The Complication

  Inside, my anger builds. I’m tired of everyone meddling in my life. Everyone lying. I was stupid to even come here in the first place. The moment Nathan told me about The Program, I should have left school and gone directly to the Adjustment office. Dr. McKee and Marie Devoroux have a lot to explain.

  I keep my breathing steady as I walk into the kitchen and find my grandfather standing by the door with his car keys.

  “Ready to go?” he asks, and smiles warmly.

  And I can barely hold it together when I smile back and say, “Yes.”

  • • •

  At the last minute, Pop remembered to grab his phone before we left the house. He doesn’t mention the text he received, and I certainly don’t bring it up. But the minute we’re done, I’m going to the Adjustment office. I’ll demand answers.

  Our drive to school is quiet, and my grandfather doesn’t bring up Wes once. I wonder if he’s waiting for my grandmother—she’s the better interrogator in our house. Not that either of them have room to judge my behavior at this point. But it would almost be comforting for them to act normal. Concerned. Instead, I’m getting the silent treatment with an undercurrent of surveillance mixed in.

  I think about The Program—their tactics. When handlers would come for people who’d been flagged, it wasn’t just the person they’d take. They’d finish the erasure by confiscating personal belongings. Replacing clothes. Removing pictures.

  But I still have pictures of Wes. My clothes were all the same. How? The only explanation is that my grandparents saved my memories from The Program—even though they couldn’t save me.

  So why keep The Program a secret? Why can’t I remember?

  The lack of conversation in the car is starting to become obvious, and at one point, Pop looks sideways at me.

  “About that headache,” he starts. “Did it happen after seeing Wes?”

  It got worse after Nathan told me I was in The Program, but to get out of the conversation, I say, “No. Just a steady headache since this morning.”

  Pop nods and tells me he’s worried. “We should let the doctor know,” he adds. I wonder which doctor he means. The nice older pediatrician I’ve seen since childhood—the one who gives me shots and physicals? Or the doctors who’ve manipulated my memories?

  The school parking lot is full as we pull in, and I quickly scan for Wes’s motorcycle. I don’t see it. The students are back in the building now, but I’m not going to join them. My grandfather pulls up in front of my Jeep and parks.

  The day has only gotten more humid, and the air in my Jeep is practically steam when I climb inside. My grandfather walks around, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop the sweat that’s gathered on his brow. He tells me to fire up the engine, and when it doesn’t start, he tells me to turn it off.

  I do, and then get out of the Jeep while he props up the hood and looks around.

  Even though we’re only a few feet apart, it feels like miles. I’m suddenly struck with the most intense loneliness I’ve ever known—like I’m lost. Adrift at sea. My earlier anger begins to feel like desperation.

  “Pop,” I say, and take a gulp of air. He raises his head from the other side of the hood and looks at me. His gaze is steady, his expression unreadable. I hesitate, afraid to confront him. Afraid of what he might say. I lower my eyes.

  “Have you checked the battery?” I ask instead. I hate myself for not challenging him here and now. I’m a coward.

  Pop furrows his brow and looks at the battery. “Let’s try and jump it, but we’ll definitely want to replace it tonight,” he adds. “Even if we get it started, it won’t last too much longer.”

  “Good idea,” I say.

  Pop gets jumper cables out of his trunk, and I help him set them up. I go back to the Jeep, and when I get inside, trickles of sweat slide down my back. I turn the ignition, and although the engine takes a minute to catch, it starts. I give my pop a thumbs-up, and he tells me to keep her running.

  He walks around, drying his brow again, and opens the passenger door to heave himself onto the seat. He adjusts the air vent to blow on his face and asks me to rev the engine while he leans over to fiddle with the loose knob on my gearshift. I stare at the side of his face.

  “Who told you to come home, Pop?” I ask suddenly. My grandfather pauses but doesn’t look up.

  “Someone saw you leaving with Wes,” he replies. “They were concerned. They asked me to check.”

  “Who?” I ask, my heart pounding. Pop turns to me.

