The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  Nathan runs his hand roughly through his hair, looking perplexed. “They just said that you had a hard time in The Program, but that they got to you fast enough so you could keep your memories. I didn’t question them. They asked me not to talk about it because the doctor warned it would bring on a crashback.” He purses his lips. “Seems they were right about that part.”

  “You should have told me,” I whisper.

  Nathan mouths that he’s sorry, his silent words heartfelt. I nod that I accept his apology, and after a moment, he furrows his brow.

  “Wait,” he says. “So if you don’t remember The Program, how do you remember Wes? Me?” he asks.

  “Exactly,” Foster interjects.

  “And why would they take The Program memories, but leave the stuff that was breaking my heart?” I ask.

  “Unless they didn’t know about you and Wes breaking up,” Nathan offers. “Hell, I didn’t know. And if your grandparents kept your mementos from the handlers, they might not have had much to go off of. They would have had no chance to figure out what was going wrong for you.”

  “The Adjustment,” Foster says suddenly, sitting up. He looks from Nathan to me. “Tatum, they gave you the Adjustment—that’s why you remember Wes.”

  My lips part, and I almost argue—but suddenly it makes sense. The memories, the pills with the Adjustment office’s phone number on the bottle. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner. I’m an idiot; it was so obvious.

  The Program erased my memories. The Adjustment put them back. I’ve been manipulated twice.

  I meet Nathan’s eyes, his shining with the same realization. “Why did Dr. McKee act like he was meeting me for the first time?” I ask. “Why doesn’t anyone know I had an Adjustment? And . . .” I pause, fixing my stare accusingly on Nathan. “And how did they get my memories?” I ask.

  “Not me,” he says quickly, hand on his heart. “I didn’t donate anything, so if that’s what happened, they lied to me, too.”

  Nathan, Foster, and I sit quietly, digesting this information. I think back to when Nathan and I went to the Adjustment office for the first time, how familiar Dr. McKee seemed. Now I know why.

  “Do you think Marie knows?” I ask, trying to figure out her angle.

  “Definitely,” Nathan says. “They all know, Tatum. Including Pop and Gram.”

  As if he summoned them, there’s the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. It’s too early for either of my grandparents to be home from work, but when I get up and peek out the window, I see it’s my grandfather again. Guess he cut his day short. Unless, of course, I’m still being watched, and someone let him know I have company. I wrap my arms around myself.

  I ask Nathan and Foster if I should mention the box I found in the closet, and they both shake their heads no as the front door opens.

  “Play dumb,” Foster murmurs.

  My grandfather smiles widely when he sees them, welcoming and warm. “Hello, boys. I didn’t know we were having a party.” He grins at me like today never happened. It’s unsettling.

  “Hey,” Foster says, holding out his hand. But Pop pauses before shaking it.

  “Don’t you have mono?” he asks, making Nathan snort a laugh.

  “It’s the flu,” Foster says. “But just in case, we shouldn’t kiss.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” Pop says, and slaps him on the shoulder. “Nathan,” he says, in a slightly different tone. “Where were you at lunch today? Tatum’s Jeep wouldn’t start.”

  Nathan swallows hard, and I see he’s having trouble playing along with my and Foster’s dumb act. “Jana wasn’t feeling well, so I took her home. Plus . . . we had to talk.”

  “Oh?” my grandfather asks, as if it’s completely normal that Nathan would tell him about his love life. It’s not. Nathan never had a love life. “Sounds serious.”

  “We’re working on some things,” Nathan adds, diverting his eyes.

  I exchange a look with Foster, and we both must be wondering if Nathan is laying it on thick, or if he and Jana really had a “talk.” What about? Are they having problems?

  Foster swallows, about to say something, but instead he starts coughing and doubles over, gripping the side of the couch. I go over to help him, and he tries to catch his breath.

  “I should get home,” he says between gasps.

  “Same,” Nathan adds apologetically.

  “I’ll walk you guys out,” I offer, rubbing Foster’s back until he can straighten.

  “Well, I’m sorry neither of you could stay for dinner,” my grandfather says, folding his arms across his chest. “Next time.”

  “Absolutely,” Nathan says for both of them, and takes his house key out of his pocket. He nods good-bye to my grandfather before following behind me and Foster. When the three of us get onto the porch, I close the door and Nathan leans in.

  “I’m not imagining—”

  “No, it was weird,” I say, glancing back at the house. “He’s acting too normal. We should have confronted him, but . . .” I trail off. “Maybe when Gram comes home?” I say it even though I know I probably won’t have the guts to confront her yet either.

  “Listen,” Foster says to me. “Leave them out of it for now. We have bigger problems.” He winces. “More immediate problems,” he corrects. “You need to watch out for Derek. We have to worry about your past, but we also have to worry about our futures. I told you before and I mean it now—I think there are handlers everywhere. We need to be careful.”

  “You really think he’s a handler?” Nathan asks, scrunching up his face.

  “We’ll talk about it on the way to your house,” Foster says, and then makes a kiss face to say good-bye to me. Nathan pulls me into a quick hug, whispering again that he’s sorry in my ear.

