions to the patio doors. “Now, we should head back in. I’ve told Angela to behave herself, but you shouldn’t let her get to you. She’ll come to accept you in time. I promise. She’s been through a lot.”
I nod, agreeing that she’s endured too much. I let myself feel compassion for her, let it wash away my anger and hurt. She’s had a chance to vent, so maybe we can finish the meal in peace. At least I hope so. My appetite has finally returned.
* * *
Angie doesn’t speak to me at dinner, but she stays throughout the meal, and even talks to her parents about school. She’s been running on the track in the evenings and told them it helps her clear her head. She glances at me once when she says it, probably thinking about my death. But at least she doesn’t tell me to drop dead or call me a monster. That’s progress.
“Banana cream pie,” my mother says, bringing it in to set in the center of the table. I notice the dusting of almonds on the top, and my anxiety starts to build. I’m allergic to nuts and I don’t eat them. Marie should have advised them about this before I arrived.
My mother dishes out the dessert to each of us. My sister takes a bite immediately and tells my mother it’s awesome. For a brief moment, everyone is happy—and I fit with them. I don’t want to ruin that.
I pick at the pie, not wanting to eat any of it and risk having a bad reaction when I’m supposed to go out with Isaac tonight. They’re all taking a painfully long time, though, and my avoidance becomes obvious.
“Catalina,” my mother says. “You haven’t had any pie.” My father looks over, mildly curious, and this time Angie doesn’t flinch at the use of my name.
“Sorry,” I say, smiling politely. “I’m . . . really full.”
“Nonsense.” She waves her fork. “It’s your favorite. Eat up.” She laughs and takes another large bite. I stare down at the pie, debating letting my face swell just to keep up the illusion. But ultimately, I can’t do it.
“I’m allergic,” I murmur, not looking at her.
“What’s that?” my mother asks, leaning in to hear me better.
I lift my head. “I’m allergic to the almonds.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and a passing flash of recognition immediately followed by grief plays across her expression. “Yes,” she says, and sets down her fork. “I forgot. I’m sorry.”
Everyone’s quiet after that, and my mother doesn’t finish her pie. My sister only nibbles on hers. At one point I look at my father and he nods encouragingly, letting me know that it’s okay. That I didn’t do anything wrong. I appreciate his support, his clearheaded resolve in the face of so much tragedy.
So later, after Angela’s gone and my parents watch a bit of television with me, I take special care to say good night to my father, giving him a kiss on the cheek before going to my room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ISAAC SENDS ME AN INSTANT message on the computer around eleven thirty, telling me he’ll be by in fifteen minutes. Nervousness creeps over me, and I go to the mirror to check my appearance. I brush my fingers through my hair, telling myself once again how much I love the cut. My freckles are hidden, makeup flawless to capture my features just right. Winged eyeliner and soft pink gloss on my lips. I press them together and have a wild thought that maybe they’ll be kissed tonight. I quickly spin away from the mirror, ashamed of where my mind went, and walk to the bed to pull out the plastic aerobic step from underneath.
I open my window and see exactly where I would have hidden it in the bushes. I drop the step into place, glad my return won’t be as difficult as it was last night. One more check of my clothes: a sleeveless turquoise shirt, not entirely weather appropriate but insanely flattering against my skin. I smile, thinking that Isaac will like this. It’s different from what I would have normally worn with him, but in a good way. An idealized way.
I see the shine of headlights quickly flick off, and I know that Isaac is here. Anticipation builds inside of me, and I’m at the window before I realize I left my phone on the side table. I glance back, knowing I should take it in case there’s an emergency, either with me or with Aaron. But then, with a careless turn, I leave it behind. I leave it all behind.
The grass is damp, and as I jog across, my shoes slip, almost sending me headlong into the mud. I steady myself, and when I get to Isaac’s truck, he’s trying to hide his smile.
“That would not have been funny,” I say, although I’m nearly cracking up myself. He turns, and under the interior lights he gets his first glimpse of me. His smile fades; his eyes widen as they take me in. We sit idling at the curb in front of my house, and I briefly wonder what would happen if my parents looked out the window. Would they be mad that I snuck out? Would it be okay because it was with Isaac?
Isaac licks his lips in that slow way he does before he talks. “You’re beautiful,” he says, sounding a bit lost. I smile at the compliment, but he lowers his eyes like he’s ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m afraid I’m being selfish.”
“What?” I ask. “Why?”
“Because I want this so badly.” He looks up at me again, his expression clouded by his confusion. “And I don’t care if it’s real. I . . . I want to believe. Does that make me awful?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say, hiding my disappointment. “You’re wonderful.”
This time, I’m the person who didn’t want the reminder of our situation. I wanted to be the one to make him forget, to take away his loneliness. To make him happy. But maybe this wasn’t the way. “Isaac,” I say, drawing his attention again, “I’m here for your recovery. Just tell me what you need. If this is too much, then we can—”
“I need you,” he says immediately. “I need her. I don’t want to think or talk about it. I just want it to be true.” His words are desperate, and I wonder if he’s been beating himself up since he saw me this afternoon. Feeling guilty. I press my lips into a smile.
