The Epidemic

by Suzanne Young

  “She’s right, Arthur,” Evelyn Valentine says. She comes to stand next to him and places her hand on his arm. “She’s gone,” she whispers to him. “Virginia’s gone now. We can’t help her anymore.”

  Arthur visibly sways, his body seeming to crumple at the words. For the first time I find a small sliver of compassion for him. For his grief. Together Arthur Pritchard and Evelyn Valentine remind me of what my father and Marie must have been like after Quinlan died. This is their loss—their shared grief.

  And for that I can pity the doctor who ruined my life.

  Virginia died just yesterday, and although he must have tried to compartmentalize the grief, it floods Arthur now.

  “Let them go,” Evelyn whispers. “We don’t need them anymore. It’s time we start fresh. It’s time we stop hurting them. We’re not that cruel, Arthur.”

  Devastation works over Arthur’s posture. I watch as he starts to feel again. Like a closer, he’s been able to shut out his pain. But not anymore. It contorts his features, steals his face, and breaks him down. And as he starts to cry, he looks up at Evelyn and grabs the bottom of her jacket.

  “But we can’t let anyone else die,” he tells her. “We’ll move forward with The Program. The grief department can’t know what it did to Virginia—delete her records. Don’t let them know that my daughter had any part in the spread of the epidemic.”

  Evelyn stares down at him with compassion, obviously seeing a different man from the one I’ve known. “For Virginia, I will keep that secret,” she says. Arthur buries his face in her jacket, melting away. I watch him be reduced to the pile of grief I’ve seen my whole life. I’m no longer afraid of him.

  Evelyn puts her hand on the back of his hair, soothing him, and looks up at me. And there’s something there: something conspiring and crafty. She will fix this—I know it. There will never be a Program.

  The doctor motions to the desk on my right. Confused, I walk over to it and find a single folder sitting on top. I look back at her.

  “It’s yours,” she says. “It belongs to you now.”

  The entire world stills. I recognize the folder; it’s the same kind we have for assignments. The same one they had for Quinlan McKee. It’s my folder.

  “You could have saved lives,” Arthur says, wiping tears off his cheeks. He turns to us. “You could have helped so many.”

  “I’m starting with us,” I say. “And I feel pretty damn good about that.”

  “Now go,” Evelyn says to me, putting her hand on Arthur’s arm.

  I look at Arthur Pritchard one last time. His eyes judge me, blame me, curse me—but he’ll get over it. He needs to examine his daughter’s death. He’s the one who needs help.

  I thank Evelyn, and then Deacon and I open the door and leave. The handler outside puffs himself up, but Evelyn calls for him to let us pass. He seems reluctant to do so, but he steps aside, and we rush toward the exit.

  Deacon and I make it out the side door into the blinding sunlight, both of us shielding our eyes. “It’s not raining anymore,” Deacon says absently. We look at each other, overwhelmed by the moment. So much to say.

  “It’s about time,” Aaron calls. I turn and see him standing on the driver’s side of the getaway car. He smiles and waves us forward.

  Deacon and I make our way to him, and both of us get in back, still catching our breath. Aaron doesn’t say a word, but he drives fast enough to make Reed proud. Deacon’s shoulder is pressed against mine in the seat as I stare down at the folder in my lap.

  I look sideways at Deacon. “This is all of me,” I tell him, holding up the papers like they’re the messed-up consolation prize from the worst game show.

  He presses his lips together. “No,” he says. “That’s just your name.”

  In this moment my thoughts don’t drift to my father or to my past. Not to my real family, which is no longer imaginary. I don’t try to put the pieces together. Instead . . . I think of Reed. I think of how he said he knew me. And I realize he was right. He did. He was kind and he was brave. The world is worse without him. I’m worse. But I have his memory. He knew me. And now I know myself, too.

  Because in the end it doesn’t matter what my name is. Or where I came from. After all the lives I’ve lived, all the people I’ve become, I’ve finally found my real identity. I’ve found me. I’m more than a name on a piece of paper. I’m more than what Arthur or my father or even Marie wanted me to become.

