The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  “Is it legal?” I ask him. “Pulling returners out of class to talk to them without their guardians?”

  “I guess it depends on what they were talking to them about and who was asking the questions. You said there was a lady you’d never seen before?”

  “She wasn’t with our school,” I say. “Detective, maybe? That seems a bit over the top.”

  “School board member?” Nathan offers.

  “Not sure they have that kind of power.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Nathan says just as the server appears at the end of our table. He’s got tattoo sleeves on both arms, and a long beard. He sets our slices on the table and asks if we want anything else.

  “We’re good,” Nathan tells him. The server walks away and Nathan reaches for the crushed red pepper. “Now,” he says. “The real question is what. What information are they trying to extract?”

  “I think they want to assess the returners, see what sort of side effects they’re experiencing. But . . . it might also be about the Adjustment,” I say, guilty to even utter the word in front of him again. “Dr. McKee did say they were applying for a patent. They might be investigating it.”

  “They should,” Nathan says, picking up his slice to bite the end of the triangle. “And they should shut it down.”

  I stare at him, expecting him to qualify the statement, but he doesn’t. It’s then that I notice the dull headache that has creeped up, throbbing behind my eyes. I press against them with my fingers before looking at Nathan again. “You can’t mean that,” I say.

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Because those memories are locked away. Why shouldn’t returners have them back?”

  “Uh . . . because they run headfirst into metal lockers when they can’t handle the fucked-up reality. Look,” he says, pushing away his food to put his elbows on the table, “you and Jana are both telling me it’s not the Adjustment, right? And I’m sorry to point this out, but both of you have ulterior motives. Vanessa and Wes. Do I think those two deserve their memories back? Hell yes, I do. But the fact is, those real memories are gone.”

  “We don’t know if this had to do with the Adjustment,” I say. “When Vanessa came to me, she was worried about me knowing the truth. She didn’t warn me about the Adjustment. If she was really concerned—”

  “Seriously?” Nathan says. “Do you really think she was in a place to give advice? No,” he says. “Either way, if they’re investigating, I imagine the Adjustment will be shut down before the end of the week.” He picks up his slice and takes a big bite. He talks around his food and adds, “And then we’ll wait to see what the next failed attempt for a cure is.”

  • • •

  When I arrive home, I’m surprised to see my grandfather’s car gone once again. I don’t text this time, because since the pizza place, my headache has gotten worse. It could be stress. Or I could be getting sick. Either way, I drop my bag at the bottom of the stairs and go up to my room.

  I lie across my bed, checking my phone one last time to see if there’s anything from Wes.

  I’m okay. Will call you later, he’d sent while I was at the pizza place. I plan to still ask what happened, but then there is a crack across my skull as the headache intensifies. I squeeze my eyes shut, burying my head in the pillow as I groan out in pain. The minutes tick by as I wait for it to pass.

  And suddenly I fall back into a memory—the same one I told Wes about at lunch the other day; the memory about how he ended up in The Program.

  Wes and I, under the bridge. It was growing dark and we lay side by side. He turned away when I tried to kiss him. His expression was sad as he stared up at the underside of the bridge.

  But then the memory changes, becomes different from how I recited it for Wes. Different from how it actually happened. The memory goes on, slightly fuzzy at the edges.

  “I hate hurting you like this,” Wes said in a low voice. “You know I do, Tate.”

  And this time . . . I was the one flinching. I was the one sad and lost.

  “Just talk to me,” Wes begged. “I couldn’t live if you hated me.”

  I looked at him then, my stomach an empty pit, my chest hollow. And there was a drip as a tear fell onto my cheek, making him crumble. And I was glad. I wanted him to know how it hurt. How he made me hurt.

  “This is why,” he said miserably. “This is why.”

  • • •

  “Tatum?” The sound of my grandmother calling my name from downstairs startles me awake. I sit up with a gasp, wincing the moment I do because my head pounds. I quickly reach up to put my palm on my forehead and try to blink away the pain.

