The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  Nathan sniffs a laugh, and then reaches to take my arm, letting me lean against him for support.

  “God, I hate hospitals,” Foster murmurs. I look over at him, reminded of Sebastian. I tell Foster again how sorry I am, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. We all process grief in our own way.

  The three of us are pathetic, three friends who survived an epidemic only to be crushed by its aftermath. But we have each other. At least we have that.

  • • •

  After some of the shock wears off and time ticks by with no updates, I find myself still in the chair, Nathan’s jacket over my shoulders as I continue to shake. Foster had to leave, promising to check in with us later. It all feels like a bad dream.

  “You sure you don’t want me to get you a hot chocolate out of the machine or anything?” Nathan asks. I look over at him, my head feeling too heavy, and my appearance must answer for me, because he swallows hard and holds me tighter.

  “He won’t know me, so I’m not sure why I’m waiting here,” I say. “I guess to make sure he’ll come out of this alive.”

  “He’ll be alive,” Nathan says. “But it sounds like he won’t be the same guy you’ve been sneaking around with.”

  “Yeah, I guess he won’t be.” And I miss him madly, wondering if I would have just told him I loved him too, if he would have stayed at my house—maybe he wouldn’t have melted down. Maybe I’m the one to blame, just like his mother always thought.

  Because all the things I was upset about . . . well, they’re nothing compared to this. None of it matters like Wes does to me.

  I straighten out of Nathan’s arms and sniffle. “I loved him,” I say. “What I thought we had was a lie, but I loved him anyway.”

  “We all get lied to, Tatum,” he says, his raspy voice a little quieter. “Sometimes we’re lying to ourselves. Seems there’s a healthy dose of that going around. And sometimes we lie to others. Let’s just agree on one thing,” he adds. “No more tampering. No more fucking Program—even if they call it something else.”

  I agree and sit back, shoulder to shoulder with him as we watch the doors to the treatment rooms. “Do you actually think they’ll ever stop, though?” I ask, not looking at him.

  “Nope,” he says simply. “Probably not. And from what Pop told me on the phone, it sounds like we’re heading into some new kinds of regulations. The monitor wants safeguards. Which, of course . . . means control.”

  “How long until graduation?” I ask, as if that’s our answer.

  “Two months.”

  I lean my head on the edge of Nathan’s shoulder. He’s my best friend. He’s always been there for me. But here, we’re basking in sadness. Nathan reaches over and takes my hand to hold it, and I try to remind myself that I can find hope. Even when the world feels like it’s closing in around me.

  • • •

  “Tatum,” a soft voice says close to my ear. I stir, realizing that I’ve fallen asleep against Nathan. I blink quickly and look around in time to see the doctor coming toward us.

  I jolt upright, dropping Nathan’s jacket on the tile floor. I see Wes’s parents in the corner of the waiting room with my grandparents, Wes’s mom crying as my grandmother comforts her.

  No, no, no, I think, fear chilling my skin. Nathan steadies me, but I’m worried that Wes is dead. That Dr. McKee didn’t save him at all.

  Dr. McKee heads over from where he was talking to Wes’s parents, holding a clipboard in his hand. Just before he gets to me, he flips to peek at a paper underneath the top page.

  “How is he?” I call out, needing him to look at me. He takes his time, though, and it isn’t until he stops dead in front of me that he meets my eyes. He nods a polite hello to Nathan.

  Dr. McKee glances down at the chart again, but I get the impression that he’s using it more as a prop than an actual source of information. He lifts one corner of his mouth in a gentle smile.

  “He’s alive,” the doctor says. “And there’s no permanent damage. His brain functions are all normal now.”

  I cover my mouth as I sob my relief. Nathan murmurs that it’s great, that he’s happy for us. But when I look up, Dr. McKee’s expression has grown serious.

  “I’m sorry . . . ,” he starts a little hesitantly. “The damage was severe. We had to take it all. His whole life. Even his parents. It was the only way to be sure nothing else was corrupted.”

