The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  My grandfather waits for me to take them, and I put them in my mouth and take a sip of water. I smile, and hand him the glass. When he walks back into the kitchen, I quickly spit out the pills into my hand, the chalky coating bitter on my tongue. Before my grandfather comes back, I grab a tissue from the coffee table and wrap up the pills and stuff them in my pocket.

  Although I have a headache, I don’t want to sleep. I get up, holding the edge of the sofa as I do. I plan to take some regular medicine when I get the chance.

  My grandfather comes back into the room, and asks if I want any help getting upstairs. I tell him I’m fine. “You’ll let me know as soon as you have an update on Wes?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Pop responds.

  As I start to walk back to my room, my grandfather calls my name. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says.

  He means I’m back in their trust. Back in their care. And so I smile and walk upstairs.

  My grandmother stops by my room a short while later. She couldn’t get hold of Wes’s parents, but says that she and Pop are heading there to speak with them.

  “And if they’re not home, we’ll go over to the hospital,” she says. “In the meantime, I want you to take it easy. Understand?”

  I tell her that I will and she kisses my forehead and tells me to be well. I see her glance at my phone, and for a second I think she’s going to ask for it. But she doesn’t. My grandparents have never taken my phone away before, so the intent surprises me.

  She leaves and I wait in bed, listening. When I hear their car pull out of the driveway, I go downstairs and into the kitchen. I open the cabinet, grab the bottle of pills, and pick up my phone.

  I type the name of the drug into a search and set the bottle down. I click through the list of uses, leaning my hip against the granite counter. Although migraine treatment is among the possible uses for the drug, it’s something else that catches my eye, and my heart kicks up its beats.

  There are several articles, consumer warnings, and charts. They all list this medication as a drug used for deletion of memory, a way to suppress and erase traumatic events and affect the brain’s ability to recall them long-term. It was one of the medications they used in The Program.

  They call it the forgetting pill.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, and with a shaky hand, I grab the two pills from my pocket that I spit out earlier. I toss them into the disposal and run the water.

  My mind is spinning as I try to come up with a rational explanation as to why my grandparents would give me a drug like that. Could it be a coincidence that my gram was taking that medication?

  I pick up the bottle again, checking for the phone number of the unlisted physician. I dial it, and as the line rings, my heart beats in my throat.

  It has to be a mistake.

  “Thank you for calling the Adjustment office. This is Megan.”

  I freeze. Megan repeats her greeting, and I slowly lower the phone and stare at it. The line goes dead.

  Why does my grandmother have pills from the Adjustment office? And why the hell would she give them to me? To make me forget? What am I supposed to forget?

  I wince, another flash of pain in my head. I press the heel of my palm hard against my temple, and then reach for the regular aspirin. I take three and wash them down with water directly from the tap. Water drips from my chin, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

  I’m not sure what to do. Who to call. I pick up my phone, ready to try Nathan again, when the line suddenly rings, startling me.

  I’m relieved when I see it’s Wes. He’s okay. I quickly bring the phone to my ear. “I’ve been so worried,” I say. “How are you?”

  I’m met with a moment of silence, and I listen closer. I hear breathing so I know the line isn’t disconnected.

  “Wes?” I say, my worry spiking.

  “Where is he?” his mother asks, her voice thick like she might be crying. “Where’s my son?”

  I spin to look around the kitchen, as if he’s in here but I didn’t notice. I grow frantic as his mother’s voice continues to ring in my ear.

  “He left the hospital, Tatum, against his doctor’s advice,” she says. “I want to speak to him now.”

  “He’s not with me,” I say. Would he have run away again? Like last time. Kyle was there yesterday. Could he have . . . ?

  “I have to go,” I say, and hang up before his mother can argue. She must have his phone, which means he left it behind. I run my hand through my hair, taking stock of the situation. I have to find Wes. But I don’t know where to look.

  Everything is falling apart. Although I have to figure out my own situation, this takes precedence. I have to make sure Wes is okay.