  But emptiness lingers in my chest, the fading memory—dream?—sticking with me. Had I fallen asleep?

  “Tatum?” my gram repeats, sounding concerned as she knocks and opens my door. I look over at her, and her eyes widen. She quickly rushes to the bed. “Honey,” she says, reaching to pluck a few tissues from the box on the nightstand. “You’re bleeding.”

  “What?” I’m disoriented. Confused as emotions flood back into my chest all at once.

  My grandmother holds the tissues under my nose, and then pulls them back to show me the blood. She folds the tissues in half, and dabs under my nostrils.

  “It’s okay,” she says, crouching down at my knees. “It was just a little bit.” But even as she tries to soothe me, I can tell by the way she’s pressing her lips together that she’s worried. She takes away the tissues, wrapping them in another.

  “There,” she says, and reaches to brush back my hair. “All better.”

  Gram tosses the tissues in the trash, and then comes to sit next to me on the bed. I’m off center, and she must read it because she feels my forehead.

  “You’re a little warm,” she says, even though I hadn’t noticed a fever earlier. “Come downstairs and I’ll make you some soup and give you an aspirin.”

  I let her help me up, glad when the headache releases to a dull throb. But as she leads me to the door, I pause and turn to her. I’m disoriented.

  “Gram,” I start. “Wes and I . . . we were okay before he was taken into The Program, right? I mean, on a personal level.”

  She furrows her brow, seeming surprised by the question. “Of course, honey,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

  I blink quickly, trying to call up the details of the memory, but they only get further away. “Never mind,” I say. “I must have . . . I must have fallen asleep. I had a weird dream.”

  “Sounds awful,” she says, tightening her grip on my arm. “All right, let’s get downstairs so I can call your grandfather. And I’ll get you a cold washcloth for your head.”

  We start out of the room, and I’m slowly getting my bearings again. I run my hand down the bannister as we descend the stairs. “Where is Pop?” I ask.

  “He didn’t tell you?” she asks, surprised. “He’s gone back to work—just accepted a position this morning. He’ll be at the paper two afternoons a week.”

  This is a strange development. My grandfather had retired, citing his distaste for entertainment news—how so much of journalism had gone that way. And until the story broke about The Program, everything my grandfather had written criticizing The Program’s methods had been buried. So, yeah—I’m stunned he’d go back now. I’m also curious why he didn’t tell me himself.

  I follow my gram into the kitchen, and she has me sit while she gets a washcloth from the linen closet. She runs it under cold water, and then grabs a cup of juice. She opens a cabinet and I hear her shake out a few pills.

  Damn. I left my phone upstairs. I hope I don’t miss a call from Wes.

  Gram returns and hands me the cup and the two pills. They’re not the usual aspirin I take, and I look up at her. “What are these?” I ask.

  She tilts her head like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, and presses the cool washcloth to my forehead.

  “The pills,” I clarify when she doesn’t answer.

  “Oh
,” she says. “Those are mine. They’re for migraines.”

  I stare down at them, oversize and chalky looking. “How’d you know I had a headache?” I ask.

  “You’ve got that dreamy kind of look,” she says, smiling warmly. “Should help with your fever too.”

  Again, I don’t feel feverish, but I pop the two pills into my mouth anyway, and wash them down with a sip of juice. Gram pats my shoulder and then tells me to hold the cloth on my forehead. She leaves the room to call my grandfather, and the moment she’s gone, I get up and go to the cabinet.

  I find the prescription bottle, and after checking to make sure she’s still gone, I grab the bottle and read the label. It’s made out to my grandmother, but I can’t pronounce the name of the medication. The label doesn’t list Dr. Goldsmith, her usual doc. All it has is the name “Attending Physician” in the right-hand corner along with a phone number.

