“Thank you,” she says. “You can have a seat. The doctor will be with you in just a moment.”
I glance at Nathan and I see that although he’s trying to play it cool, his complexion has paled considerably. We go over to the yellow chairs and sit down. I hear his throat click when he swallows. I know he wants to tell me this is a bad idea, but neither of us speaks. I think we’re both scared to. My heart pounds harder and it feels like an eternity—although it’s only a few minutes—until the door opens.
I sit up straighter and Nathan reaches over to put his hand on my arm, both of us staring at the door. A man appears in a white doctor’s coat, an older version of the same man from the picture.
The doctor looks at Nathan and me, a flicker of compassion in his blue eyes behind his glasses. My dread eases slightly.
“Hello, Miss Masterson,” he says. I’m rattled that he knows my last name even though I hadn’t given it. Nathan’s grip on my arm tightens.
“My name is Dr. McKee,” he continues, before smiling warmly. “Welcome to the Adjustment.”
PART II
THE ADJUSTMENT
CHAPTER ONE
DR. MCKEE LEADS US THROUGH THE door and into a long hallway. At the end is a set of wide double doors, and I have a moment of panic when I think that’s where he’s heading. But he stops at the first door on the right, opens it, and steps aside to let Nathan and me enter first.
His office is unlike the rest of the building. It’s warmer, still white walled, but there are several silver picture frames on his desk, books on shelves, although I can’t read the spines to see the titles.
The doctor motions for us to sit down while he rounds the desk to sit in an oversize leather chair. He gathers a few papers, one that looks like a folded brochure. Nathan gives me an annoyed look and then crosses his sneaker over his knee.
“Noticed your picture in the lobby,” Nathan says to the doctor. “Do you also have a huge oil canvas of yourself above your mantel at home?”
Dr. McKee laughs, and leans back in his chair. “I do not. And I’ve kept the other one because my daughter took it, a few years ago now. I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve aged.”
“Yeah, I did,” Nathan says. I shoot him a look to let him know he should stop being a dick, but I guess whether or not he should remains to be seen.
I almost ask about Dr. McKee’s daughter, but, ultimately, that’s not why I’m here. “How did you know my name?” I ask. “I didn’t give my last name when I made the appointment.”
The doctor leans forward, folding his hands in front of him on the desk. “I apologize if I startled you,” he says. “We’ve kept all the records we could find on returners, and by extension, their significant others.”
Nathan scoffs, but the doctor holds up his hand to stop him. “It’s not quite as sinister as it sounds. Many of the records were lost and we’ve spent a significant amount of time and resources trying to get back what information we could. It helps with the process. With that said”—he looks at Nathan—“I didn’t catch your name, son.”
The corner of Nathan’s mouth turns up. “No, you didn’t.”
“Look,” I say to the doctor, drawing his attention once again. “I just want to know how you’re any different from The Program.”
“First,” Dr. McKee says, “we aren’t erasing anything. We’re putting back what was stolen, or at least a memory close to it. The process is complicated, but the biggest difference between us and what became known as The Program is that we’re not trying to control your lives. If anything, we want to put the control back in the hands of the patients.”
There’s that word again: “control.” Seems a simple concept, but in reality, it’s harder to define. One person’s freedom may equal another person’s control.
“I appreciate the theory,” I say. “But The Program said it wanted to help too. A lot of people, a lot of parents, bought into it. How do I know you’re not just another helpful company that’s going to end up killing us with your side effects?”
“You don’t,” he allows. “Sure, I can sit here and promise, but what weight does that hold? For you, what this comes down to is Weston Ambrose. How badly does he want his life back? I assume you’re here about him?”
Again, he catches me off guard. I nod that I am here about Wes.
“Well,” Dr. McKee continues. “From what I’ve seen, former patients will do just about anything to have their memories back. But not all are good candidates. Not to mention, you disregard the other side of this: Weston will suffer side effects regardless.