  And so I set the folder aside in the seat, not even glancing at the name. Maybe later. Maybe not. Because it doesn’t matter.

  I’m the real me.

  Deacon looks on curiously, but he must see in my expression that this isn’t the time to discuss it. He takes my hand and kisses my fingers. We’ll have to talk about Reed’s death—Virginia’s, too. We’ll have to figure what pieces Arthur removed from Deacon’s memory with his Program. And Deacon will have to explain to Aaron about being a handler—that is, if he can remember it. But for now we’ll ride into the brightly lit day. Out into a world that’s losing hope.

  “We can’t help them, can we?” I ask both Aaron and Deacon. “The ones who are getting sick?”

  Aaron meets my eyes in the rearview mirror but doesn’t respond. I turn to Deacon, and he seems to think it over before answering.

  “Maybe it’s time we live our own lives for once,” he says. “Like you said, you’re saving us first.”

  My heart hurts at the truth of his statement: We’re all drowning without life preservers. So for now we can only run and save ourselves. But we’ll keep hoping that things will get better.

  After all, they can’t get any worse.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN—ONE YEAR LATER

  DEACON AND I SIT ACROSS from each other in a diner just outside Weed, California. It’s a small place near the border of Oregon, and although we could have met my father halfway, we’ve vowed not to return to our home state until The Program is stopped. But it’s not looking so good for us. Marie and Evelyn failed.

  It turns out that the bulk of the memories Arthur erased from Deacon were those of his family. Deacon doesn’t remember his mother or brother, or the years he spent suffering and then protecting them. I debated whether or not to fill in the blanks, but ultimately he deserved to know his past if he wanted it.

  I took him to his childhood home so we could stop in and meet them. It went as well as expected. After we left, Deacon turned to me on the sidewalk and laughed. “I must have been a really nice fucking guy to put up with them,” he said. I assured him he was.

  Of course, there were other things missing—Reed and Virginia never existed to him. I’ve filled in those, too. Aaron and I painted a pretty glorious picture of Reed for him—complete with jokes in history. It hurts less to talk about him now—like I can imagine he’s still alive, just off on an assignment. Sometimes I imagine he’s with Katy.

  Together, Aaron, Deacon, and I made up. It may help that Deacon can’t remember working for Arthur and yet still feels absolutely miserable about it. You can’t stay angry about something like that.

  The one upside is that Arthur didn’t take Deacon’s memories of me or Aaron. I got to him just in time.

  “What are you thinking about over there?” Deacon asks, sipping from his Coke. He never used to ask me questions like that; he gave me my privacy. But I don’t mind—I like telling him everything. I like when he does the same.

  “I’m hoping he’s okay,” I respond. I wring my hands in front of me, my blue nail polish chipped off at the edges. We’ve been living in California, although we’re thinking of moving because the cost of living here is too high. We don’t want our money to run out. It’s not like we can go back to being closers—they don’t even exist anymore. Now they’re known as handlers. And they’re not the remedy for grief; they are instruments of fear and intimidation. It hurts to see how something meant for good has been used in such a dastardly way.

  “Aaron thought he looked well,” Deacon says conversationall
y. But I know he’s worried too. With all that we’ve heard about The Program, what they do to people, there’s no way to assess my father’s condition.

  “Yeah, but Aaron saw him over a month ago,” I say. “Things change.”

  Deacon lifts up one corner of his mouth. “Your father doesn’t change. I’m sure he still hates me. Bet on it?”

  I pause a minute, knowing I shouldn’t place bets on my father’s emotional state, but I nod my agreement and reach to take a shaky sip of my Dr Pepper.

  Aaron was in Corvallis recently, passing through with Myra. They had a rough patch, Myra feeling abandoned and all. I don’t blame her. But they loved each other too much to break up. Now they live up in Washington together. North Dakota was too cold for Aaron, the spiders in the cabin too many for Myra. They have a cute bungalow and assumed names. We don’t get to see them often, but one day. Deacon and I count on one day being our future.