  I hear my gram hang up the phone in the other room, and I quickly put the bottle back in the cabinet and dart over to the chair, pressing the washcloth to my forehead just as she walks back in.

  “Pop says he’ll be home by six. He’s bringing pizza.” She smiles broadly as if it’s just for me. She pauses at the counter and looks me over. “How are you feeling, honey?” she asks.

  “Better,” I say.

  “Good. Now would you like some soup?”

  I’m not the least bit hungry. “Not really,” I say. I lower the washcloth, and she comes to take it from my hands. As I watch her walk back toward the sink, the room tilts and I feel myself sway.

  “Why don’t you go lie down on the couch?” she calls. “Those pills are pretty strong. They always knock me out.” She says it like it’s a good thing.

  I hold the back of the chair as I stand. “I’ll just head up to my room.”

  “No,” she says quickly. “I want to keep an eye on you for now. Just go into the living room. I’ll join you in a second. I have some knitting I can do.”

  I don’t protest, feeling a wave of sleepiness crash over me. I try to remember the name of the pills she gave me so I can look them up later, but I can’t keep a clear thought in my head. I lie across the gray-patterned sofa and rest my head on the pillow.

  I feel like I’m sinking through the couch and into the floor. I’m heavy. And every time I try to think, the images are cloudy. Until there’s nothing but darkness.

  • • •

  Fingers brush across my forehead, and I wake up to my gram staring down at me lovingly. “There she is,” she announces. I blink rapidly, glancing around the room. My body still feels heavy, relaxed.

  “It’s time for dinner,” Gram says. I look out the window and see it’s after dusk. Sleepily, I follow my gram into the kitchen and find my grandfather at the table already. He smiles at me.

  “How’re you feeling, kid?” he asks. “Your grandmother told me you had a fever.”

  “Better,” I say, taking my spot at the table. My headache is gone completely. I look at my gram. “Although you may have been a little heavy on the drugs there, lady.”

  My grandmother winces guiltily.

  “What’d you give her?” Pop asks.

  “Just my migraine medicine,” she says quietly, and pours iced tea in my glass. I take a sip, the cubes rattling.

  There’s a bowl of salad in the middle of the table and I put a small scoop on my plate. “Heard about your job,” I say to my grandfather. “Didn’t know you wanted to go back to work.”

  “I didn’t,” he says, poking his food with his fork. “But while I was doing some research for you, I found the best way to snoop out some information was with press credentials.”

  I glance up at him. “You did it for me?”

  “I did it for the information.” He smiles. “For you.”

  My grandfather’s awesome. A good reporter. A good person. “Find out anything so far?” I ask.

  “Not much. Not enough to share at least. But I am meeting with a woman later this week. We’ll see what she turns up.”

  I almost ask him if it’s Marie Devoroux, but I can’t remember when I first met her. Was it when I was with Nathan? Or when I went back with Wes? I furrow my brow, my thoughts getting mixed up.

  “Is that all you’re going to eat?” my grandmother asks, motioning to my plate.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Guess I’m still full. I had pizza with Nathan after school.” I remember then that my phone is upstairs. I must have missed a call from Wes by now. I’m not hungry, but I quickly shove a forkful of salad in my mouth. I go on like that, none of us talking, until my plate is mostly clear.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” I say, standing up and taking my plate with me. I waver the minute I’m on my feet and grab the back of the chair. My gram stands after shooting my grandfather a concerned look.

  “Why don’t you head upstairs,” she suggests. “I’ll get the dishes.”

  I thank her, and round the table to put my plate in the sink. I place my hand on my grandfather’s shoulder as I pass him and escape the kitchen.

  My body’s just catching up after the medication coma. Maybe one pill would have been enough.

  I get upstairs and shut my door before heading over to my bed where I left my phone. I drop down and check my messages. I see three missed calls from Wes’s number. Quickly, I hit return call.

  Wes picks up on the first ring. “That took too long,” he says jokingly.

