The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  “She has one more session left,” Jana adds. “Four in total. But I’m sure the doctor mentioned to you the most important part is to tell the truth and try to describe everything you can. From the color of your shirt to the background noise to the smell in the room. There is no detail too small. That description will implant in their mind; their brain will create the image. Give them enough info.”

  “What, did you read the manual or something?” Nathan asks her.

  Jana smiles, something private and flirtatious. But it feels more like a distraction than anything. “Of course,” she replies. “I usually research medical procedures before I let my friends get picked apart by doctors. Kind of like you’re doing right now.”

  “Point taken,” Nathan says.

  “How did Vanessa feel after the procedure?” I ask.

  “Great,” Jana says. “Said she felt like she remembered it for real. That there was almost no way to tell the difference between a real memory and an implanted one.”

  “I still think I prefer the real thing,” Nathan says.

  “Yeah, well,” Jana says. “Isn’t it nice for you to have that option?”

  Nathan widens his eyes, and Jana exhales and says she’s sorry. “It’s been tough, okay?” she says to him. “Never mind how The Program scared us, made us fear for our lives. It actually erased us. We’re the ghosts here, not them.” She nods in my direction. “So if there’s a way to set it all back the way it was, I’m in. I’m all in to make things right, even if there are complications.”

  Her words are dangerously close to what parents said when calling The Program on their children. Fear blinding logic. Nathan keeps his eyes downcast, and Jana stands up from the bed and begins to pace.

  “So, yes, if you’re wondering,” she says, “I’d tell Nessa to do it again. I think all returners should have that chance. Especially now.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Why the urgency?”

  She scoffs like it’s obvious, and when Nathan and I exchange a confused look, she’s taken aback. “You heard about Alecia Partridge, right?” she says.

  I still, fear curling in my stomach. I just saw Alecia in the library. She was fine. Or . . . as fine as she could be. “What about her?” I ask.

  Jana’s lips part as she seems to realize that we really don’t know what she’s talking about. “Just an hour ago,” she says, lowering her voice. “She died.”

  I gasp, and Nathan sways—already rattled by Sebastian’s death. Before I can ask what happened, Jana goes on.

  “I don’t know the details,” Jana adds. “But she had some sort of breakdown after school. It’s on the news.” She motions out toward the living room. “She . . .” But Jana trails off, not finishing the story.

  Nathan and I sit quietly, and my mind races to put the pieces together. I asked Alecia how she was, and she seemed so happy that I just asked. That someone cared enough to ask. Why didn’t I say more? Why didn’t I do more?

  I hitch in a breath, and Nathan puts his hand on my back supportively, staring at the floor like he’s trying to make sense of things too.

  All those times I didn’t pay attention to Alecia. It feels so incredibly selfish that I didn’t notice her, help her, and a rush of emotion builds in my chest and burns my throat. Nathan stands abruptly.

  “Let’s go,” he says to me. I shoot a look at Jana, and she takes a step back from us as if offended. “Tatum,” Nathan adds, his voice raspy. “Please.”

  I don’t know what he’s thinking, but the honest pain in his voice is enough to make me jump up. Jana swallows hard, and then walks to the door to open it for us.

  Nathan and I follow her through the house again. I say good-bye to her mother, and Nathan holds up his palm in a wave. Silent. When we get out onto the front porch, Jana calls his name.

  He doesn’t look back at her, but Nathan waits as she comes over and puts her palm on his cheek, gazing up at him. The move is so intimate that I feel suddenly out of place, and I turn and go back to my Jeep. When I get in, I stare down at the steering wheel. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that Alecia’s dead. She . . . I just saw her. She was alive. And I think about what Nathan said about Sebastian—how he just saw him, too. How much harder that makes all of this.

  And for a second . . . I wonder if they can really be dead if they’re still alive in our memories.