  There’s movement by the glass door of the diner, and I immediately straighten up, my heart leaping into my throat. Across the table Deacon reaches to put his hand over mine, his eyes steady, and gives my fingers a squeeze before turning to the man who just walked in.

  My father looks the same. Sure, he’s slightly thinner, and his clothes are unexpectedly casual—a green polo shirt and a pair of jeans with tan loafers. He looks older, too, something that pinches my conscience. But I know him.

  I smile in his direction. When his eyes pass right over me, I wilt. My dad pauses in the middle of the diner and puts his hands on his hips as he scans the room. Deacon shoots me a concerned gaze, and then he stands.

  “Tom,” he calls kindly. My father looks at him and smiles politely. Deacon waves him to the table.

  Deacon sits down, his face registering momentary shock before he slides over in the booth to make room for my father.

  “Hello,” my dad says in a formal tone. “Sorry about that.” He sits down and looks between us. “Wasn’t sure who I’d be looking for.”

  “Hi,” I say, quickly moving my nervous hands under the table. I don’t want to give anything away. I don’t want to be creepy, either, so I don’t stare too long. “Glad you could make it,” I tell him, and lower my eyes.

  “I have to say I was intrigued,” my father tells me with a little laugh. “You said we all worked together.” He looks at Deacon. “I’ll have to apologize in advance—my memory’s not the greatest.”

  Deacon nods like he understands, but I think we both feel sick. We suspected this, figured it out based on information Aaron collected, and one very confusing phone call with my dad.

  My father, Thomas McKee, was erased a year ago. The last time we spoke, when he was at the taco shop and I was in Eugene, a group of handlers recovered him. The grief department decided he was in breach of contract, and one of the penalties was complete erasure. However, since he was a long-time employee, they spared some of his past. They let him keep his name, his life with his dead wife and daughter, and his early history in the department. I was erased entirely, like I never existed. Sometimes I wonder if that means that maybe I didn’t.

  After he was reset, they gave him a severance package and sent him to a doctor who told him that his memory loss was a side effect of his job, and that it was a good thing he was retired.

  The grief department no longer exists. Now it’s known as The Program. My father isn’t part of what happens there. Instead he’s in the home I grew up in, gardening and putting little ships inside bottles. It makes me think he would have been an excellent grandpa. But I’ll never know.

  “Yeah, Tom,” Deacon says when I don’t—can’t—speak. “We worked together at the grief department, before your uh . . .”

  “Breakdown,” my father says for him. “It’s okay, son. I’m not embarrassed. It happens to the best of us, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, earning his gaze. “We just . . . we wanted to make sure you were okay. We heard about it, and . . .” My words continue to fail me. I want to say, Do you remember, Dad? Please tell me you remember. Please tell me you still love me. Please tell me I’m real. But when my eyes begin to well up, Deacon clears his throat loudly and signals for the server.

  My father grabs a menu from between the condiment bottles and starts to peruse the selections. “What’d you say your name was again?” he asks, looking over the top of his glasses at me.

  “Nicole,” I tell him. “Nicole Alessandro.” It’s still weird to use my real name. But in the end it doesn’t matter what it is. I haven’t called myself Quinlan McKee in a long while. She’s finally at rest.

  The corner of my father’s mouth lifts slightly, and then he goes back to the menu, giving his order to the server when she arrives at our table. Together the three of us share a meal, letting my dad do most of the talking. It’s all good-natured and upbeat, but I don’t say much. I’m afraid of exposing us. I’m afraid of hurting my father. The latest word on The Program is that patients shouldn’t be messed with; it could lead to a meltdown. And after what happened to Virginia Pritchard, we know all too well how dangerous the consequences can be.

  I finish picking at my fries, barely touching the burger on my plate. My father and Deacon are laughing about an old football rivalry when Deacon’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up and checks the message.

  “Nic, we should go,” he says, putting his phone away. It’s Aaron, I’m sure. He told us not to spend too much time with my dad, just in case people were watching him. He was checking on us.