“I know you’ve seen it,” he continues. “The crashbacks. The returners need our help. We still don’t know the permanent effects of The Program, but what we’re seeing . . . it’s alarming. Crashbacks have become more common, especially in those who didn’t receive any follow-up therapy. Even some who did. I believe we’re facing down the start of a new kind of epidemic among returners. I want to stop it. I want to set things right.”
Nathan shifts uncomfortably, and I realize that there have been more crashbacks. More returners who are unstable due to the tampering of The Program. Courtney to Sebastian to countless others. I have to admit that he’s right about that. But a new epidemic . . . that’s terrifying.
“So what is the Adjustment?” I ask.
“Memory implantation,” Dr. McKee says. “We—”
“Like Total Recall ?” Nathan interrupts. Dr. McKee smiles at him, as if he actually enjoys Nathan’s humor.
“Not exactly, but if you need an image, then sure.”
“Then how is it?” Nathan asks more seriously. “How do they get their memories back?”
“It’s less sci-fi than you’d think,” the doctor says. “And, technically, we aren’t giving them their memories; we have no power to bring them back. But we help by implanting smaller memories around the desired ones, hoping to trigger a controlled crashback.”
“And how do you get those smaller memories?” I ask.
“We use donors,” the doctor says. “A person close to the patient donates a few memories. They re-create that memory in their subconscious, relive it, calling up even the minutest details. We map out the parts of the brain that are being stimulated, creating a pattern. Then, using light, we stimulate that same pattern in the returner’s brain. There will be gaps, but our brains are amazing organs. It will try to fill those gaps, make sense of them. Your brain, for all intents and purposes, jumps to conclusions.”
“I still don’t get it,” Nathan says for me. “You’re not technically using their memories, but someone else’s memory of them. How’s that working out?”
“Pretty well so far,” Dr. McKee says, and looks at me and smiles. He turns back to Nathan. “And we’ve only just started. The results thus far have been promising—some even recover their own memories. We’ve applied for a fast-track patent. We’re currently the only treatment available that can combat the effects of The Program. We want to rush to market. We want to change lives.”
“And the drawbacks?” I ask. “That was a pretty hefty list of side effects on your site.”
“That’s because we have nothing to hide, Tatum. Unlike The Program, we’re not operating under a veil of secrecy.”
Nathan smiles. “Like in an unmarked building?”
“We’re taking precautions with our advertising,” the doctor says. “This isn’t for the general population; it’s not some wish fulfillment for people who are bored with their lives. In the wrong hands . . . well, technology like this could be very dangerous. We won’t let it get twisted into something like The Program.”
“So only returners?” I ask.
“Yes. And like I said, not everyone’s a candidate, and that alone offends people. But safety is imperative. We’re at an important stage in development, and we’d rather not have negative attention until it goes through. And . . . there are others, from politicians to activists, who will try to shut us down, and if they can’t, burn us down. So I assure y
ou, the subtle signage is intentional, but when it comes to the procedure, I will be up front with Weston about the risks.”
“What sort of risks?” I ask.
“The crashbacks could come unexpectedly,” Dr. McKee says. “Or, he could reject the memory. But we have safeguards in place to try to prevent that. A colleague of mine invented a truth serum; she likes to put it in tea, but for this it’s injectable. The Program used a similar drug, but it was not with consent. We use this method because one of the most important pieces to this is honesty. We’re not trying to create a perfect world—life is messy. Life is painful. Returners need to know what things were really like for them, not an idealized version.”
Dr. McKee leans back in his chair, folding his hands again. “So the truth serum would be for you, the donor,” he says. “We want to make sure that your memory is as accurate as possible, fresh in your mind. If not . . . the contradiction between fact and fiction could cause a complete meltdown for Wes.”
“This just keeps getting better and better,” Nathan says. “And how much does this probably-not-even-legal procedure cost?”
“Nothing,” Dr. McKee says. “This is an experimental treatment. Weston would be part of a study group.”
