The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  We sit on the tabletop, our feet on the seats, and I rest back on my hands. And I think we both realize it’s time to be serious. “So who was that woman in the office?” I ask.

  “Her name’s Dr. Wyatt,” he says. “She’s a monitor.”

  “Monitor? What the hell is that?”

  Wes shifts his boots on the picnic table seat. “She said she was hired by the district to check on us. A parent filed a complaint claiming that returners are a threat to the general population—like we willingly chose to get our minds altered and come back like this? Idiots.”

  “What does this monitor want from you?” I ask.

  “My cooperation. At first she was just meeting with the returners that the school had concerns about. But then she heard about Vanessa’s meltdown, so by the time I got to her, it was more like an interrogation.”

  My heart beats faster, scared of the implications. “Does she know about the Adjustment?”

  “No,” he says. “At least I don’t think so. But it’s only a matter of time. Dr. McKee said they filed for a fast track, so it could be part of public record. And if she’s interviewing everyone, I’m sure we’re not the only ones who’ve had it done. If she hears about it, she’ll want to shut it down. She’s already not fond of returners. Figures she’s the one they’d send to check on us, right?” He sighs, as if the entire world has gone crazy. He looks over at me, smiling slyly.

  Wes takes my hand and slides his fingers between mine. His touch is startling.

  “I thought about you today,” he says, and his voice takes on a dreamy quality. “When I was in that office, talking to Dr. Wyatt, I had a memory.”

  My breath catches, and Wes laughs. “I figured you’d be happy. I wanted to tell you in person.”

  “What was it?” I ask. “What did you remember?”

  “Nothing big,” he says. “But it was definitely my memory. And we were here, under this tree.” He motions above, and I notice that the streetlights have come on and the stars are just starting to shine through the dark-blue sky.

  “We were here?” I ask, my voice soft. I squeeze his fingers, and he brings my hand to his mouth, kissing it softly and then holding it to his cheek.

  “On this picnic table,” he says. “You told me you were thinking of going to USC. I asked if I could come with you and be your househusband.”

  I laugh, remembering the moment only when he says it. He was joking, of course. Wes had his own college plans—he wanted to be a criminal defense lawyer. Planned on UCLA. But that night, Wes said he’d tag along with me instead, keep my apartment clean. He said he’d get me a puppy and raise it right.

  “A respectable gentleman dog,” Wes says as if he’s reliving the memory with me. “And then you said—”

  “That I had no problem being the breadwinner so long as I never had to do another dish in my life.”

  Wes nods, and says that’s the end of his memory. It’s nothing on a grand scale, but it feels so intimate. So private. It’s ours.

  “What happened after that?” he asks, turning to me.

  I’m not sure I should, but I smile and lean in. He doesn’t flinch when I kiss him softly on the lips. I gather up his shirt to pull him closer. Wes murmurs that he’ll still be a househusband if I want.

  Although this moment could intensify, and in fact did in the past, I gently pull back and smile at him. He pouts a little before lying back on the tabletop.

  “That was a nice detour,” he says. “But I actually did want to talk to you about something else.”

  “Uh-oh,” I say, tilting my head. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing wrong, exactly. But that memory earlier—it felt good. It felt good to remember. Like it released something in my heart. It covered a pain I had. And so now I’m thinking . . . if this monitor finds a way to connect Vanessa’s outburst to the Adjustment, we don’t have much time before she tries to shut it down. We have to get back there.”

  I widen my eyes. “But . . . there’s a chance Vanessa’s breakdown was because of the Adjustment. All the memories at once. Shouldn’t we wait and see—?”

  Wes sits up, shaking his head. “I’m not Vanessa—if her meltdown even had to do with the Adjustment. Look, I feel better than I have in weeks. Months even. I want all my memories back. They’re mine, and I’m not stopping until I have every fucking minute.”

  “What about the monitor?” I ask.

  “Who cares? I’ve already lost my memory, what more could she do to me?”

