The Recovery Page 6

  The next day, Deacon showed up at my front door, saying how sorry he was. Saying how desperately he missed me. I believed him. I always believe him. But every time we get close—the very minute I fall for him again—Deacon cuts me off, backs away and leaves me brokenhearted by the absence of his affection. Whether it’s his training or his natural disposition, Deacon is charming. The kind of charming that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters. Until you don’t anymore.

  I’m tired of the push and pull that continues to crack and heal over the same scar. I told Deacon that I was done letting myself be vulnerable to him, that he was ruining me. The thought seemed to devastate him. So Deacon and I agreed not to get back together, but acknowledged that we couldn’t stay away from each other either. Best friends is the compromise. It lets us go to the very edge of our want without actually going over. And that works for us. We’re totally screwed up that way.

  From the center console Aaron’s phone vibrates in the cup holder. He quickly grabs it before I do, and rests it against the wheel while he reads the text. After a moment he clicks off the screen and drops his phone back into the cup holder. “Myra says hello,” he says, glancing over. “She’s super excited for you to be back.”

  “I’m sure,” I say, flashing him an amused smile. Aaron’s girlfriend is barely five feet tall, with wide doelike eyes and a red-hot temper. She used to hate me—which, under normal circumstances, could be understandable. I spend a lot of time with her boyfriend. We’re over it now and the entire situation became a running joke between me and Aaron. And although Myra might still hate me a little, she’s one of my closest friends. But everything will change soon. This is Aaron’s last month as a closer—his contract ends in four weeks. After that, he and Myra are going to run off and live some deranged life in one of the Dakotas.

  “Any chance I can talk you into dropping me off at home first?” I ask Aaron in a sickly sweet voice. “I’ve been dreaming about my bed for the entire weekend. Emily had a futon.”

  Aaron whistles in sympathy. “Sounds tough, Quinn. But I already called Marie to let her know we’re on our way.” He smiles. “And you know how much she loves late-night debriefings.”

  False. Marie absolutely hates when we come by after dark.

  I exhale, dreading our next stop. I just want to go home, tell my dad good night, and then crash in my bed. Unfortunately, none of that can happen until we register our closure and confess our sins. Our advisor, Marie, has to interview us before we’re allowed to return to our regular lives. There are procedures in place to make sure we don’t take any grief home with us, take home the sadness. It’s the old saying: misery loves company. Yeah, well, grief can be contagious.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE DOOR TO THE FIFTH-STORY walk-up apartment is always stuck, and Aaron has to ram his shoulder against it to get it open. He stumbles in, turning back to flash me a smile.

  So strong, I mouth, making him laugh. I follow him inside, and then close and lock the door. I pause to look around. I haven’t been to Marie’s house in at least a month, but it’s just as cramped as I remember. Exactly the same. Wall-to-wall antique furniture, ornate chairs and thin-legged tables. Layers of incense hang in the air; red tapestries are tacked over the window, casting the room in soft light from the lamps. The place is shabby chic—much like its tenant.

  “You’re late,” a raspy voice calls from the kitchen. I catch sight of Marie’s bare shoulder and thin long braids as she opens and closes kitchen cabinets in search of something.

  “Quinlan was being nice again by giving them extra time,” Aaron calls. He drops onto the worn velvet sofa and kicks off his shoes. I scowl at him for ratting me out so quickly, and remove my sneakers before Marie can yell at me for disrespecting her apartment. “She’s too kindhearted,” Aaron adds. “Tell Quinn she’s too kindhearted.” He rolls his head toward the kitchen, and Marie pokes out from behind the cabinet door.

  “Stop being so nice,” Marie scolds, and then goes back to what she was doing.

  “See.” Aaron holds up his finger to me in warning before working his arms out of the sleeves of his blazer. He carefully folds the fabric over the back of the couch.