  “Yeah, right,” I say, relaxing back into my pillows, immediately comforted at hearing his voice. “Says the guy who waits until seven to call back. You’re lucky my gram drugged me or I would’ve been freaking out. How did it go in the school office? What did they want?”

  “Uh . . .” He laughs. “Did you just say your grandmother drugged you?”

  “Nothing illicit. And not the point I was trying to make,” I tell him. “What did they say at the office?”

  He’s quiet for a moment, and then he lowers his voice. “What are you doing right now?” he asks. “I planned on sneaking out. Want to meet?”

  I glance at the time out of habit, but I doubt my grandparents will let me go anywhere after I’ve spent the better part of an afternoon sleeping off a fever on the couch. “I would, but—”

  “Come on, Tate,” Wes says, sounding adorably mischievous. “There’s a playground near you on the corner of—”

  “Yeah,” I say, and smile. “I know where it is.” The Hearst playground is just a few blocks away. Back when Wes and I first starting dating, still a little shy, we’d meet up at the playground and talk. I’d twist around on a swing and he would tell me stories about riding to California on his motorcycle with his uncle when he first turned sixteen. I thought he was the coolest.

  “So . . . ten minutes?” he says. “Swear I’ll tell you everything.”

  I take stock of my condition, and I feel relatively fine. I’m not quite sure my grandparents will see it that way, though. I’ll figure something out.

  “Yeah,” I say to Wes. “See you then.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I ACTUALLY DO CONSIDER SNEAKING out, but ultimately I can’t imagine how badly it would scare my grandparents if they came upstairs to check on me, only to find me missing. So I put blush on my cheeks to give me color and I smooth down my hair. Then I head downstairs.

  My grandparents are still at the dinner table when I appear in the doorway, startling them midconversation.

  “Tatum,” Gram says. “Thought you were going to lie down?”

  “I’m actually not tired,” I say. I pause, but my grandfather is narrowing his eyes like he can tell I already have a plan. “And . . . Wes just called,” I say.

  My grandfather sits back in his chair, like I’ve proven him right in his suspicion.

  “Would it be okay if I ran out for a few minutes to talk to him?” I ask. “He’s just over at the park. I don’t even have to drive anywhere.”

  “And how is Wes?” Gram asks, concern painting her features.

  “He’s goo
d, Gram,” I say with a smile. “I really think he’s good.” Which is true—compared to how he used to be.

  Gram tells me she’s happy to hear it, but warns me not to be out too late. “And if you don’t feel good, come right home. Understand?”

  “Definitely,” I say. I wait another beat to see if they’ll change their minds, and when they don’t, I grab a sweater off the hook near the kitchen door and flee outside.

  The light is on in Nathan’s bedroom, but I’ve never felt more apart from him than I do now. It’s like we’re in different orbits. There’s a twinge of sadness at that thought, but I keep walking down the driveway and turn left toward the park.

  When I get to the playground, it’s deserted, with the exception of a motorcycle that pulls in just as I get there. The park is open until ten, but I promised my grandparents I’d be back before then.

  Wes climbs from his bike and takes off his helmet, flashing his dimples when he smiles. They still make me absolutely crazy for him.

  I walk over, my heart full. It feels like I haven’t seen him in days. I’ve missed him. I’m entirely aware of how quickly things are changing between us, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the memories or if I just need to believe in us that badly.

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” I say. “But next time you wait several hours before letting me know, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

  “Yikes,” Wes says. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He motions toward the swings. “Want me to push you?” he asks jokingly.

  “No. Last time I let you, you tried to make me jump the bar. I nearly died.”

  He laughs, but when I don’t, he drops his mouth open. “Seriously?”

  “Yep. You’re the worst playdate ever.”

  Wes laughs and we walk together toward the picnic table, the one with a weeping willow tree beside it. I’ll probably have a million bug bites before this night is over, but it’s the prettiest spot in the park, so it’s almost worth it.