The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  “Make sure you do,” he says to Marie.

  Next to me, Wes exhales loudly, as if reminding them all that we’re still here. Michael is the first to look over at us, and then he steps toward the doorway.

  “I’ve taken up too much of your time,” he says to Marie and the doctor, oddly formal. “Thank you for this.” He holds up the files.

  “Of course. It helps us too,” Dr. McKee says. “Good luck.”

  Michael looks back at us. “It was, uh . . . good to meet you,” he says. And then he gives a quick wave and walks out. Once he’s gone, Dr. McKee shuts the office door. He turns and stares at us, disapproval clear on his face.

  While Marie waits at the file cabinet, Dr. McKee walks over to his desk and takes a seat. He removes his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief he pulls from his pocket. “And how are you feeling?” he asks Wes, his voice tight.

  “Good,” Weston responds. Marie excuses herself and leaves the room. Dr. McKee puts his glasses back on and leans his elbows on his desk.

  “What you did was dangerous,” he says. “Marie shouldn’t have implanted that second memory so quickly. It was unethical.”

  Wes smiles. “No, unethical was taking my memories in the first place. Giving them back is heroic.”

  Dr. McKee laughs, and sits back in his chair. “No need to flatter me, son,” he says. “I’m glad it worked. Have you had any setbacks? Any discomfort?”

  “No,” Wes says. He goes on to tell Dr. McKee about the memory he had on his own about us in the park. I see the doctor’s eyes light up. He thinks he’s saving lives—his intentions really are pure, it seems.

  “And you want more?” Dr. McKee says when Wes finishes talking.

  “Yes,” Wes says. “I think I can get it all back.”

  Dr. McKee nods. “I think you can too. And how about you?” the doctor asks, looking in my direction. “Have you had any complications?”

  I’m surprised by the question. “Uh . . . actually, I did have a headache. But my grandmother gave me some migraine meds and knocked it right out,” I say with the wave of my hand. Dr. McKee swallows hard, and looks down at the papers on his desk.

  “I’m glad the headache passed so quickly. We’ll be sure not to double-dose you on the truth medication. It can have that effect.”

  I nod and tell him that that is probably a good idea. “Also,” I say, just before he seems ready to dive back into a conversation with Wes. “I was wondering about Vanessa Ortiz. She—”

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. McKee says quickly. “I can’t talk about any of my other patients with you. For confidentiality reasons. I’m sure you understand—especially with a monitor poking around.”

  “Sure, “I say. “But if there was a problem with the Adjustment, you’d tell us, right?”

  “It wasn’t the Adjustment,” he replies. “That I can assure you. But, yes, I would tell you.” Dr. McKee puts the papers in a neat stack and turns to Wes. “Now,” he says, “are you ready for your next session? I imagine you’re growing restless.”

  Wes stands, and although I’d still like more clarification, I do too. If I push too far, Dr. McKee might turn us away. And I don’t think Wes would appreciate that.

  The three of us head out and walk back into the Adjustment room. It feels colder than usual when I sit down in the chair. Marie is at the computer, typing in some notes. She doesn’t look at me. I wonder if Dr. McKee scolded her for helping us with the extra memory. I wonder if it’s strained their relationship, because they don’t speak a word to each other until we begin.

  The injection kicks in, and it’s like my insides are coated with warm wax. I lazily look over at Wes, and this time he’s still awake, the sedative affecting him differently.

  “This is the third of four sessions, Mr. Ambrose,” Dr. McKee states. I wonder suddenly if he’s recording this somehow, and glance around until I find a small camera in the corner of the room. But it might have always been there.

  “We are in the final stages of your Adjustment. After this, you should notice a few more memories coming into focus. It may be disconcerting at first, so we’ll want you to communicate with us. Keep us aware of any problems you might have. Any questions. Any crashbacks.”

  “I’m ready,” Wes says. He doesn’t look at me, just straight ahead, like he’s looking into his future—or his past, I guess.

  “Wes,” I whisper, but he still doesn’t turn to me.