  I roll my eyes. “I was doing my job,” I clarify, sitting on the painted chair near the door. “Check with the Pinnacles—I’m sure I’ll get a glowing review.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marie says, coming out of the kitchen, carrying a tray. “We always check.” She smiles at me and then sets the tray on the coffee table. There’s a small teapot; the smell of mint wafts up from the cups. My stomach turns. That’s not regular tea—not here. It’s a medicinal cocktail that will compel me to tell the truth once I drink it. Luckily, I have nothing to hide.

  Marie hands Aaron a cup. “Guess I’m first,” he murmurs, and gulps his drink quickly. He sucks in a breath to cool down his mouth. “Nasty,” he says with a shiver, and sets the cup on the table.

  “I’ll get the paperwork,” Marie announces. She walks toward the home office, her anklets jangling above her bare feet, her long braids clicking as they swish across her back. Marie Devoroux is in her late thirties with dark brown skin, piercing black eyes, and an effortless beauty that allows strangers to trust her. She’s been my advisor since the beginning. I can still remember being a little girl on her lap, telling her about Barbara Richards—a nine-year-old who cracked her skull while riding her bike. I sipped peppermint tea and told Marie how sad it made me when Barbie’s mother cried. I had a hard time adjusting to the grief in the beginning.

  Marie’s a bit less patient now, especially with me. She and my father have been at odds over a case neither will talk about. I’m not sure when it started, but it’s clear Marie is on the verge of leaving the department altogether. I don’t know what the counselors will do if she does.

  Marie reemerges a moment later with folders and a voice recorder. She takes a spot next to Aaron on the couch, flipping her hair over her shoulder before she sorts through the file with DEXTER REED printed on the tab.

  I pick up my warm teacup, swirling around the liquid. I’m not sure I could hate the taste of mint any more than I already do. Eleven years of drinking this stuff will do that to a person. I take a tentative sip and then gag. Marie gives me a dirty look like she’s offended, and I hold up the tea in cheers before downing it, gagging again.

  Aaron starts recounting his short time as the distinguished law student Dexter Reed. It took less than twenty-four hours to bring a person’s entire life to a close. Which is good, I guess. Otherwise Aaron would have been late picking me up. Again. I don’t listen to the story—although it’s not a huge deal if I do. Hearing his experience won’t make me sad, not like reenacting it can. That’s why we’re here with Marie. Closers aren’t allowed to go home until we process the grief. We take that burden from the clients, help them heal. But we can become affected, taking it on as our own pain and suffering. Our extreme method of therapy isn’t without its risks. The counselors don’t want that to happen, so we talk to advisors. God, sometimes we talk so much I want to cut out my tongue.

  I smile, leaning back in the chair. The tea must already be working. Even my thoughts are honest.

  Aaron’s voice drones on, and I contemplate the evening, the taste of peppermint thick on my tongue. Things could be worse, I guess. I could actually be Emily Pinnacle.

  Only certain kinds of people can become closers. There are currently fifteen of us in Oregon. Different ages, races, and genders. Enough to cover the demographic more or less. We were all selected by the grief counselors because we have certain traits: adaptability, mimicking skills, and a healthy dose of detachment. We don’t feel the same way other people do—almost like we’re numb. Or at least most of us are. While the rest of the world is bent on sharing their feelings, we study them. We learn to copy behavior patterns, facial expressions. We learn how to become other people.

  Over the last couple of years there’s been a societal push to restructu
re our mental health institutions. As a result, people have become more cognizant of their emotions. Oregon was the first state to restructure. First there were counselors in every school, but many thought the districts weren’t keeping the kids safe enough. There was kid-on-kid violence at an alarming rate and little that could be done to stop it. Some districts shut down for good in favor of homeschooling, with online therapists assigned to help students through hormones and homework. People have their counselors on speed dial. They talk about everything.

  The latest news claims that society’s leveling out now—finding a perfect balance with the development of better coping mechanisms. Although not a widespread practice yet, the grief department is slowly growing, the idea of closers becoming more and more appealing to those suffering from loss. I don’t question the ethics of what we do because, ultimately, I’m helping parents come to terms with their new lives. And don’t we all deserve the chance to move on?