  “Someone who works for Dr. McKee,” he admits. “The doctor was concerned you’d trigger a crashback in Wes. Undo the work he’d done to save him. The doctor asked you to stay away from him, Tatum. It appears you don’t intend to listen. Think about what happened last time. You both landed in the Adjustment, and that didn’t end well for either of you.” His voice hitches on this last statement, and he turns to look out the window, hiding his face.

  He’s hurting me, and part of it is because he’s right. But he’s also misrepresenting what happened. My grandfather knows I went into The Program, and yet he still doesn’t say it. Doesn’t acknowledge the effect it had on me, on my memories. He lets me think this is entirely my fault for not letting go. And it really pisses me off.

  “It was just a ride home,” I say. The lie is obvious, but the truth is evading us both, it seems.

  “It was unethical,” Pop says. “And I expected better from you.” He opens the passenger door to climb out. His words are a slap in the face, and I physically recoil from them.

  “The Jeep is running now,” he adds. “I’ll pick up a new battery and swap it out when you get home. You going back in?” he asks, motioning toward the building.

  I look in that direction and then shake my head. “No,” I say, my jaw tight. “I decided I still have a headache.”

  He watches me. “I can have your grandmother call in a prescription,” he offers.

  Yeah, right. Last time she gave me meds they nearly put me in a coma. “I think I’ll just take some Tylenol,” I say, my voice a little bitter. “Maybe a nap.”

  “Okay,” he agrees, and presses his lips into a smile. I wonder if he regrets how he talked to me, so in return, he’s rolling over on this. “Let me know if you need anything,” he adds.

  I nod that I will, and he closes the door. I’m angry that he hurt me, lied to me. I’m angry that I was a coward and didn’t ask him about The Program. His loyalty should be with me—not Dr. McKee.

  And the minute my grandfather pulls out of the parking lot, I shift gears and head toward the Adjustment office.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AS I SPEED TOWARD THE Adjustment office, my anger ticks up. Dr. McKee called my grandfather to warn him that I left school with Wes. But Dr. McKee isn’t my doctor; he isn’t treating Wes anymore. So what gives him the right to contact my family? Clearly, Michael Realm was there to watch us, after all. Bastard.

  I check my phone at the stoplight and see I’ve missed a message from Nathan. He’s another story, one I can’t deal with just yet, so I turn off the power on my phone and drop it into the cup holder.

  I pull into the strip mall parking lot where the Adjustment office is located. There is a FOR LEASE sign unceremoniously taped to the frosted-glass door, like it had just been some pizza shop and not an experimental treatment center that resulted in multiple deaths.

  It makes me ill to be this close again. Ever since I met the doctors of the Adjustment, my life has been steadily falling apart. Headaches and nosebleeds, long-held secrets and scandals coming out. Losing Wes to a reset.

  I regret ever coming here. And the more I try to fix that mistake, the deeper my problems get. At what point do I walk away and cut my losses? Which losses are acceptable to take? I don’t think I know the answer to that yet.

  The door to the nearby deli opens, and I’m surprised to see Dr. Marie Devoroux walk out with a brown paper bag, two ends of subs poking out. Her presence shocks me, even though I was comin
g here to see her. She looks different.

  Her dark skin has dulled, her hair cropped close to the scalp. She is stunningly beautiful—her red lipstick flawless—but her presence has diminished slightly. She’s troubled. I swallow hard and climb out of my Jeep.

  When I close the door, Marie looks over and stops dead when she realizes it’s me. She hugs the bag closer to her chest and forces a smile.

  “Tatum,” she says, glancing around the empty lot. “What are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk,” I say. I can’t even pretend to not be angry.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she responds curtly. Although her voice is steady, always professional, her posture gives way to concern. “Dr. McKee said—”

  “Did you know I was in The Program?” I interrupt. Her lips part, and she falters a moment with her answer.

  “I don’t—where did you hear that?” she asks. “That’s outrageous. Not to mention dangerous thinking, especially with everything that’s happened to—”

  “You’re going to lie?” I ask, incredulous. “Stand there and lie to my face?”