  My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Nathan picks up the cause for me.

  “What the hell will he remember, then?” Nathan asks.

  “He’ll retain his knowledge—reading, math, world events,” Dr. McKee says. “But his personal relationships, family and friends, those will have to be reintroduced slowly. He’ll start therapy immediately, including family counseling. I know this is devastating,” he says, turning to me. “And I’m sorry, but we had to be thorough. We had to be sure. We couldn’t afford any more complications.”

  “He doesn’t know me,” I say, weighted down, underwater with cement shoes and sinking deeper.

  “No,” Dr. McKee says. “He doesn’t know you exist, Tatum. And if . . .” He furrows his brow and I get that he has something to say off the record. I nod for him to continue.

  “Forgive me,” he says. “But it’s honestly better this way. I don’t know the entirety of your history together. None of this was in your files—I’m not sure how. We’ve never seen an instance of self-erasure. At this point, what we do know is that Weston had a meltdown and his mother attributes some of that to you, to your relationship. They’ve opted to exclude you from his reintroductions. And I think it’s for the best. Some people . . . they’re just not meant to be together. No matter how much they love each other.”

  The doctor’s words sting me, and I recoil back from them. They’re too personal. Too controlling.

  “Thanks for the advice, doc,” Nathan says coolly, and reaches to take my hand again, holding it firmly as if giving me strength.

  Dr. McKee looks at his chart again, all business now. “There was one more thing,” he adds quietly. “Weston woke up briefly, and he asked me if I could . . . he didn’t want . . .”

  “Didn’t want what?” I ask.

  “When I told him what was about to happen with his memory, he said he didn’t want you here. He didn’t want to hurt you any more. I have to respect his wishes.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “It would be best if you left now, Miss Masterson. His family will take it from here.”

  My eyes feel heavy, sore from crying. Wes must have felt abandoned in those moments. My words of not being able to love him anymore haunting him. I did this to him.

  I blink a few tears, and then swipe my palm over my cheek. I turn to look at my grandparents, and find them watching me—checking on me. I’m not alone, so I know I can weather this. For now, I just have to get out of here.

  “Nathan?” I say, trying to keep my shit together before I walk out. “Can you drive?” He stares at me like he’s confused why I’m not fighting this, arguing that I have a right to be in Wes’s life. “Can you?” I ask again, more forcefully.

  “Of course,” Nathan says, shaking his head. “Anything, Tatum. Let’s just—”

  I grab his arm and we start toward the door, but before we get there, Dr. McKee calls after me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I’M SITTING IN ENGLISH CLASS, taking notes on the character arcs in Wuthering Heights, when Nathan leans up and pokes me with the eraser end of his pencil.

  “Stop, idiot,” I say, trying to get the last few lines down.

  “Rockstar after school?”

  “Gross, Nathan. How can you think about food when it’s barely eight in the morning?”

  “It’s always a good time for pizza,” he says, and swishes the back of my hair. I laugh and turn to push him backward.

  “Better c
lear it with Jana,” I say. He tells me he already did. Nathan and Jana have officially become a couple, making me the third wheel. A fifth wheel if Foster and Arturo are there.

  Jana’s nicer to me now. Hell, we even talk on the phone sometimes. I guess we’re friends. I helped her deal with Vanessa’s death, and she helped me deal with losing Wes.

  It’s been nearly a month since I’ve seen Weston; he hasn’t come back to school. My grandparents told me he made a full physical recovery, and that his therapy has been going well. They keep in touch with his mother. I called to check on Wes once myself, but I didn’t go by the house—not that I was welcome to.

  I apologized to his mother, accepting my part in his Adjustment. Surprisingly, she told me she was sorry about what happened between me and Wes. We called a truce, basically.

  The pain is still there. All of it, right on the surface most days. Weston Ambrose broke my heart. But I don’t let that define me. Truth is, Wes loved me twice. He just didn’t stay in love with me the first time. And this time around, I didn’t love him enough, I guess. Always chasing the idea of us—the past us. I wasn’t fair to him. So this time . . . it was my fault. Maybe Dr. McKee was right. Love isn’t always enough.

