says, motioning to my reflection. “I liked your hair long.”
“And I like that special blazer. You sure you can’t keep it?”
“Point made,” he concedes. We’re quiet for a moment until Aaron clears his throat. “So how was it?” he asks in a therapist’s voice, even though he knows I hate talking about my assignments. “You were super vague on the phone,” he adds. “I was getting worried.”
“It was the same,” I answer. “Just like always.”
“Was it the mom?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, and look out the passenger window. “Survivor’s guilt. There was a car accident; the mother was driving. After arriving at the hospital, the mom ran from room to room, searching for her daughter. But she was DOA.” I swallow hard, burying the emotions that threaten to shake my voice. “All the mother wanted was to apologize for losing control of the car,” I continue. “Beg her daughter for forgiveness. Tell her how much she loved her. But she never got the chance. She didn’t even get to say good-bye. Martha had a hard time accepting that.”
“Martha?” Aaron repeats, and I feel him look at me. “You two on a first-name basis?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m not calling her Mom anymore, and it seems cold to call her Mrs. Pinnacle.” When I turn to Aaron, he looks doubtful. “What?” I ask. “The woman washed my underwear. It’s not like we’re strangers.”
“See, that’s the thing,” he says, holding up his finger. “You are strangers. You were temporarily playing the role of her deceased daughter, but by no means are you friends. Don’t blur the lines, Quinn.”
“I know how to do my job,” I answer dismissively. My heart beats faster.
Although all closers take on the personality of the dead person, I’m the only one who internalizes it, thinks like them. It makes me more authentic, and honestly, it’s why I’m the best. “Don’t be judgy,” I tell Aaron. “You have your process; I have mine. I’m completely detached when it’s over.”
Aaron chuckles. “You’re detached?” he asks. “Then why do you keep souvenirs?”
“I do not,” I respond, heat crawling onto my cheeks.
“I bet you have more than hair extensions in that bag.”
I look down to see the edge of the T-shirt peeking out. “Not fair,” I say. “The dad gave that to me. It doesn’t count.”
“And the earrings from Susan Bell? The flashy yet clashy belt from Audrey Whats her name? Admit it. You’re a life klepto. You keep pieces of them like some whacked-out serial killer.”
I laugh. “It’s nothing like that.”
Aaron hums out his disagreement and takes a turn onto the freeway. It’ll be at least forty-five minutes until we’re back in Corvallis. I hate the away assignments, but our town is fairly small, and we don’t have nearly as many deaths as Eugene or Portland. But being away can mess with your head. Nothing’s familiar—not the places or the people. A person could forget who they really are in a situation like that. It’s high risk, and the return is always more difficult after being cut off completely. But it’s our job.
Aaron Rios and I are closers—a remedy for grief-stricken families. We help clients who are experiencing symptoms of complicated grief through an extreme method of role-playing therapy. When a family or person experiences loss—the kind of loss they just can’t get over, the kind that eats away at their sanity—grief counselors make a recommendation. For an undisclosed sum of money, clients are given a closer to play the part of a dead person and provide them the much-needed closure they desire.
At this point I can become anyone so long as they’re a female between the ages of fifteen and twenty. I’m not an exact copy, of course, but I wear their clothes and change my hair and eye color. I study them through pictures and videos, and soon I can act like them, smell like them, be them for all intents and purposes. And when a family is hazy with
“And I like that special blazer. You sure you can’t keep it?”
“Point made,” he concedes. We’re quiet for a moment until Aaron clears his throat. “So how was it?” he asks in a therapist’s voice, even though he knows I hate talking about my assignments. “You were super vague on the phone,” he adds. “I was getting worried.”
“It was the same,” I answer. “Just like always.”
“Was it the mom?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, and look out the passenger window. “Survivor’s guilt. There was a car accident; the mother was driving. After arriving at the hospital, the mom ran from room to room, searching for her daughter. But she was DOA.” I swallow hard, burying the emotions that threaten to shake my voice. “All the mother wanted was to apologize for losing control of the car,” I continue. “Beg her daughter for forgiveness. Tell her how much she loved her. But she never got the chance. She didn’t even get to say good-bye. Martha had a hard time accepting that.”
“Martha?” Aaron repeats, and I feel him look at me. “You two on a first-name basis?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m not calling her Mom anymore, and it seems cold to call her Mrs. Pinnacle.” When I turn to Aaron, he looks doubtful. “What?” I ask. “The woman washed my underwear. It’s not like we’re strangers.”
“See, that’s the thing,” he says, holding up his finger. “You are strangers. You were temporarily playing the role of her deceased daughter, but by no means are you friends. Don’t blur the lines, Quinn.”
“I know how to do my job,” I answer dismissively. My heart beats faster.
Although all closers take on the personality of the dead person, I’m the only one who internalizes it, thinks like them. It makes me more authentic, and honestly, it’s why I’m the best. “Don’t be judgy,” I tell Aaron. “You have your process; I have mine. I’m completely detached when it’s over.”
Aaron chuckles. “You’re detached?” he asks. “Then why do you keep souvenirs?”
“I do not,” I respond, heat crawling onto my cheeks.
“I bet you have more than hair extensions in that bag.”
I look down to see the edge of the T-shirt peeking out. “Not fair,” I say. “The dad gave that to me. It doesn’t count.”
“And the earrings from Susan Bell? The flashy yet clashy belt from Audrey Whats her name? Admit it. You’re a life klepto. You keep pieces of them like some whacked-out serial killer.”
I laugh. “It’s nothing like that.”
Aaron hums out his disagreement and takes a turn onto the freeway. It’ll be at least forty-five minutes until we’re back in Corvallis. I hate the away assignments, but our town is fairly small, and we don’t have nearly as many deaths as Eugene or Portland. But being away can mess with your head. Nothing’s familiar—not the places or the people. A person could forget who they really are in a situation like that. It’s high risk, and the return is always more difficult after being cut off completely. But it’s our job.
Aaron Rios and I are closers—a remedy for grief-stricken families. We help clients who are experiencing symptoms of complicated grief through an extreme method of role-playing therapy. When a family or person experiences loss—the kind of loss they just can’t get over, the kind that eats away at their sanity—grief counselors make a recommendation. For an undisclosed sum of money, clients are given a closer to play the part of a dead person and provide them the much-needed closure they desire.
At this point I can become anyone so long as they’re a female between the ages of fifteen and twenty. I’m not an exact copy, of course, but I wear their clothes and change my hair and eye color. I study them through pictures and videos, and soon I can act like them, smell like them, be them for all intents and purposes. And when a family is hazy with
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