  I look over at Nathan and Jana, and I’m surprised to see how they’re talking. How close they are. Nathan leans in to put his forehead against hers. They exchange a few more words, and then Nathan pulls back to look down at her. I can’t see his face, but I can see Jana’s. Her eyes are teary, but beyond that is admiration.

  I think she’s in love with him.

  I shift uncomfortably, not because I’m jealous, not in that way. I’m just used to having Nathan by my side. He’s never had a serious girlfriend, and it occurs to me how this might affect his judgment. How it can change him.

  But I don’t mention any of this when he gets in the Jeep and closes the door, burying his face in his hands and submerging us in heavy silence.

  • • •

  Nathan doesn’t talk the entire way home, and I think the grief over Sebastian is finally too much. He murmurs good night when I park, but I sit in the driveway for an extra minute. Two deaths in one day. Another crashback. Dr. McKee is right—there is something bigger going on here. Are all returners in danger? Is Weston?

  I had thought that maybe Nathan was right about the Adjustment being too dangerous, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe doing nothing is the dangerous part.

  I get out of the Jeep and cross the driveway, but when I pass the gate, I’m surprised to find my grandfather in the garden; it’s nearly sunset. I pause in the driveway, debating whether or not to go in because I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me yet. When he glances back at me, I wave. He nods, and I opt to tell him what I’ve learned about the Adjustment.

  I sit on the little stone bench that my grandmother bought at a swap meet while my grandfather digs up some vegetables. He’s wearing an Oregon Ducks baseball cap and his multicolored sweater. A trickle of sweat runs down under the side of his glasses even though it’s not hot.

  “Found out some stuff today,” I offer when he doesn’t speak. He glances up, not giving away his thoughts just yet. “About the Adjustment,” I clarify.

  This seems to pique his interest, and he pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his hands before sitting back on his heels.

  “And how did that go?” he asks, his voice measured.

  “It was okay. Nathan came with me. We talked to the doctor who does the procedure.”

  My grandfather tucks his handkerchief back in his pocket. “You spoke to the doctor?” he asks. “You didn’t sign up for anything, did you?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “We just asked him how it worked. Got the info for Wes, although I’m not sure he’d be interested. There are some pretty hefty side effects.”

  “Is that it?” my grandfather asks. “Did the doctor say anything else?”

  I think back, and tell him everything we talked about. About the procedure, about the application for a fast-track patent. Even the details that Jana provided. My grandfather takes it all in, and I pause before I tell him the rest.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, standing and brushing dirt off the knees of his pants.

  “Sebastian Linn,” I say, lifting my eyes to his. “Foster’s brother died.”

  My grandfather’s expression falls and I watch him work through this knowledge, the tears building up in his blue eyes. “I remember when Sebastian was taken,” he says quietly. “Foster . . . he had a hard time with that. He’ll need support now.”

  I nod that he will. Even though Foster’s mourning with his family right now, I’ll text him that I’m thinking of him and sending him my love. And I’ll ask how he’s doing. Because we all deserve to know that people care about us, worry for us. I hope Alecia knew.

  “And there w
as another girl,” I add, drawing his weary eyes. “Alecia Partridge. I didn’t know her that well, but I just talked to her today. She’s had some severe side effects after The Program, but she was coming to school. She was in my classes. She had some kind of meltdown, Pop.”

  He exhales, closing his eyes. I sit forward on the bench, guilt and sorrow mixing in my heart.

  “Two deaths,” I say. “Two. You don’t think something’s happening to all returners, do you?”

  My question seems to rattle him. “I hope not, Tatum,” he says seriously. “For all our sakes, I truly hope not. But let’s be careful here. Fear leads to recklessness.”

  “Of course,” I say. My grandfather’s a reporter. All our facts have to be backed up by research.

  “I’ll get some statistics and talk to doctors I trust,” he says. “We’ll figure this out.” He holds out his hand, and I let him pull me up from the bench. Death surrounds us. To create some semblance of normal, I help him gather the gardening tools and return them to the shed.