  “Why would I lie?” Marie responds convincingly. “Isn’t it more likely that whoever told you was lying? Or mistaken?”

  Even though I don’t believe that, her tone is earnest. Honest. Is it possible she didn’t know? It only takes me a second to decide it’s not. Marie tilts her head, inspecting me. She takes a step closer and holds out her hand to me in a comforting gesture. When I don’t take it, she sighs.

  “I’m worried about you, Tatum,” Marie says, her tone motherly. “You were part of the Adjustment. You’ve been through a lot. I’d hoped after everything that happened, you’d want to take care of yourself. Please, go home and rest.”

  I shake my head, enraged that she won’t be honest with me. “And my grandfather?” I ask. “Dr. McKee called him. Why?”

  Marie blinks quickly, and I’m guessing she didn’t think my grandfather would pass along that information to me. She shifts the brown bag in her arms, and looks impatiently at the Adjustment office door.

  “That was for Weston’s benefit, not yours.” Her words are cold, cutting, and I think she intended them to hurt me.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say. “In fact, I don’t believe anything you’ve said.”

  Marie straightens her back, pulling herself up to her full height. “Rest,” Marie says again, this time more forcefully. “Weston’s return was surely a shock to your system. But please, don’t repeat past mistakes. Just . . . let it go.” She says it emphatically, as if she wants nothing more. I bet.

  Marie doesn’t wait for my reply. She walks over to the Adjustment door and rings the bell on the side. The lock clicks, and she pulls the door open and slips inside.

  I’m furious; my hands are actually shaking. Marie lied to me about The Program—I’m sure of it. And she fully intended to leave out the fact that Dr. McKee called my grandfather, but I caught her. It proves that if I’m going to make accusations going forward, I’ll need proof. Something to force them to tell the truth. And that includes my grandparents.

  I stomp toward my Jeep and yank open the door to get in. Just as I start the engine, the passenger door suddenly opens and Michael Realm climbs inside. He closes the door and turns to me.

  “We need to talk,” he says calmly.

  My eyes widen, and I press my shoulder against my door, ready to bolt. “What the hell are you doing?” I demand, my voice high pitched with shock.

  “I’m not supposed to make contact,” he says, holding up his hands apologetically, “but I want to help you.”

  I stare at him. “Help me with what?” I ask, slowly easing myself off the door. Despite my barely knowing who he is, there is something familiar about him now that he’s up close. Something I don’t immediately distrust—although I obviously should.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his eyebrows pulled together with worry. “I’m not sure if you remember me. My name’s Michael Realm.”

  “I met you in the Adjustment office, right?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He smiles, seeming relieved.

  “Great,” I reply. “Now, why are you following me? Why are you in my Jeep, Michael?”

  “Please, call me Realm,” he says, like his first name is too formal. “And I was at the school because I knew Wes would be back today. I wanted . . . I wanted to make sure he was okay.” He pauses. “Make sure you were okay.”

  “And what business is it of yours?” I ask.

  Realm lowers his eyes. “None, I suppose. But I was concerned anyway.”

  I watch him a moment, trying to figure out his game. I’m honestly baffled. “Wes doesn’t remember me, if that’s what you were checking for,” I say. “I haven’t told him anything about our past, so you can stop spying on us.”

  “I wasn’t—” Realm winces, seeming embarrassed by the accusation. “I guess it was spying, but I didn’t mean it that way. I swear.”

  His brown eyes have some sincerity to them, although the shading under them is dark, like he hasn’t slept. And although I don’t know his larger role in the Adjustment—his role with Marie and Dr. McKee—he acts like he’s telling the truth. Not that I’m the best judge of that.

  “You said you want to help me,” I start. “What exactly did you mean? What can you do?”

  “Personally?” he says. “Not much. But I wanted to talk to you, let you know just how dangerous it is for you to be around Wes right now.”

  A wave of sickness rolls over me. “That’s your story too?” I ask. “Does everyone think I have amnesia—like I’d forget what Dr. McKee warned?”