  “Quinlan,” Marie calls, her chin lifted as she studies my expression. “Your turn.” The room tips at a slow rock, and I’m not sure how much time has passed. I glance at Aaron just as he wipes his cheeks and sniffles hard.

  “Be right back,” Aaron says quietly, and leaves the room. He’s going to lie down in the spare room until I’m done, let the tea wear off. Marie told us once that advisors didn’t always use the tea—a cocktail of sodium amytal—because they trusted closers to tell the truth about their assignments. But through trial and error, counselors discovered they could make faster progress with reentry if we didn’t lie all the time. They made a policy change, altering the entire system of advisement in order to prevent mistakes, like us bringing home the sadness we were meant to alleviate.

  I hate that tea. I don’t like being forced to do anything, even to tell the truth. But it’s not like I have a choice. My contract isn’t up for six more months.

  “Sit,” Marie says, pulling out the file with Emily Pinnacle’s name on the tab. I move to the couch and face her. “How are you feeling?” Marie asks conversationally.

  “Exhausted,” I respond. I put my arm over the back of the sofa and get comfortable. There’s no telling how long this will take. Marie opens the file and jots something down. She resets her recorder and places it on the table.

  “Quinlan McKee,” she announces for the recorder, and then smiles kindly at me. “Quinn,” she says in her therapy voice. “Tell me about Emily Pinnacle.”

  I furrow my brow, contemplating. “She was quiet, polite. I read through her diary three times, flipped through photo albums, and studied her social media profiles. She didn’t have a boyfriend, but she had an intense crush on Jared Bathman. She never told him,” I say. “She should have, right?” I ask. Marie hums something noncommittal, and I continue. “She was worried he wouldn’t like her back,” I say. “But the day she died, he finally talked to her at the basketball game. She was so excited. On the way home she texted her friend and told her the entire conversation. But she never made it home.” I look down into my lap, tears pricking my eyes. “It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair Emily had to die at sixteen.”

  “You’re right,” Marie agrees. “It says here that her mother became very distraught after Emily’s death. The father hired us because she had become unstable, erratic. The counselors were very concerned about her well-being. What did you observe?”

  “Heartbreak,” I murmur. “I saw a lot of heartbreak.”

  “And how did it feel?”

  “It was a deep, dark hollow in my chest. It felt like hopelessness.” I look up to meet Marie’s eyes. “I started to think that I was never going to see my parents again—her parents,” I correct. “I was scared. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to die.” Tears roll down my cheeks as grief and loss submerge me. “Now I’ll be alone forever.” I tried to keep these feelings at bay when I was Emily, but now I can’t lie. I can’t hide from myself.

  Marie reaches to take my hand, squeezing to reassure me. “You will see your father tonight, Quinn. You didn’t die—Emily Pinnacle did.”

  “It could have been me,” I say, shaking my head. “They all could be me.”

  “No,” she says. “You’re Quinlan McKee. You live at 2055 Seneca Place in Corvallis, Oregon. You’re seventeen and you drive a beat-up old Honda that your father won’t replace.” She reaches and touches my cheek to draw me back into reality. “And you’re alive, Quinn,” she whispers. “You’re here, and you’re alive.”

  I let her words soak in, thinking about my crappy car—the check-engine light that won’t shut off. After a moment I’m rooted back in place. Back in my life. I clear the tears and grab a tissue to blow my nose. When I’m cleaned up, Marie resettles on the couch.

  “Do you want to tell me about the T-shirt?” she asks.

  My stomach drops and I shoot a betrayed look toward the back room. “Aaron told you?” I ask, angry that he’s called me out twice since we’ve been here.

  “He had to.”

  It’s true. Even if my friend wanted to keep a secret, he couldn’t here. “Why were you asking about me in the first place?” I demand. “I don’t like being spied on, Marie.”

  “I thought we talked about this,” she says, ignoring my comment. “Taking things—retaining possessions of the dead. It isn’t healthy and it’s against the rules.”

