Free The Recovery by Suzanne Young

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 restructure 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.