“Then tonight I’m her,” I say, my voice thick with compassion but not pity. Earnest resolve to help him through this. Isaac exhales, putting aside the pain and rational thoughts. We sit in the cab of the truck a little longer, and I gaze out the window at the stars.
“It didn’t rain,” I say, feeling him turn to me. “It hasn’t rained all day, just like they promised.”
I look at him, and he nods, shifting the truck into gear. He leans forward to check the sky through the windshield, and when he turns to me, I think he’s more handsome than I’ve ever seen him. “Looks like it’s going to be a perfect day after all,” he says in that quiet, raspy voice.
By the time we’re down the road, headlights on, we’re both smiling, putting aside the truth in fav
or of now.
* * *
Cars line the street in front of the house, but there are no people gathered outside or spilling onto the lawn. Instead a blue glow emits from the blinds, silhouettes of people behind it. I tug self-consciously at the wisps of my hair as if I could wrap them around me like a security blanket. I like parties just fine—I’ve never gone to one as someone else, though.
“It’s okay,” Isaac says, looking sideways at me as we get out of the truck. “They don’t know you here. And we won’t stay long. I . . .” He pauses, smiling in that shy way that is all flirtation, even if he doesn’t realize it. “I’m glad you said yes.”
I’m so charmed. “Me too,” I say, falling into step next to him. We cut across the soft lawn and climb the front steps. Isaac rings the doorbell before burying his hands nervously in his pockets.
I look from him to the door, my heart beating quickly. Although he assured me that no one at this party would know that I’m a closer, I worry that they’ll figure it out. My death wasn’t on the news—the story was buried because the family was seeking closure. But there’s still a chance they heard. I don’t want to be verbally attacked.
The door swings open, and I gasp, having been lost in my thoughts. The guy at the door is slightly older, with a thick beard and a checkered sweater. He smiles at me but then reaches out to do a hand slap/side hug with Isaac.
“Glad you made it, man,” he tells him. “Few more months and you’ll be out of here for good. One last hurrah, right?”
Isaac grins, proud that he got into UCLA, even if it hasn’t been his top priority since my death. The guy in the door turns to me, and leans in to kiss my cheek. “You must be Catalina,” he says warmly. I notice Isaac flinch next to me. “Jason,” the guy says, poking himself in the chest. “Your boyfriend and I go way back to summer camp and shit. But I’ve been in Alaska the last few years on a fishing boat.” He looks at Isaac. “But he e-mailed me about you. Total fucking sap.”
He and Isaac laugh, and I smile along, both saddened and heartened that Isaac took the time to e-mail his old friend about our relationship. I’ve seen Isaac with other people, and although they like him, he doesn’t let them this close. I’m honored that he brought me here. When Isaac looks sideways at me, I smile. It makes him pause—I think the similarity overwhelms him—and he reaches to take my hand. I let him, but my stomach tightens; I wasn’t expecting the physical contact. I don’t let it show.
“All right, let’s get inside,” Jason says. “People are starting to dance, but Romy brought over his videos from Belize. Me and the guys are watching him save the world and shit.” He turns and walks through the door, leaving Isaac and me on the porch. His hand is warm in mine, and he slowly pulls away, his finger gliding against mine, causing a flutter in my chest.
“After you,” he says quietly, motioning me forward. I nod, my hand still tingling, and walk inside the house.
The entryway is dark, but there are more people than I could read from outside. There’s wood paneling on the living room wall, lit up by neon signs of various beer brands, and a large-screen TV with a blue ocean scene and a guy narrating, even though you can barely make out what he’s saying above the music. A girl walking by accidentally bumps my shoulder, and I stumble sideways into Isaac. He catches my elbow, and we pause, wrapped up in each other. I lift my eyes slowly to his, and I think both of us blush, slowly untangling ourselves.
“Come on,” he says, turning to start toward the kitchen, unhooking his arm from mine. “Let’s get a drink.”
There’s a keg in the middle of the kitchen floor, sitting on the tile without any ice around it. I imagine the beer is probably warm and flat, and Isaac and I both scrunch up our noses to say that we’ll pass. We laugh, each glad the other isn’t about to lower their standards for alcohol. We move to the counter, where there are a few cans of unopened Coke, slightly cooler than room temperature. Isaac starts talking to a friend, and I take a moment to look around the room. I’m examining the others before I realize what I’m doing. Studying their gestures, expressions. It’s a terrible habit, and I force my eyes away and take a sip of my Coke.
“So where’s your girl?” I hear Romy announce. Instinctively, I look over and meet Isaac’s eyes. He hesitates, and it stings—even though it shouldn’t.