“Okay,” Nathan says, and stands up, taking my arm to help me up too. “Thank you for the explosion of information, but now we have to go.”
Dr. McKee stands politely, not looking too shocked by Nathan’s sudden desire for exit. I wonder if this happens often—the first meeting ending in people running out.
“We really do want to help you,” Dr. McKee calls to me. “I’ve taken the time to review his file, and based on his medical history, and your . . . stability—I really think Weston would be an excellent candidate for the Adjustment. If either of you has any further questions, my door is always open.”
I narrow my eyes slightly, trying to figure him out. Trying to understand this man who wants to right the wrongs of The Program. But will he just make them worse?
“Thanks, doc,” Nathan calls dismissively, and pulls open the office door.
Dr. McKee tilts his head, a small smile on his lips. “You know,” he says to Nathan, “you remind me of my son-in-law. He’s a pain in the ass too. But he’s a good guy.”
“Thanks for that completely unsolicited information,” Nathan responds, and puts his hand on my back to lead me out the door and into the hallway. I half expect the doctor to follow us, but the long narrow hallway stays empty.
“This is easily the dumbest shit you’ve ever gotten me involved in,” Nathan mutters to me as we walk back into the lobby. The receptionist stands when we enter, seeming surprised that she didn’t have warning that we were leaving. Nathan offers her a mock salute.
“Wait!” she calls after us. “Do you want to schedule your next appointment?”
Nathan looks at me and laughs, and then he pulls open the glass door and leads us out without responding to her.
• • •
We sit in my Jeep, still parked in front of the Adjustment office. My phone is dead, so I stash it in the cup holder. Nathan and I are quiet at first as I try to take in all that Dr. McKee said. The fact that the memories are donated, my memories. And then, from those, Wes might get back a few of his own.
Nathan glares over at me. “Don’t tell me you’re actually considering this.”
Although I usually appreciate Nathan’s opinion on matters, count on it, in fact, he’s starting to annoy me. “And why not?” I ask. “If they’re my memories, I know they’ll be true. He was right, you know,” I say. “There have been more crashbacks. Wes could be next.”
“That doesn’t mean we knee jerk into a worst-possible-scenario reaction,” he says. “There are other options, Tatum. Therapy. And . . . you. You being there for him. Neither you nor Wes has to do this Adjustment bullshit.”
But it’s my own self-consciousness that stings me. “But what if I’m not enough?” I say, my voice lowering. “What if I don’t do enough, and Wes . . . ?” I stop when Nathan flinches, the effect of Sebastian’s death still raw, too new to scab.
I close my eyes, taking a breath before looking at him again. “Don’t you think it’s worth a shot, Nathan? Wouldn’t you do it for someone you love—a chance to make them whole again?”
Nathan lowers his head, sadness reflected in his expression. “No,” he says. “Because good intentions aren’t enough. And if I was so distraught to think I would let my friends get their minds tampered with, I’d hope you were there to stop me.”
His words come with the devotion of friendship—the lifelong kind. He’s begging me not to continue down this path because he cares about me. I have to look away.
“You know I love you, Tatum,” Nathan says in a low voice. “And maybe I haven’t always been there for you. . . .” He stops and runs his hand roughly through his hair. “I’m here for you now,” he says, looking at me. “So if you really are hell-bent on ruining everything, I suggest we find out more about the Adjustment.”
“Didn’t we just do that?” I ask.
“Not the bullshit sales pitch,” he says. “We need to talk to his clients.”
My heart rate speeds up. “Vanessa?”
“I was thinking we could start with Jana,” he says, looking out the window. “We’ll go over to her house together, get in her personal business.” He smiles, and I’m reminded of why I’m here with him in the first place. Nathan always has my back.
“Am I bad cop?” I ask, making him laugh.
“Nah,” he says. “You’re always good cop. But how about we try sympathetic cop/dickhead cop?”
“I know which one you’ll be.”