  “We deserve this, Tate,” he says. “We deserve to have it all back.”

  I stare at him, knowing by the adamant tilt of his chin that I couldn’t change his mind even if I wanted to. So I dive into the past with him again.

  “Fuck The Program,” I say.

  He smiles. “Fuck The Program,” he repeats. And then Wes closes his eyes and waits for me to begin.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “LET’S FAST-FORWARD THE TIMELINE,” DR. MCKEE says. “Let’s find a moment from when Wes was struggling. It’s not pleasant to talk about, but it might be key in helping him recover a larger part of his memory. These would be specifically targeted memories that The Program would have taken, so if we can replace them, it might help build bridges between all his memories.”

  It seems like a huge responsibility to remember the perfect moment to do that. I try to think back, and at first, I don’t know where to start. The time around Wes disappearing has always been fuzzy. There was so much going on—the world had gone mad. With the constant fear of The Program, none of us was really being ourselves.

  My first thought is from that evening when we went to listen to the band. Wes was lost in his head but we ended up dancing half the night. He’d been so sad, not himself.

  I stop the thought, opting to pass over that memory and use another. We were wrong that night, the two of us in different orbits. It’s selfish, but I don’t want him to remember us like that. And it’s strange—as the medication makes the memory clearer than the present, I realize there are several moments just like that. I grow weary of searching, and finally dive into one.

  “There was a party,” I say out loud. Heat floods my chest from the medication, and my heart rate speeds up.

  She was a friend of mine, Casey Jones. She was always having parties in her basement, hidden away from the public. She lived with her stepdad, who was a nice enough guy, but never around. He would tell her that he’d rather she have friends over than go out. He didn’t want her to end up in The Program.

  “So Casey would have everyone park blocks away,” I continue. “That way the neighbors wouldn’t complain. One of those nights, Wes and I headed over to Casey’s. Nathan was there too.”

  “Describe Nathan,” the doctor says, making a note.

  “No need,” Wes says, sounding a million miles away. “I know what he looks like.”

  Dr. McKee laughs quietly and asks me to describe him anyway.

  “He’s a little over six feet, brown hair, and hazel eyes. Good-looking,” I add. Damn truth serum.

  “Awesome,” Wes says. “Can we move on?”

  “Of course,” Dr. McKee says. “Tatum, if you’ll continue.”

  “Anyway,” I say. “Nathan was meeting a girl, so I didn’t really see him until it was time to go.”

  Casey’s house becomes real around me, and I fall back into the memory.

  • • •

  “Ah, it’s my favorite couple,” Casey announced when we walked in. The upstairs was dark, only a small lamp on in the window. We had to go through her house to get to the basement door. It felt hidden, a speakeasy in the back of a market.

  Her house was plain, sparsely decorated. From downstairs, I could hear the low thump of bass from a song. A small figurine vibrated where it sat on the table next to the phone.

  Wes smiled at Casey but didn’t respond. I told her that I liked her hair. She’d recently put streaks of blue and pink in it—cotton candy swirl she called it. She had her eyebrow pierced three times and she wore makeup to cover her freckles, something she con
fided in me one time when she was drunk.

  “Thanks,” she said, touching her hair. “Although my dad is going to kill me when he sees the bathroom sink.” She grinned, and behind us there was a quick knock at the door. “Coming,” she called. “Everyone’s downstairs,” she told me. “Help yourself to whatever drinks are left.”

  “Nice,” Wes said, and started that way, not looking back. Casey darted a quick glance at me, and then forced a smile and walked to the door to greet her other guests.

  Wes opened the door to the basement and headed down, stopping halfway like he forgot I was behind him. I caught up, and then together we stepped into the party.

  The basement ceiling was low, dropped tiles. There were two poles on either side of the room holding it up—we jokingly called them stripper poles. There was a small bar with a large mirror behind it in the corner. The space was huge, several couches and a round table for cards set up. The music was loud, but it soon switched to something a little darker, heavier.