  “I’m sorry I was so angry last night,” he says quietly as we start back toward the house. “When you disappeared . . . we were so worried.” He stops, tightening his jaw. I feel the slap of guilt and apologize again.

  “Your grandmother and I . . . You’re everything to us, Tatum. We can’t lose you.” He turns to me and at his sadness, I instinctively reach out and hug him.

  “Pop, you’ll never lose me,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry I worried you guys. I’m a jerk.” I pull back and smile at him, but his sadness doesn’t quite fade.

  “We just want to do right by you,” he says. “It’s all we’ve ever wanted. And this Adjustment, the risks involved . . . If you weigh out all the possibilities, I’m still on the side of caution. For now, until we know more, I don’t want you around any more doctors. We want you just as you are.”

  I understand his worry, especially after the terror The Program put us through for years. But I see my grandfather preparing to say something else, and his long pause makes me dread his next words. “And so after discussing it with your grandmother, we think that maybe you should give Wes a little space too. We don’t know what he’s going through. It might be best—”

  I take a step back from my grandfather, stunned by his suggestion. “What?” I ask. “Pop, Wes is home. How could you . . .” I shake my head, trying not to get angry. My grandparents have been there for me. They watched me grieve when Wes was taken away. Watched me wait. This is a betrayal, like I’m the kid in the bubble now, being protected from the world.

  “No,” I say, finally. “I won’t stay away from him. I can’t believe you’d even ask me to.”

  My grandfather lowers his eyes as if he’s ashamed, like it’s something he never expected to say. I walk past him and pull open the door, pausing to look back. “I won’t run off again,” I say. “But I won’t abandon Wes either. I hope you can understand that.”

  Pop looks over at me, tilting his head. “All we’ve ever wanted was to keep you safe,” he says in a quiet voice. “And during the days of The Program . . . you have no idea how difficult that was. Stay away from this Adjustment, Tatum,” he adds. “Let us keep protecting you.”

  “The Program’s dead, Pop. It’s time you let me protect myself.” I hold his gaze a moment longer and then pull open the door. I’m surprised to find my gram waiting just inside the hallway, listening to our conversation. She didn’t stand up for me. She didn’t take my side.

  I murmur hello to her and go up to my room. For the first time, I feel apart from my family. I feel misunderstood. Controlled. More than anything, my pop’s suggestion has had the opposite effect.

  It makes me realize how much I’d give to be with Weston again, how hard I’d fight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN MY ROOM, I PLUG in my phone. The second it turns on, it blows up with text messages. I drop onto my bed and scroll through them. Nathan sent me the details for Sebastian’s funeral, although apparently his parents have closed it to the public. I suggest we send flowers, but it feels woefully inadequate. I ask Nathan if he wants to come by, but he declines. I sit up on my bed and glance out toward his window and see his light shut off. I rest back against my pillows.

  I start to text Foster, but stop. I call him instead. The line rings a few times, and I expect to leave a message, but at the last minute he picks up.

  “Hey,” he says, knowing it’s me.

  “Hi,” I whisper. We’re both suddenly quiet as a thick shroud falls over us, weighting us down. Because this moment makes it true. Sebastian is dead. He’s never coming back.

  I hear a sniffle, and then Foster begins to cry without another word. A rattle, a sandpaper scratch over my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, listening to him. His raw pain.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur, wiping my tears. “I’m here.”

  I’m reminded of when Foster was on my couch, crying about Sebastian the first time. The devastation and fear of those days crawl up my throat. It’s strange that the past doesn’t haunt us more, honestly. It was so horrible. How do we even go on when that fear alone could have killed us? Is it because we’ve grown numb to it? Become desensitized?

  I feel it now—the ache. The sadness. Just like I did then. And I realize it’s like Alecia said—for a moment, time is going backward. Memory is life in reverse.

  The phone line grows quiet except for the occasional sniffle. When Foster talks again, his voice is hoarse. “I’ll be back on Monday,” he says quietly. “You going to be okay?”