  Without giving away what I know about the medication, I call my grandfather; I need his help. Pop answers on the first ring, and I’m barely holding it together as I try to tell him that Wes is missing. He and my grandmother are on their way to the hospital since no one was home at Wes’s house.

  “I’m scared, Pop,” I say. “What if he’s gone? What if he’s hurt—maybe even because of the Adjustment?”

  “Tatum,” he says softly. “Stay calm, honey. It’s going to be fine.”

  “It’s just . . .” I try to sound steadier. “I can’t let him down this time,” I say. “Wes ran away before, and look what happened to him. I didn’t do enough. I won’t make that same mistake. He could be in a ditch somewhere—” My voice cracks and I quickly pull the phone away from my mouth so my grandfather won’t hear.

  “We’re going to make some calls, okay?” Pop says. “Talk with his mother. You wait at the house, just in case he shows up.”

  “Good idea,” I say. Because when I think about where Wes might go, I remember how he showed up at my house. Showed up after he ran away the first time. And showed up again when he returned from The Program. Muscle memory, he called it.

  “Check in every hour so I don’t have to start calling around about you, too,” Pop adds.

  “I will,” I say, pacing the kitchen. “Thank you.”

  “I love you, honey,” he says. There’s sadness in his voice. Concern. It tells me that my earlier worry will have a rational explanation. Because my grandparents love me unconditionally. And that means they would never try to manipulate me.

  • • •

  I spend the next hour online, looking for any update on social media that might give me some direction as to where Wes is. But there’s nothing. I check in with my grandparents and they don’t have an update either.

  The phone rings around eleven, and I practically jump out of my skin to answer it. It’s Nathan.

  “Hey,” I answer. “I called you.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” he says. “They had us shut off our phones.”

  I close my laptop and get up from my bed. “They?”

  Nathan exhales loudly. “Mandatory assembly. A half hour lecture from a monitor—Dr. Wyatt. She told us all about the dangers of memory alteration. Any form of memory alteration. She basically called out the Adjustment without naming it specifically.”

  “Shit,” I say, pausing midpace. “Well, what does she want?”

  “Names,” he says. “She wants names of students suspected of messing with their heads. She’s trying to get us to turn on each other. Several people walked out of the assembly, including me and Foster. Before I left, she said the school board voted on taking action. I don’t know what that means. But I’ll tell you one thing, we were complacent last time. We won’t make the same mistake. We’ll refuse to meet with her. She’s bringing in all the returners, though. Have . . . have you met this woman?”

  “No,” I say. “Although I saw her in the office when she was about to talk to Wes.”

  “She’s terrifying,” Nathan says. “Steer clear.”

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  “They called off school for the rest of the day,” Nathan says, his voice dropping lower. “There’s something else. Late last night . . . Van
essa died. She, uh . . . she had an aneurysm, a side effect of her brain injury. She didn’t make it.”

  My breath catches, and I take a step back, horrified. I blink and tears spill over onto my cheeks. “Jana—”

  “I’m going over there right now,” he says.

  “Please tell her I’m so sorry, Nathan. And if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “I will,” he says. “But, um . . . I wanted to tell you to be careful. Whatever parts of Vanessa’s brain were stimulated by those doctors became overactive; it made her paranoid, delusional. The memories came back too fast and she wasn’t able to handle it. Tatum, I’m not sure anyone can. I know you were only a donor, but I’m worried it might have affected you. You should—”

  “I’m fine,” I say, not wanting him to worry. I’m devastated for Vanessa’s family. Her brother. Her parents. She was a survivor, but now she’s gone.

  “And keep an eye on Wes,” Nathan adds. “That kid who also had a breakdown yesterday, he wasn’t in school. I . . . don’t know how many more there will be. Returners are seriously in danger.”

  There’s a tingling that starts in my cheeks, pins and needles when you realize something terrible. It races down my chest, curls in my stomach. “About Wes,” I say. “His mother called me. He’s missing from the hospital.”