  Wes and I made our way through the room, saying hi to people as we passed them. Across the room, I spotted Nathan on one of the couches, and he offered me a wave. He was with a sophomore I didn’t recognize.

  I smiled when I noticed Foster approaching. I didn’t think he’d be here tonight; he spent most weekends with his family.

  “Hey, guys,” Foster called out. He and Wes did a hand slap and shoulder hug before Foster came to stand next to me. He looked me over, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You okay?” he asked. I darted a look at Wes and then smiled.

  “I’m good. How are you?”

  He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “Same.” He turned to Weston. “And where have you been?” he asked him. “I texted you yesterday about a pickup game in the park. Thanks for answering, dickhead.”

  Wes laughed. “Sorry. I was . . . I was busy.” He leaned to look past Foster at me. “I’m going to head to the bar,” he said. And then to Foster. “See you around?”

  “Yeah,” Foster said, watching him. “Sounds good, man.”

  Once Wes was gone, Foster moved in closer, his arm against mine. “Do we want to talk about this?” he asked quietly. Wes had been withdrawing, and his friends were starting to notice.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “You sure? Because he—”

  “I’m sure.”

  Foster waited a second, and then took another sip of his drink, allowing me to change the subject. We both looked toward the couch where Nathan was talking with the sophomore, flirting.

  “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Kesia Boone,” Foster said, motioning in her direction. “But Nathan doesn’t like her,” he said as if I’d asked. On the couch, Nathan must have felt us staring because he looked over and held up his bottle in cheers. Foster air-clinked it from next to me.

  “How do you know he doesn’t like her?” I asked Foster.

  “I just do.”

  I laughed, turning to him. “Well, you’re rarely wrong about him. Too bad, though. She’s cute.”

  “Eh,” Foster said as if she was just all right.

  “I better go catch up with Wes,” I said.

  Foster gave me one last weary glance. “Okay,” he replied, and reached to put his cool palm on my cheek affectionately. “Have fun.” I smiled, and he went over to the couch to hang with Nathan.

  I turned toward the bar—

  • • •

  I’m suddenly pulled out of the memory, blinking quickly, here in the chair at the Adjustment office. I saw Wes at the bar of the party. But he was sitting with . . . he was sitting with Kyle Mahoney. I didn’t remember that until now.

  I turn sideways and see Wes’s profile as he stares up at the ceiling, listening to my story. “You were at the bar talking to Kyle,” I say.

  Wes turns, the lights on the metal crown casting shadows over his brow. His eyes meet mine, questioningly.

  “Okay,” he says, as if asking what the bigger accusation is.

  My heart rate spikes and I can hear the sound of it on the monitor. Marie shifts uneasily next to me, and she reaches to press her thumb over my pulse point.

  “Do you remember her?” I ask Wes. He shakes his head no.

  Marie says my name, drawing my attention. “Stay focused,” she says calmly, examining my face. She lifts her eyes to Dr. McKee, and although they don’t say anything to each other, I feel they’ve communicated.

  “Maybe we should try a different memory, Tatum,” Dr. McKee says, studying whatever signal my brain is putting out on his monitor. “We can begin again. We don’t want you to—”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I can go on.”

  The doctor is quiet, and he doesn’t stop me. So I close my eyes, and the memory comes back, clearer than before.

  Wes was sitting at the bar, looking down at his drink, and turned fully toward him with one elbow on the bar was Kyle, her blond hair cascading over her shoulder. She smiled and moved closer as she talked. Wes smiled back—the first time I’d seen a real smile in weeks.

  “Weston?” I said as I walked up. He paused, but didn’t turn to me immediately, even though he obviously heard me. Kyle sat back in her seat, and drank from her cup. Why didn’t Wes look at me? I didn’t like it—it stung.

  I stopped at the bar next to him, glaring at the side of his face, and before he said anything, he turned and took my elbow. He stood and began to pull me away from the bar. I looked back at Kyle, but all I saw was the swing of her blond hair as she got down from the stool and left.

  “What was that about?” I asked Wes.

  He dropped my arm, turned away, and took a long sip from his drink. “What was what about?” he asked in a low voice.