  “I’m supposed to ask that question,” I say. He hums out a small laugh.

  “Yeah, well—you know me. Fucking friend of the year.”

  “Don’t tell Nathan,” I say. “And, honestly, Foster . . . anything you need. You know I’m here, right?”

  “Of course I know,” he says. “Thanks for calling, Tatum. It means a lot to me.”

  I smile, wishing I could be there in person. But I won’t invade his family’s grief. I’m here for him when he’s ready. I always will be.

  We say good night and I hang up, setting the phone next to me on the bed. I clear away all my tears and stare at the ceiling, trying to process all that’s happened today. I’m emotionally exhausted, and I feel myself sink into the bed. My eyes flutter closed, and then I’m asleep, the grief washed away for now.

  • • •

  There’s a buzzing sound, rousing me awake. I blink and look around the room, seeing it’s darker outside. Next to me on the bed, my phone continues to vibrate with several incoming messages. I glance down and my breath catches when I see it’s Wes. I quickly open the message.

  I know what I said last night, he writes. My heart sinks because I don’t know where he’s going with this. And I know what I said today, he adds. But any chance I can convince you to sneak out with me again?

  My lips part in surprise, but not all-out excitement. Sure, he may be the one who went through The Program, but that doesn’t mean he can mess with my feelings. Besides, I’m a little tender after today.

  Don’t you think that might give me the wrong idea, friend? I text back. I have to admit, it’s a pretty cold response. And I nearly regret it when the phone rings.

  “You didn’t block my number, so that’s good,” Wes says as a way of answering.

  “Not yet,” I tell him. “But I guess it depends on what you say next.”

  He laughs, his voice hushed and sleepy. I smile and let myself thaw out a little bit.

  “I’m lonely,” he says.

  “That was absolutely not the right—”

  “And I realized,” he says, louder, like I interrupted him, “it was because I missed you.”

  I fall silent. I don’t even know how to respond, don’t know what this means.

  “After lunch,” he says, “I looked for you. I wanted to apologize again. I thought up ways to make it up to you. I thought about you all damn day. And as I was lying here in my bed, I was still thinking about you, Tatum.” He pauses. “
You’re quiet and now I’m worried that I’ve scared you away.”

  I sit up, cradling the phone to my ear. “I’m listening,” I say, a little disappointed. For a second, I thought he remembered us. But if he did, he would have called me Tate.

  “See, the thing is,” he starts again, “I don’t know what to do with you. And I don’t know what to do without you, either. And, yes, I know that sounds shitty and unfair, but I want to be up front here. When I’m with you . . . it’s like there’s two of me: one who’s running toward you and one who’s running away. How does that make sense?”

  I close my eyes, more hurt by his words than encouraged. He’s telling the truth—I’m sure that’s exactly how it feels to him. He’s scared of how I feel—the pressure that puts on him. But he longs for a connection. It’s not something I can fix. So what should I do? This is the person I love.

  “Wes, what do you want from me?” I ask, my eyes still closed. “Why did you call?”

  “Because I want to see you,” he answers miserably. “Don’t you want to see me?”

  My heart sways, and I open my eyes to stare across the room at the pictures on my mirror. In this moment, I know exactly who Wes is. I’ve heard him murmur that same phrase late at night, when he needed me. When the epidemic was suffocating him. I won’t turn my back on him now. Not with everything happening around us.

  “Yes, I want to see you,” I say quietly.

  “That makes me so happy,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Do you want to come here?” There’s a rustling on the line like he’s tangled in the sheets of his bed. And I can picture his room, just as he left it. I wonder if his parents changed it when he went to The Program. Did they put away his Little League trophies, which were standing on his dresser covered with dust? Did they take down the picture of us from his mirror? I’m sure they did. They had to erase me.

  “What about your parents?” I ask.

  “They won’t know. I have my own entrance to . . .” He stops. “You already know because you’ve been here. So basically we won’t tell my parents. You in? I have pizza.”