  “Jesus,” Nathan breathes out, frustrated. “This fucking day.”

  “I’m waiting here in case he shows up, but I think I’m going out to look for him. Should I meet up with you and Jana?”

  “No,” Nathan says. “Find Wes. I’ll pick up Jana and bring her back to my house. She doesn’t want to be alone and her mom is working. I’ll keep a lookout for Wes.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him. We hang up, and I stay for a moment, unable to move. A shadow creeps over me, and I feel it soak into my skin. It won’t be long until that monitor rounds up all the returners, and not just for an interview. This is the start. Panic isn’t far behind.

  I look around my empty house, feeling vulnerable. Afraid. I have to find Wes and make sure he’s okay.

  I dash over and grab my keys, and go outside, heading for the Jeep. Only when I get out to the driveway, my heart leaps. Weston is walking down the middle of the street in my direction. I drop my keys and run to him.

  I nearly stumble off the curb but catch myself as Wes hurries toward me. He’s wearing the same clothes he went to the hospital in, a plastic ID bracelet still on his wrist. Bruises line the inside of his left arm, where he’s had multiple injections and blood draws.

  His eyes are wild, and when he looks at me, it’s like I can read his soul. How desperate he was to see me. How he needed me. And without a word, we crash into each other, clinging together. I wrap both my arms around the back of his neck, standing on my tiptoes; his hands grasp tightly at my shirt.

  “When I woke up, you were gone,” Wes whispers at my neck, sounding panicked. “I nearly broke out of the hospital in the middle of the night to find you. They wouldn’t give me a phone.” He cups the back of my neck and looks down at me as if I owe him an explanation.

  He’s okay. He’s here. I feel like I’ve just gotten home from a long trip. Homesick for him. And I want to say that he seems better, but it’s not true. His dark eyes are bloodshot, and there’s scruff on his chin. He looks exhausted and worn down. The Adjustment hasn’t fixed him at all. It might have made him worse.

  “Come inside,” I say, taking his hand. “And . . . you’d better call your mother.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WE GO INTO THE KITCHEN, where I grab Wes some water and tell him to sit down. He seems confused, looking around the house, and I realize it’s the first time he’s been inside since he returned from The Program. I’m not sure if he remembers it, but I’m not going to ask him. I don’t want to overwhelm him with unimportant stuff.

  I hand Wes my phone and try not to listen when he calls his mother. But I can hear her voice from the kitchen island, demanding he come back to the hospital. Wes tells her to calm down, he’s an adult, and says he’ll see her later. Then he hangs up. I’m sure she loved that.

  When he’s done, I sit at the table with him. Wes scoots his chair closer, his hand on my leg, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. I wait as he gulps down a few sips of the water.

  “What the hell happened yesterday?” he asks. He sets the glass down on the table with a clank. “Last thing I remember,” he says, “we were in the Adjustment office, and you were talking about a party. . . .” He shakes his head like it gets foggy from there. “The party . . . I told you after that you were the best part of me.” He pauses to verify if he got that right, and I smile at him, encouraging him to keep talking.

  “Next thing I know,” he says, “it’s two in the morning and I’m in a hospital bed with Dr. McKee shining a light in my eyes. He said I rejected the memory. What does that mean?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” I say. “But he accused me of not giving him the whole story. That’s not true, Wes. I told him everything.”

  “Of course you did,” he replies easily. He squeezes my leg and I put my hand over his. “I don’t get what went wrong,” he says. “Last time it worked so well. But this one . . . it left me with this . . .” He shakes his head. “It left me feeling sick, Tate. Like, sick to my stomach, pain in my chest. I don’t know what they did to me.”

  “I’m sorry I left,” I say, feeling guilty. He must have been terrified when he woke up. “Your parents . . . Your mom was there. She wouldn’t let me see you. She told me I was selfish and that I’d eventually kill you.”