Nathan laughs and gives me directions to Jana’s apartment. And just like that, we fall down another rabbit hole.
CHAPTER TWO
JANA LIVES IN A DUPLEX on the west side of town. I park, and Nathan and I get out and stand in the driveway. The duplex has red-shingle siding, bright blue shutters. It’s actually adorable, and I think, Of all the places she could live, this really suits her. Behind the first-floor window, I see a curtain swish aside like someone has been watching us.
“You should go first,” I tell Nathan, pushing him in front of me.
“I will,” he says. “But don’t act weird or she’ll think we’re hooking up.”
“Ew, stop.”
He chuckles. “Okay, listen,” he says. “I’m going to have to use my powers of persuasion, so be cool.”
“Persuasion? ” I repeat. “Gross, Nathan.”
He snorts another laugh, and then together we walk up the wide front-porch steps, and he rings the doorbell for her apartment. We have to wait only a second before the door swings open. Jana stands there in yoga pants and a tank top, her hair pinned back.
“Hi,” Nathan says brightly, as if he and I come here all the time. Jana looks at Nathan, then at me, and then back to Nathan before she smiles.
“Hey,” she responds to him sweetly. “What’s up?”
“I know I could have called,” he says, boyishly adorable, “but I thought we’d just stop by unannounced. Can we come in?”
I’m a little taken aback, although I’m not sure why. It wasn’t like we were going to pick her brain out here on the front porch. Jana doesn’t seem all that overjoyed, but she glances behind her and then pushes the door open wider and steps aside for us to come in.
Jana’s house smells slightly of smoke, and when we get into the living room, her mother sits on an old-fashioned green-patterned sofa, smoking a cigarette. Jana introduces me, and her mother nods politely. She says hi to Nathan, and I’m reminded that he’s been here before.
“Let’s go to my room,” Jana says, and leads us toward the back bedrooms. As we pass the small dining room, a black cat stretches out its front legs on the table, eyeing us lazily. The kitchen is quaint, with a pile of freshly washed dishes drying on the rack next to the sink.
Her room is just past the kitchen, and when we walk inside, it’s an exp
losion of color. Clothes are everywhere—all styles, like a mishmash of taste. Flowy skirts and leather jackets. Sandals and black boots. It’s weird because Jana is consistently well put together and sporty.
Jana kicks some papers into the closet, closes the door, and turns to us. “This is about the Adjustment, isn’t it?” she asks. She goes over to make her bed and then sits down. Nathan sits next to her, while I stand awkwardly near the door.
“I’m sorry to keep asking about it,” he says. “I’m not trying to invade Vanessa’s privacy. But . . . we just came from the Adjustment office. I mean, is the place legit? Is Vanessa having any of the negative side effects they mentioned?”
Jana stares at Nathan for a long moment, reluctant to answer. “I’m not sure what you want me to say here,” she replies. “Everything has side effects, Nathan. The Program had side effects. So I guess the real question is: Which is the greater evil?”
“I’d rather avoid evil altogether,” he says. “But I’m here for your opinion.”
“Nessa got back some of her memories,” Jana says. “It helped her cope with her loss. And I truly believe she’s alive because of it.”
“How did it work?” I ask, drawing her attention. “The procedure, I mean.”
“I wasn’t in the room,” Jana says. “Her brother was her donor, and the way Nessa tells it, they put sensors on her big bro and together they all took a trip down memory lane. Said they avoided the painful stuff.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Her suicide attempt,” she responds. “Her brother told me the toughest part was trying to find the right small moments, ones that would hold bigger meaning.”
“And she had memories on her own after that?” Nathan asks.
“A few,” Jana says. “Her crashbacks have been increasing, but Dr. McKee’s observing her closely. They say they have it under control.”
“I bet,” Nathan murmurs, and then looks at me like now we have all the proof we need to avoid the Adjustment. But if anything, this only spurs me on more. If Wes could remember too . . . God, if I could just get him back, I’d do anything.
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