  Realm chews on his inner lip. “Depends,” he says. “Do you? Because you left with Wes. And I saw you at lunch, Tatum. Saw you in your Jeep, losing your shit. Maybe . . . maybe we have a reason to be worried.”

  “You don’t even know me,” I shoot back, realizing how unbalanced I must have looked in those moments in my Jeep. My cheeks heat with shame.

  “Look,” Realm says, leaning closer. “I’m not trying to make you more upset. I’m just . . . Give it all some time to settle. I’ve known a lot of returners, and I’ve seen what happens when they get too much stimulus too soon.”

  “And how much time?” I ask. “When would be an appropriate time for me to live my own life? Or do I need permission?”

  Realm smiles at my question, and I notice the nasty red scar on his neck. It proves he has a past, a pretty gnarly one judging by the wound. Despite this, he’s charming. Sweet, even. Then again, he could be a really skilled liar. I tend to draw them to me.

  “We all want you to live your life, Tatum,” Realm says. “An amazing, happy life. But it’s hard for you to do that when you’re living half in the past. Now, I’m not saying that you and Wes aren’t meant to be, or whatever romantic notion has been built up. But you’re not meant to be right now. That I can promise. So all I’m asking is for you to—”

  “Stay away from him,” I finish. Realm nods, looking apologetic.

  “We need you to be well,” he says in an exhausted breath.

  “You said ‘we,’ ” I point out. “Does that include my grandparents?” Realm shifts uncomfortably. “Are you . . . are my grandparents working with the Adjustment office?” I ask, my heart beginning to race at the idea.

  “It’s not like that,” Realm says, shaking his head. “Your grandparents want what’s best for you.”

  His words aren’t a denial, and I realize I need to get away from here. I need to figure out exactly how and why my grandparents would be a part of this. It’s bigger than just them knowing I was in The Program. This is more involved.

  “I have a better idea,” I tell Realm. “How about if everyone stops trying to help so fucking much? Now get out.”

  Realm reaches for the door handle and looks back, sizing me up. “Please be careful,” he says simply. “And know that however misguided our help may seem . . . we care.”

  “Yeah, right.”


  He smiles like he kind of enjoys my bad attitude, but my expression shares none of his amusement, and he straightens his face.

  “Fine,” he says. “But until the doctors figure out what’s causing the crashbacks in returners, you and Wes should . . .” He stops himself. “Like I said, just be careful.”

  “Bye,” I say, running my hand roughly through my hair as a headache pulses in my temples. “And stop following me,” I add as an afterthought.

  Realm pushes open the door and gets out. I expect him to try to explain, but he closes the door gently. And just as easily as he appeared, he’s gone. I catch sight of him across the road, going into the 7-Eleven.

  I have no idea what to make of him. Why would he care what happens to me or Wes? He met us for five seconds months ago. Sure, he probably works for the Adjustment, but that doesn’t mean he actually cares about the patients. I made the mistake of thinking Dr. McKee and Marie cared, and look—Wes has been reset and I’m sitting in the parking lot watching a stranger buy a Big Gulp.

  Obviously my problems are much bigger than that, but I’m learning to compartmentalize. One problem at a time. And now that I know my grandparents have a lot more to do with my condition than they let on, I’m determined to figure out what role they’ve played.

  How deep does their betrayal go?

  I shift into gear and race toward home.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NEITHER OF MY GRANDPARENTS IS home when I arrive, and I immediately rush inside. I pause in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, and it’s like walking over my own grave—an incredible sense of dread. A part of me died here—the part The Program erased. It’s a horrific feeling, and I practically run up the stairs as if handlers are still chasing me.

  At the top, I grip the railing. My heart is racing, sweat gathering in my hairline. I’m suddenly struck with grief, loss. I wish Nathan never told me about The Program. But then again, it would have come out. It had to. Besides, I deserve to know the truth. This is my life.

  I open the door to my grandparents’ bedroom and peer inside. I’ve obviously been in here hundreds of times before, but everything takes on a new meaning now. Their room is part of their deception. Strangers live here.