  “Emily’s dad gave me the shirt. I didn’t steal it.” My emotions are starting to bubble up, but not the sadness I felt earlier. This is different—it’s anger, defiance.

  “I didn’t say you did,” Marie clarifies. “But why would you keep Emily’s shirt? Does it hold an emotional attachment?”

  My thoughts swirl as I fight the impending effect of the tea. Admitting an emotional attachment to the family could send me straight into therapy. This is why I hate talking about my feelings.

  “I just really liked the shirt,” I say, relieved at the words. Relieved . . . that I just told a small lie. I don’t react, even though my heart races. It wasn’t a huge lie—but it was evasive. The truth is that everything I keep has significance, even if it’s only slight. That T-shirt reminds me of my dad, Emily’s dad, and how he bought it for me on my birthday two years ago because he loved the Rolling Stones. We have pictures of us smiling, arms over each other’s shoulders. They may not be my memories, but I like them. And I want to keep them.

  Marie studies me, and for a moment I think she can tell that I’ve skirted her question. I’m not sure how I could have, though. When she’s not looking, I glance at the teapot, wondering if the dose was lighter. Or maybe just what was in my cup. Marie writes a note in my file and closes it.

  “You’re cleared to return home,” she says, and gives me a closed-lip smile. “But don’t keep anything else, Quinn. It might make the counselors think you’re too emotional to handle the assignments.”

  “I’m a coldhearted bitch, Marie,” I say. “Promise.”

  She chuckles, and pats my knee before standing. “Oh,” she adds. “And don’t be too hard on Aaron. He didn’t want to tell me about the shirt. It’s a new line of questioning your father added in. Aaron had to tell me the truth.”

  “Then why didn’t you ask me about him?” I say, confused.

  “Because the questions are only about you.” Her expression is unreadable, unapproachable, and then Marie spins—her braids swinging—and walks back to her office.

  • • •

  Aaron and I are quiet as we get into the Cadillac and start toward my house, where Aaron’s car is parked. Marie’s words clog up my mind, and I wonder why my father would add in questions about me. Why he’s checking up on me. I’m also concerned. Although I didn’t lie, I wasn’t completely honest. Did Marie . . . did she do something different this time? Am I different this time?

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron says in a quiet voice from the driver’s seat. He doesn’t look over, but he’s raw—a little shell-shocked from his debriefing. “I didn’t want to tell her.”

  “What did she ask?”


  He swallows hard, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “We went through the events like usual, but at the end she asked if I noticed anything odd when I picked you up. I didn’t know what she meant at first, but she asked if I thought you were growing too attached to the clients. I . . . I told her about the shirt.” He looks over, his dark eyes miserable. “I didn’t mean to, Quinn.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell him, mostly to alleviate some of his stress. “She wasn’t even mad.”

  Aaron’s eyes narrow slightly before he turns back to the road. “That’s good, I guess.” He pauses. “Did she ask about me?”

  “Nope,” I say. His mouth flinches with a smile, but he quickly straightens it. Aaron doesn’t want anything to mess up his contract. In just a few weeks he’ll have his lump-sum payment, enough to start over somewhere else. He hasn’t been a closer for nearly as long as I have, but then again, my father is the head of the department, so I’ve gotten double the pressure to continue. I’m jealous that Aaron will be gone soon, living his own life. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have that, or if my father will find a way to keep extending my contract.

  The typical contract is for three years’ time, although many closers sign on for a second term. Rarely beyond that, though. It’s not recommended, because the stress puts a closer at risk for a whole host of problems—like losing oneself completely. I’m on my fourth contract. Even now, I couldn’t say which of my favorite childhood memories actually happened to me. The lines blur. Occasionally, I look through old photo albums, but there are a few pictures that don’t fit with my memories, and vice versa.

  One of my most confusing memories is that of my mother—her shiny dark hair and wide smile, even as she lay in a hospital bed, obviously sick. I would crawl up the white sheets to be next to her, and she’d read me a story, tell me she loved me, and kiss my hair.