  Wes closes his eyes, breathing out an annoyed sigh. “My mother doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.”

  “I told her that at least I wasn’t the one who called The Program on you,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

  “She deserved it,” he says. “She has no right to talk to you that way. You’re the one who’s trying to help me.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I’m scared she’s right,” I confess. “I’m scared I’ve been selfish.”

  “Tate,” Wes says, leaning in to put his forehead against mine. “She’s not right. I’m here with you because I want to be.”

  I put my palm on Wes’s cheek, sighing deeply. “It’s good to see you,” I say, unable to hold back my smile when I’m this close to him. He takes my hand and kisses the inside of my palm, then my wrist, before letting my hand go.

  “You had to know I’d come back for you,” he says, flashing his dimples. “I always do.”

  In the other room, I hear my phone buzz on the table. I stand up to grab it, but pause in the doorway. “Things are a mess right now,” I tell Wes. “I’m not even sure where to start.” The phone stops in the other room, and I opt to leave it.

  “How so?” Wes asks. “I mean, in comparison to the mess they normally are.”

  “Vanessa Ortiz died last night,” I say quietly.

  Wes rocks back in his chair and stares down at the table. “She’s . . . she’s dead?” he asks.

  I nod sadly. I lean against the door frame, and we let the thought settle between us. Another death. Another person torn away.

  “It was related to her injury,” I say. “But the way she was acting . . . I wonder if she had a corrupted memory too. Or if this is just what’s happening to all returners. I thought maybe therapy would be enough, but now I’m not sure. I’m scared.”

  “Look,” Wes says, as if I’m too far ahead of myself. “I’m sorry to hear about Vanessa. I mean, it’s horrible. But I promise you that we’ll figure this out. Okay?”

  I nod, slightly braver because of his words.

  “There’s more?” he asks hesitantly.

  “Yeah,” I say. “The monitor was back at the school today, asking for names of people who’ve gotten their memories altered. She might be able to track you down.”

  “We can’t worry about that now,” Wes says. “By law—unless the law is changed again—she can’t do anything to me.” But he swallows hard b
ecause we both know how quickly those rules can change.

  “And then there’s this,” I say, walking to the kitchen cabinet. I take out the pill bottle and set it on the table in front of Wes. He looks it over, and lifts his eyes to mine questioningly.

  “And these are . . . ?”

  “I’m not sure. They might be migraine meds, or they might be memory erasers. Which do you think it is?”

  “What?” Wes says, picking up the bottle. “Is this your gram?” he asks, pointing to her name.

  “Yep. But when I called the number for the doctor, it was the Adjustment office.”

  Wes’s mouth falls open and we stare at each other, both of us trying to find an explanation.

  “I will say,” I start, “that my grandfather’s a reporter. It’s possible that he went there to talk to Dr. McKee, but why would he let him treat my grandmother? And why would she give these pills to me—unless she didn’t know what it was . . .”

  “I’m not really going to side with the conspiracy on this one,” Wes says. “Your little old gram working for . . . what, The Program? Doubt it.”

  I smile, because when he says it like that, it’s obviously ridiculous. Still, I’ll have to get to the bottom of it.

  Wes pats the kitchen chair, telling me to sit down. When I do, I watch him for a moment, and the last worry starts to work its way over me. Tightening my muscles. Wes sees my apprehension.

  “Is there seriously more?” he asks.

  “It’s about us,” I say, my voice a little shaky. “I know I’ve told you how much we loved each other, how we were everything—and I believed that. I still do. But when Kyle Mahoney showed up in that memory . . .” Wes tilts his head at the mention, and I wait for a flicker of guilt or recognition. Instead he screws up his face.

  “What the hell does Kyle have to do with anything?” he asks.

  “She was there,” I say. “I told you.”

  “She was where?”

  “In the memory.”

  Now Wes reacts, pushing back from his chair to stand up. “What do you mean, in the memory?” There’s a sudden flash of distrust in his eyes, as if I’ve been keeping something from him.