  I want to immediately throw out another terrible option, but I know that to Wes, the unthinkable has already happened to him.

  “I’m going down to the Adjustment office in the morning,” Wes continues. “And if Dr. McKee won’t help me, I’ll go straight to Marie again. But . . .” He laughs like he forgot the most important part. “Are you coming with me? I mean . . . you are the donor.”

  “What about school?” I ask.

  “Skip.”

  “They’ll call home. My grandparents will flip if I cut class.”

  “Then call in for yourself. You’re eighteen. Tell them you have an appointment.”

  The school will still send home an automated message that I’m not there, but now that my grandfather is working, I can erase it before either he or my gram can hear it. God . . . that’s a lot of deceit, though.

  Then again, if I get caught, a cured Wes would go a long way toward explaining.

  “Okay,” I say. “But if anything feels off tomorrow, either with the Adjustment or with the monitor, we bolt. You got that?”

  “Absolutely,” Wes says with his eyes open wide, like he’d never do otherwise. When I laugh, he rests back on the table again, staring up at the tree.

  “I don’t want to go home yet,” he says. “Tell me a memory. Something hard—something sad.”

  I scoff. “Why would you want a sad memory?” I ask.

  “Because they’re usually the truest, the ones unaffected by our optimism.”

  I watch him a moment and then smile. “You say the smartest things sometimes.”

  “I read a lot.”

  I laugh and try to think of a memory worth telling; I almost tell him about the dream I had under the bridge, but I can’t quite recall the details. Just then, a memory occurs to me. We were in my car, parked in front of his house late at night.

  “It was the only time you ever talked to me about your sister,” I say to him. Wes looks over as if I’ve struck him, and slowly sits up. “Cheyenne would haunt you sometimes,” I continue. “The memories of her. You kept it bottled up—you never talked about her. But one night, when I was dropping you off, you asked if we could stay outside for a while. You were so quiet. I asked what was wrong.”

  • • •

  “Where would she be now?” Weston asked that night, staring blankly out the windshield from the passenger seat.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My sister.”

  The question shocked me; I didn’t know Weston’s sister. The only time I’d ever heard about her was when Nathan told me the story of her death. Wes didn’t talk about Cheyenne. At least not to me.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered softly, watching the side of his face as shadows from the moon played across his skin.

  “Do you know my favorite memory with Cheyenne?” he asked, his voice softer when he spoke her name.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “When we were kids, I don’t know, I was maybe eight or nine, she took me camping in the backyard. She set it up all herself while our parents were at work. Put up the tent, threw in the sleeping bags, and even dragged my father’s grill through the grass so we could roast marshmallows later.”

  “That’s sweet,” I said.

  “Yeah. And then my parents got home and wanted to wring her neck. My dad put the grill back on the side of the patio, and my mom immediately began packing up the sleeping bags. Cheyenne was so pissed.” He laughed to himself.

  “She waited until our paren
ts went to bed and then she got me from my room and roasted those marshmallows on the kitchen stove. Made a huge mess.” He started laughing harder, his eyes watering. “I can still remember the sound of my mother’s scream when she went into the kitchen in the morning to see burnt marshmallow all in the rings of her stove. I’m pretty sure she had a ministroke.”

  “Knowing your mother, I can only imagine.”

  “You burned my pan! ” he said, mocking her voice. “Cheyenne wasn’t sure how to melt the chocolate, so she did it in a pan, and marshmallow got everywhere. God, she was the fucking best.”

  We fell quiet then, gazing at each other. Much like we do now, only this time Wes has tears streaming from his eyes, a smile on his face.

  “I told you all that?” he asks. When I nod, he sniffs hard, fighting back his emotions. “I don’t remember any of it,” he says. “But it was . . . good. Why would they take that? Why take that specific memory—something happy?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “The obvious answer is because they’re assholes, but we know The Program goes deeper than that.”

  Wes closes his eyes, and in the shine of the streetlights, the tears glisten on his cheeks.