  I shoot Deacon a pained look, not ready to say good-bye to my father. But my dad wipes his hand on his napkin and lifts one side of his hip to work his wallet out of his back pocket.

  “I should probably head out too,” he says. “I have a date tonight.” He laughs, his cheeks growing red from the admission. In all the time I knew him, my father was never in a relationship—other than his highly dysfunctional friendship with Marie. It bothers me that I’m missing this new woman. What if he marries her? Would she be my mom?

  “It was nice seeing you, Tom,” Deacon says as my father gets out of the booth and tosses two twenties on the lunch ticket. Deacon tells him he doesn’t have to do that, but my dad waves off the sentiment.

  I get to my feet, watching him; my lips are unwilling to say the words. Just then my father turns to me and smiles warmly. It makes my heart swell in my chest, and I have to take a steadying breath.

  “I’m glad you called,” he tells me.

  “Thank you for lunch,” I return, because it seems like a normal thing to say in this very abnormal moment. I hold out my hand awkwardly, and he reaches to take it.

  “Can I . . . ?” He stops, dropping his arm and laughing like he’s embarrassed. “Never mind.”

  “What?” I ask. “What were you going to say?”

  He scrunches up his nose. “I was going to ask if I could give you a hug,” he says. “I don’t know . . . you just look like you really need one.”

  Without hesitation I step in and hug him, my cheek against the soft cotton of his polo shirt. I squeeze my eyes shut; his clothing smells like my childhood. It doesn’t make me think of lies or grief. It smells like home.

  I straighten out of his arms and step back, quickly wiping the tears from my cheeks. I smile self-consciously. “You take care of yourself,” I tell him.

  “You too, Nicole,” he says simply. And for a moment I’m sure I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But then it’s gone. He touches my arm in good-bye and walks out of the diner.

  The second the door closes behind him, I turn and grab my jacket off the seat, biting back the rest of my tears. Deacon watches me carefully as he grabs his coat, and then together we walk outside.

  My father is gone.

  The icy wind blows against my jacket, and I pinch the zipper closed with my fingers, standing and facing the snowcapped mountains with Deacon beside me.

  “I’ll never see him again,” I say quietly. I sniffle, tears fighting to get out once again.

  “The
Program can’t last forever,” Deacon tells me.

  “I hope you’re right,” I say. “But either way, the department took my father from me. They erased me. I’m forgotten.”

  Deacon turns, and his eyes are wounded at my sadness. “I’ll never forget you,” he says. “I love you like crazy. I love you to eternity.”

  I still enjoy it every time he tells me. I gaze at him for a long moment, thankful for what I do have. Thankful of what we can still be. It’s nice to have possibilities.

  “I’m ready,” I tell him. “I’m ready to start living.” Seeing my father one last time was the final piece. And now my old life is over.

  I reach for Deacon’s hand, slide my fingers between his. He smiles and pulls me closer. He leans in and kisses me, whispering again how much he loves me.

  After that I lead him to the car. We’re free to go where we want, but we don’t have to find a place right away. Home is with the person you love, the person who loves you back stupidly and completely. Home is the space of peace in your heart.

  And I’m finally home.

  EPILOGUE

  THOMAS MCKEE WIPES THE TEARS from his cheeks as he drives through the mountains toward the Oregon border. The radio plays loudly in an attempt to drown out his thoughts. His regrets.

  “Nicole,” he repeats aloud, as if he enjoys the sound of it. She looked well, and for that he was relieved. His daughter is finally safe. Deacon was annoying as ever, but of course in a way Tom could understand.

  The music cuts out as a call comes through on his cell, and Tom sighs when he looks at the caller ID. He presses the hands-free option and answers.

  “Hello, Marie,” he says dryly. “I would have called when I got closer to home.”

  “How is she?” Marie asks instantly. “How does she look?”

  Tom smiles, knowing that his affection for Quinn—Nicole—is matched by Marie’s. “She’s going by Nicole now,” he says. “It really suits her. She was nervous.” His lips start to shake, and he presses them together. “But I got to hug her.” His voice breaks, and the tears flow anyway.