“Uh . . . ,” he says; his brow furrows, and I realize he doesn’t want to say. I smile politely, as if telling him not to worry about it. Pretend I’m not here. He doesn’t want to introduce me to people if he doesn’t have to. Jason’s one thing, but an entire party? Eventually Isaac will have to tell them I died. They’ll know he brought a closer here after the fact. Would they forgive him for bringing something like me around? Someone, I correct. There’s a sharp pain behind my eyes, and I touch my forehead and wince.
I set down my cup and slip out of the kitchen, zigzagging my way through the people in search of refuge. I find a spot on the stairs where I can sit down. The wood is hard and uncomfortable, and I lean forward, my hands hanging between my knees. After a minute, the ache fades and I’m left instead with loneliness.
Get a grip, I tell myself. This isn’t personal. Isaac’s a client. It doesn’t really matter what I think, though, when I feel so slighted. I try not to, but I can’t stop psychoanalyzing myself. Could I have done something differently to make him want to introduce me, to jump at the chance? I sigh, turning the situation over in my head. I’ve never taken this type of rejection so personally before—why? What’s different?
You like him, I think, and then quickly shake the thought away. I close my eyes, resettling myself in my role. I’m on assignment. I’m Catalina Barnes, and I’m here with Isaac to help him say good-bye to me. Nothing more. It’s okay that he’s hurt; it’s part of the process. I just have to get him to the other side of his grief.
A shadow rounds the bannister of the staircase, and Isaac pauses in front of me. He’s holding two cans and reaches one in my direction. I look at it doubtfully, and the first hint of a smile crosses his lips. “Apology soda,” he says. His dark eyes sparkle again, and I’m helpless to resist the charm in his look. I take one of the cans and thank him. Isaac sips from his drink and motions to the stair I’m sitting on.
“Mind?”
I shake my head that I don’t and move over so he can join me. His shoulder brushes against mine, and I’m reminded of how we touched at lunch, carelessly. Freely. I look at him as he stares out at the party with an unreadable expression.
“We don’t have to stay,” I tell him.
“It’s a lot like pretending, yeah?” he asks, not turning to me. “Both of us. You pretend to be her. I pretend you’re her.”
I want to be me, I think. “Yeah,” I say instead. “That’s exactly how it goes.”
He turns, looking me over like he did when he first saw me tonight, as if struck by my beauty. “And what would she say right now?” he asks. “How well did you study her? How much are you like her?”
“I’d say you’re bumming me out,” I tell him, knowing exactly how I would say it. Cute and gentle, something to bring him out of his bad mood, like I’d do after he lost a game. Of course, I know this is so much worse, but that’s the closest experience I have to compare it to.
Isaac smiles, his expression a little faraway, thinking back on something. Around us, the music changes, and the next song comes on, more bass, more swerve. It seeps into our bones, and I realize how entirely close Isaac and I are sitting now. He licks his bottom lip. “Do you know what I’d say?” he asks.
I’m caught up in his dark eyes. “What?” I ask.
“Let’s dance.” He holds out his hand, and I’m frozen, wanting desperately to take it, but doubting that I should. Do we really want more attention on us?
Isaac tilts his head, smiling softly. “Come on,” he says in that raspy voice.
Dreamlike, I reach and slide my fingers against his, energized by his touch. He pulls me to my feet and then leads us into the crowd. The smell of sweat and
perfume is around us, sickly sweet and savage at the same time. Isaac finds us an empty spot near the window.
It’s the perfect location, partly hidden in the shadows. The house is old and the windows don’t offer the sort of protection from the wind that they should. The pane lets in a cool, gentle breeze. It prickles up my arm and tickles the back of my neck. The song on the stereo is slow and sexy, the rhythm little more than a sway.
I look around at the others, mostly couples. They’re not slow dancing; they’re each in their own orbit, girls holding their hair off their shoulders, eyes closed. Guys whispering, touching the girls’ exposed waists just above their jeans. The bass is heavy; the voice is scratchy. The rhythm is intoxicating, and I move in time with the music. I close my eyes, letting the sound deepen and take me over. It’s been a long time since I’ve given in like this, danced in any fashion.
Despite the cool breeze, sweat trickles down my back, but it feels good. The dampness on my skin is purifying. There’s a touch at my hip, and my eyes flutter open. Isaac is closer now, moving with the music, but looking down at my body, his fingers digging into my skin as he pulls me closer to match up our movements.
The song is echoing in my ears, and then Isaac’s other hand is at the hem of my shirt, his fingers occasionally making contact with my skin beneath, setting me on fire. My eyes close again, drawn in by the heat, the touch, the sounds. I reach to rest my arms over his shoulders, and he lowers his head so that his mouth is near my ear. I feel his breath, and an ache starts in my stomach. I’m absolutely seduced by the moment, lost in a haze of desire and want. I thread my fingers through Isaac’s short hair, and he makes a soft sound of approval, his body pressing into mine.
But then the song ends. The next one has a faster tempo, and the people around us call out for Jason to turn it up. Isaac and I take a step back from each other, his hands falling away from me. I lift my eyes to his, feeling breathless. His skin is flushed, his eyes slightly narrowed as he licks his lips and glances over my entire person. I want to kiss him.