  I still wonder, though, I wonder if it’s possible that it’s muscle memory, our hearts trained to love each other. That Wes and I are destined to fall in love over and over, no matter the cost. Because our hearts remember. Because our hearts can’t forget.

  I see Kyle Mahoney some afternoons, and I don’t hold anything against her. I can’t say she feels the same way, even if neither of us owes the other anything beyond common decency. But I’m sorry for my part in her unhappiness. And she’s told me in passing that she’s sorry for mine.

  After leaving the hospital, I asked my grandparents about the pills in the cabinet. I didn’t accuse them—I just asked for an explanation. My pop is the one who got them, and yes, he got them from Dr. McKee—the attending physician at the hospital. But he swears they were for my grandmother’s migraines.

  He had no idea about Dr. McKee’s involvement with the Adjustment, not until I mentioned his name after my and Nathan’s visit. After that, my grandfather was in full research mode; it’s part of why he got his job back at the paper. He thought something was off, although he has yet to figure out exactly what that is.

  He’s sorry he didn’t tell me sooner, but both he and my grandmother swear they had no idea the medicine would be for anything other than what was prescribed. I have no reason to doubt them. Besides, I’m tired of doubting and questioning people’s motives.

  They also had no idea about me and Wes breaking up. Have no idea how I forgot. So it seems I kept that secret from everyone, including myself. Dr. McKee claimed it wasn’t in Wes’s Program file either—the first instance of a hidden memory he’s seen. Wes hid it too. Dr. McKee doesn’t mention it, but I think he knows what that means for the Adjustment. It means donor memories can’t be trusted either. It means the Adjustment is entirely fallible.

  A few bits and pieces have come back to me, though. My therapist says I repressed it all after Wes was taken into The Program and that I might never remember all of it. For now, I accept that—not willing to dredge up my painful past. I hate returning to that time, even if it’s just a memory. I’m embarrassed for myself. I’m hurt. And now I’m ready to move on. My therapist thought that was a good idea too; Dr. Warren has been a godsend.

  The Program ruined so many lives. Suicide ruined so many lives. We’re living in the aftermath, one where we’re allowed to feel, allowed to love and regret and fear. We’re free to do all of that, but it’s not all good. A total of seven returners have gotten sick so far, and four of them have died.

  And, unfortunately, the monitor has become a daily nuisance at school. Once in a while, Dr. Wyatt will come into the classroom, wander around, observing us. She says it’s for educational purposes, but it feels more like the work of handlers to me.

  Murmurs of their continued existence still make their way through the student body. Handlers—the paranoia they can bring. It’s one conspiracy theory that won’t die—maybe because it’s the one we fear the most.

  Assessments happen once a week, but so far, most of us have refused to answer them. Foster has even taken to drawing happy faces on his. But I worry about the strain it’s causing on all of us. It’s like we’ve learned nothing from The Program.

  The door to the classroom opens, and when I look up, my heart stops dead in my chest. Weston Ambrose walks into my English class, only this time, he’s not wearing returner clothes. He looks like himself: a T-shirt and jeans with heavy motorcycle boots.

  There’s a squeak as Nathan shifts in his chair, but I don’t turn around to look at him. My eyes are trained on Wes’s face as he talks to the teacher. I will him to look at me, not because I expect him to run to me. But because I want to know what he remembers. Part of me wants to think he will.

  The teacher motions him to a seat, right next to the one he sat in originally. A few students glance back at me to see my reaction, and I imagine Nathan is wondering how I am. I lean forward on my desk, staring at the back of Weston’s head, his hair slightly grown out from the last time I saw him.

  Do you remember me? I think. Do you still love me?  The last part of my question brings tears to my eyes and I do my best to push those feelings away. It’s not fair, not to me or him. But I can’t help thinking them anyway.