  “Cheyenne was my favorite person in the world,” he says. “I don’t remember why, but I know it’s true. I feel it. Her death . . . it must have wrecked me. It must have changed me.”

  “I didn’t know you before,” I say, “so I can’t say for sure, but I imagine so. I’m sorry, Wes. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you more about her so I could give it to you now.”

  “None of this is your fault,” he says. “Not one bit of it. You know that, right?”

  “I’m not sure what I know anymore.”

  To this, he smiles. “Join the club.” He sighs deeply, and then leans in to give me a soft kiss on the lips. “You should get home,” he whispers.

  I know he’s right, but I wish I didn’t have to leave. Tonight . . . it feels right. It feels like . . . I’m with the real him.

  I stand, but Wes makes no motion to get up. “What about you?” I ask.

  “Think I’ll stay just a little longer.”

  It doesn’t sound like an invitation for me, and I feel a little left out. But I imagine mentioning his sister has opened up a new wound. An old wound, I guess.

  Wes calls me over one last time and reaches to comb his fingers through my hair like he’s fixing me up. “All right, gorgeous,” he says, running his palm from my hair playfully over my face. I swat it away. “I’ll call you in the morning,” he says. “And don’t let your gram give you any more drugs tonight. Just say no.”

  I laugh and tell him we’ll talk tomorrow, and with that, we say good night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE ADJUSTMENT OFFICE OPENS AT eight, so I go about my morning as usual for my grandparents’ benefit. I pretend to leave for school, but head to the coffee shop and pick up two drinks before heading over to Wes’s house. I park down the block, and Wes meets me, leaving his motorcycle at home. I hand him a coffee, the way I know he likes it, and he smiles when he takes a sip.

  “Lots of sugar,” he says with a grin. “Because I’m—”

  “Sweet like that,” I finish for him. We both pause, sharing the memory. It used to be annoying, something he’d say every time. Now it feels a little sad.

  “Let’s go get the rest,” he says, nodding toward the street. And with that, we drive across town to the Adjustment office.

  When we arrive, neither of us gets out of the parked Jeep, staring at the darkened frosted-glass door of the building. We didn’t call to make an appointment, and I wonder if I should have contacted Dr. McKee myself, asked him about the dangers in light of Vanessa’s condition, before bringing Wes down here. But I couldn’t go behind his back like that.

  My phone buzzes in the cup holder, and Wes picks it up to hand to me. He doesn’t glance at the message, staring intently at the building instead, like he’s having second thoughts.

  “It’s Nathan,” I say, opening the text. Wes mutters that that’s awesome.

  Hey. Where are you? Nathan writes.

  I’m not sure how to reply, but I also know if I don’t, he’ll call home with worry. Taking the day off, I text. Don’t tell Pop.

  You okay? he responds immediately.

  Absolutely. Just need a minute. I’ll be back after lunch, I write, although I’m not sure that’s true. It sounds more responsible, though.

  Call if you need me, he responds. Also, you owe me coffee.

  I smile and click the phone off. When I turn to Wes, he doesn’t mention that I was texting another guy.

  Over the next few minutes, no one pulls into the Adjustment parking lot, and I wonder if the doctors are already inside. The lights don’t seem to be on, though, and I have a flash of worry that the monitor found out and shut them down before we could get here.

  But at 8:05, the lights inside flick on and glow through the frosted glass.

  “Thank God,” Wes murmurs, and I know he was worrying about the same thing.

  We climb out of the Jeep and go to the door to ring the bell. The locks don’t open right away, and I glance up to the camera. I ring the bell again. Wes checks the parking lot behind us, his posture rigid like he’s worried we’re being watched. There’s a loud click, and the locks open; we rush inside.

  The receptionist isn’t behind the desk this time. Instead, it’s Marie. She’s wearing a lab coat, and she crosses her arms over her chest when we enter.

  “This is a surprise,” she announces, looking at us. Only she says it like she’s not surprised at all. “Seems all our patients will be coming by today.”

