Free The Recovery by Suzanne Young Page B

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.
    But my mother had blond hair and blue eyes. She was delicate and pretty, and then she was gone. She died in a car accident, and I never saw her in the