  And then, as if he can hear my thoughts, Wes covertly puts his chin on his shoulder, and then he turns around and looks directly at me. I freeze under his gaze, trying to read his expression.

  There isn’t even a second of recognition, and his eyes travel over the rest of the students before he turns around. There’s a part of me that’s wailing on the inside, the girl who lost the boy she loved so dearly. He may have hurt her, but no matter what—he will always be her first love. He might even be her only love.

  But we were reckless. Dangerous. I know that. And I know that none of us is who we thought we’d be when it comes right down to it.

  I look down and my notebook page blurs slightly. I blink quickly to clear my vision. There are no tears, just the start of a dull headache, one that continues to return nearly every day, although some days it’s worse than others. My grandparents ask me about it, but I don’t want them to worry, so I play it down. It’s just a headache.

  In the front of the classroom, the teacher begins to write more notes.

  “Hey,” Nathan says just over my shoulder. “He looked back at you. That’s encouraging, right?”

  “I guess,” I say.

  Dr. McKee advised me to stay away from Wes, but just because Wes doesn’t remember me, that doesn’t mean he can forget me. I turn back to Nathan.

  “He looks healthy,” I say, sounding optimistic.

  Nathan leans forward on his desk. “Indeed,” he replies. “Weston is a strapping young lad.”

  I laugh, and Nathan watches me with a hesitant smile.

  “I’m sorry, you know,” he says. “For what it’s worth.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say.

  “I’m just . . .” He lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you sooner. I wish I could have done more. It might have made a difference.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “You’ve been here all along—even when I was totally annoying. I didn’t tell anyone about me and Wes breaking up. Not even when Foster asked me about it. If anything, I’m the bad friend here.”

  Nathan shakes his head, looking up at me. “I may not have known about you and Wes,” he says, “but I knew something was wrong last summer. That night you came to my house . . . it was obvious. But I didn’t ask; I should have.”

  I have no idea which night he’s referring to.

  “And even when you came back,” he continues. “I know I swore to your grandparents that I’d never talk about your time in The Program, not to anyone, including Foster, but I still should have asked you.
I should have made sure you were okay, especially once Wes returned. So for that, I’m so sorry.”

  I stare at him, and suddenly time ticks to a stop; the classroom scene cracks, splintering glass, and crashes down around me. His words are a wallop to my chest. “My time in The Program?”

  “I know,” he says, holding up his hand apologetically. “I shouldn’t talk about it. Your grandparents said it could trigger a meltdown, or possibly even bring The Program down on you again—I promised them. And you’ve never brought it up. But that means I’ve never gotten the chance to apologize. I’ve wanted to so many times, Tatum,” he whispers. “And after what happened with Wes”—he motions toward him—“I want to make sure you know how I feel. Know that I will always, always be here for you.”

  He smiles. “You’ve done so well. I mean, nothing like the other returners. Pop said he had The Program seal your records so no one would know. He got to you in time.”

  I fight to stay calm, but my emotions stir, a cyclone in my chest. “He did,” I murmur.

  “Every day,” Nathan continues his confession. “I was at your house every day with your grandparents, waiting for you to come home. Pop called in favors, made threats. He got to bring you back early. And we all agreed that we’d never let anything happen to you again. And it was only a week later when I saw you. And you remembered everything—well, almost everything, just like Pop said you would. You beat The Program. You were home.”

  I look down, trying to make sense of his words. I flinch, and reach up absently to put my hand on the front of my throat, my fingers ice-cold.

  “Point is,” Nathan says, as if he got off track, “I know we’ve kept secrets in the past, but no more. From this point forward, we’ll tell each other everything, okay? I’ll never betray you. I’ve got your back on all things. You know I love you, right?” he asks. “You forgive me?”

  I turn around in my seat, my chest feeling like it might burst. My mind is racing too fast trying to put together pieces that don’t fit—I’m bending and tearing them, but no matter what I do, the puzzle doesn’t make sense.