  I stared at him, but then Casey appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She smiled broadly and looked around at all of us, like she was proud to have brought us together. To have fooled The Program.

  “Who wants to play a round of bullshit?” she asked.

  “I do,” Wes announced, holding up his drink. He left my side to walk toward her, avoiding my question. I ended up playing cards too. But he—

  I flinch, sitting up in the Adjustment chair. I reach to touch my head, my fingers tangling in the wires. “Ouch,” I say as a headache prickles the skin, spreading warmth across my brain. Marie gently puts her hand on my shoulder, but I tell her I’m all right.

  “Sorry,” I say, shifting in the chair as I relax back. The pain fades. “That was weird,” I murmur.

  I close my eyes again and the memory changes; it’s later that night. The sound of my heartbeat evens out, and I feel the rush of medication in my chest.

  “I took Wes home after the party,” I say out loud in the Adjustment room as the picture becomes clearer in my mind. “We were parked outside in the rain. I told him I loved him.”

  The memory covers me like a blanket and I see it all.

  Me, climbing into the passenger seat to sit on Wes’s lap. We kissed, his hand up the back of my shirt. Passionate. We kissed until we were both breathless. But it had gotten late and I was going to miss curfew. He said he had to go.

  But as he left, Wes looked back at me and said, “I don’t deserve you, Tatum. You know that, right?”

  I smiled. “Sometimes you do.”

  He laughed, and then as if he couldn’t hold himself back, he dived back into the Jeep, sweeping me into a hug and burying his face in my hair. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

  Wes kissed my cheek, lingering a moment longer, and then disappeared into the night.

  • • •

  The treatment room is quiet when I finish the story, and it takes me too long to acclimate to the room. I can still smell the smoke from the party; I taste Wes on my lips. I still feel the suspicion in my heart.

  I hear clicking as Dr. McKee types on his computer, and then the sound of Wes’s breathing, steady. I feel like I should say something more, but words are failing me so I just wait.

  “Thank you very much, Tatum,” Dr.
McKee says curtly. “That will be all for today.”

  I slowly sit up in the chair and turn to look at him. He’s so formal—there’s no closure to the session. “That’s it?” I ask.

  “That’s all we need for now,” he says. “This is a very complicated memory. It will take some time to pattern it. It’d be best if you left.” He looks up at me, his face expressionless. “We’ll call you when the procedure’s done.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say as Marie comes over to unhook my monitor and remove the electrodes. “Is something wrong?” I ask, looking from her to the doctor.

  “No,” Marie says immediately. “You just have a lot of emotions tied to that memory. We want to make sure we get it right.”

  “Wes,” I say, but when I turn to him, his eyes are closed from sedation. But halfway across his temple, I see a tear running down from the corner of his eye.

  I start to pull off the rest of the tabs and wires. But before I jump down from the chair, Dr. McKee reaches out to put his hand on my shoulder.

  “He’s fine,” the doctor says. “Can I please talk to you in the hall?”

  “But . . .” I want to argue, but his vibe leaves no room for compromise. I reluctantly agree.

  Dr. McKee leads me toward the door. “Marie,” he calls behind us, “tend to Weston, please.” She nods and takes a syringe out of her pocket, flipping off the orange cap. I don’t know if that means she’s going to sedate him further. How deep can he be under?

  Dr. McKee ushers me out of the room, and once in the hall, he lowers his head to stare right into my eyes. “You’re highly emotional,” he says. “And your pattern was all over the place. We can’t project that—the brain will pick up a pattern that strong. All you had to do was recite what you remembered.”

  “What . . . what did I do wrong?” I ask, my voice cracking. I’m scared that I might have endangered Wes.

  Dr. McKee straightens, and a sympathetic expression crosses his features. He takes off his glasses and begins to clean them. “I apologize,” he says quietly, focusing on wiping the lenses. “I didn’t mean to imply you did anything wrong, Tatum. We . . .” He pauses and slides his glasses back on. “We didn’t anticipate how complicated that memory would be.”