  I exchange a questioning glance with Wes, but before we can ask what she means, Marie stands from the chair.

  “Did you also meet with this monitor?” she asks us.

  “Not me,” I say. “They were only speaking to returners.”

  Marie’s expression falters. “Of course,” she says, and turns to Wes. “You did, then?”

  “I didn’t really have a choice,” he says. “But she didn’t ask about the Adjustment. She basically just went through a list of questions, asking how I’m doing now that I’m back. It was really annoying.”

  “That’s because she was evaluating you in other ways. Watching you for hints to your thoughts. It’s come to their attention that returners are failing. She needs to investigate. But I have no doubt that Wyatt knows you’re hiding something. She’s good.”

  “You know her?” I ask.

  Marie nods. “We’ve worked together in the past. She used to oversee a branch of the grief department after being an advisor there for years. You’ll be relieved to know she was not involved in The Program, and in fact she fought against it.”

  “We didn’t hear much about anyone fighting against it,” Wes says. “At least no one in power.”

  Marie smiles bitterly. “Yes, I’m sure you didn’t. Ask Wyatt how that went for her next time you speak to her. On principle, she’s opposed to any mind-altering procedure. And that includes this one. Now, let’s head back. I assume you’re here for your next Adjustment?”

  She walks to the office door and holds it open for us. “Tom will be with us in a moment.”

  Marie leads us to the same office we started in, and we take our seats while she sits at the desk. She is pushing through some scattered papers, biting on one long red nail, when the phone on the desk buzzes. Marie clicks on the intercom.

  “You’re here,” she says, sounding annoyed.

  “Sorry, Marie,” the receptionist says. “I thought I was being followed, so I—”

  “What do you want, Megan?” Marie asks, cutting her off.

  “Sorry,” Megan says. “But there’s a guy up here to see you. He, uh . . . he says his name is Michael Realm.”

  Marie is perfectly still, poised. “Thank you,” she answers professionally. “Please let him know I’ll be with him shortly.”

  “Yeah, I told him that,” Megan says. “But he—�
��

  There’s a quick knock, and then the office door opens. “But he didn’t want to wait,” a guy announces for her. There’s a tick in Marie’s expression, and she moves her finger off the intercom and stands.

  “Michael,” Marie says, forcing a smile. “How nice of you to stop by. Unannounced.”

  He laughs. “Sorry to pop in like this, but you said you had . . .” He pauses when he notices me and Wes for the first time. “I didn’t realize you were with clients,” he tells Marie, sounding a little irritated that she didn’t warn him. Even though he’s totally the one who busted in here.

  She motions to us. “Tatum, Wes—this is Michael Realm. He is both a former Program patient and a returner.” She looks pointedly at him. “Among other things.”

  “Hey, there,” he says to us awkwardly, avoiding my eyes. I don’t think he likes the reference to The Program.

  Michael is tall with dark-brown hair and eyes; he’s cute. But the most noticeable thing about him is the jagged pink line across his neck. Judging by the violence of the scar, I think I know why he was in the Program in the first place.

  “So, Marie,” he says, his voice hushed. “You said you had some files for me?”

  “I do,” she responds, crossing to the filing cabinet. She pulls out a stack of folders and walks over to hold them out to him. Michael takes them, flipping through them quickly to read the tabs. When he’s finished, he presses them to his chest.

  “Looks good. I’ll take these and head over to James’s place to pick him up.”

  The door opens wider and Dr. McKee appears, stopping abruptly when he sees Michael.

  “Michael Realm,” he says, darting a glance at us before turning back. “How are you, son?” He shakes his hand.

  “All right, I guess,” he says. “Have you, uh . . .” He pauses to look at us like he doesn’t quite trust us. “Have you heard about the monitor?” he asks in a quiet voice.

  Dr. McKee presses his lips together and nods curtly.

  “We’re keeping an eye on the situation,” Marie says for him. Michael turns to her, and I can see he’s worried. I also see that he has serious baggage weighting him down. He seems miserable.