  Foster and Nathan head down the steps and walk across the driveway to Nathan’s house next door. Thick clouds have gathered in the sky, gray and angry, as Foster and Nathan talk in hushed voices. I can see how much the idea of handlers worries Nathan. It worries all of us. Because handlers mean The Program isn’t dead at all. Maybe it never was.

  I reach instinctively into my pocket and realize . . . my phone is gone. And then it occurs to me where I left it. On my grandparents’ dresser.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHEN I COME BACK INSIDE the house, my grandfather is in the laundry room, where the sound of flowing water can be heard from the machine. I use that moment to head toward the bedrooms. I pause at the top of the stairs, listening to make sure Pop’s not following me, and then I quickly dart into his room and scan the top of the dresser.

  My phone is gone.

  Disoriented, I spin around to see if I placed it somewhere else. But it’s nowhere to be found. “Shit,” I whisper. I hear my grandfather’s phone ringing downstairs, but it sounds closer than the kitchen. Bottom of the stairs, maybe.

  I slip out of his room and walk swiftly toward my room. I stop dead when I notice my door is ajar. It was definitely closed earlier.

  I hold my breath as I push open the door. The room looks the same, the bed a mess, a few pictures stuck to the frame of my mirror. A half-filled glass of water on the nightstand.

  I’m about to walk out when I notice my phone sitting next to the glass, the screen unlocked. My stomach twists into anxious knots as I pick it up. My texts are open, and I assume that they’ve all been read.

  I can barely keep my breathing under control as I sit on my bed, double-checking everything I’d sent today. The only notable exchange is with Foster. If my grandfather saw that . . . what did he think? Will he bring it up, knowing that I’m scared of handlers?

  I set my phone aside, my heart racing. I look at the shared wall between my and my grandparents’ room. What else was in that box? I can’t search it now, not with my grandfather here. There has to be more; there has to be a good reason they kept it in the first place.

  I measure my breathing, preparing to go downstairs. Surprisingly, the most shocking part of the
day has faded—I’ve come to accept that I was in The Program. “Accept” is too strong a word, really. I’m not that far along. I’ve compartmentalized, but my mental catalogue is beginning to reach maximum capacity.

  Right now, the biggest struggle for me is that I’ve always trusted my grandparents unwaveringly. They’ve always been there for me. I can still see them in the memory, how brokenhearted they were when I was taken away. How does that compare to now—where I know they’ve actively kept things from me? There has to be a bigger reason.

  I’m scared to face them, acknowledge their betrayal. And I can’t accuse them without having some way to check their story. It would be careless on my part. I have to get more information first—it’s the most logical approach. I’ve made too many mistakes in the past. I have to do this right.

  I’m considering my next move when my phone buzzes next to my hand. Startled, I answer it without looking at the number. “Hello?”

  “Tatum?” a woman says. “Hi, it’s Dr. Warren. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

  Dr. Warren’s voice is soft, yet professional, just like it is during our therapy appointments. The kind of lulling sound that makes you want to tell her your secrets, as if she truly understands. I wonder if that was part of her therapist training or why she became a therapist. We’ve been meeting for the past year, ever since Wes was taken to The Program. She honestly seems to get me, and I like her.

  “Hi, Dr. Warren,” I respond politely, confused as to why she’s calling me. “And now is fine.”

  “Good,” she says. “Well, I just wanted to check in. You haven’t been seen in a few weeks, and I wanted to see how you were feeling.”

  There’s a twist in my gut, prickles of realization. How did she know I was having a hard day? That I’d need to talk about it?

  “Did . . . did my grandparents call you?” I ask.

  Dr. Warren laughs, a soft lilt that’s almost infectious. “Is the timing that obvious?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t get the details,” she says. “But yes, they’re worried. Your grandfather told me Weston came back to school today. And that you left campus with him,” she adds gently. “We talked about this, Tatum.”

  “He was just giving me a ride home,” I say. “My Jeep wouldn’t start.”

  “I understand,” she says. “But it must have been jarring to see him. Does he remember you?” Dr. Warren has always been invested in my and Wes’s relationship. Always asks about him. In fact, I daresay she was rooting for us.

  But after his reset, she advised me to keep my distance from him, for both our sakes. She’s worried that if I cause a crashback in Wes, it’ll destroy me, bury me in guilt. She’s right—it would. So I promised to be careful. And I promised to let her know if that changed.

  Still, I’m uncomfortable. I have no idea what my grandparents might have said to her, and that thought suddenly leaves me hesitant. Exactly how much does Dr. Warren already know? Can I trust her? I decide to test it.

  “Wes doesn’t remember,” I confess. “And I didn’t tell him anything. He hung out for a few minutes, and then Pop came home. Wes didn’t even know my name, Dr. Warren. I kept my promise.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and I hear her sigh. “I’m so sorry, Tatum,” she says. “I know how hard that must have been for you.”

  The compassion in her voice makes my eyes tear up, and I decide I do need to talk to her. Talk to someone who knows me. I settle back against my pillows and close my eyes, the phone cradled to my ear.

  “He looks really healthy,” I say.

  “Then it seems the procedure was successful,” she offers. “That’s good news.”

  “It is.” I wait a moment, my eyes still closed, and try to decide how much more I should tell her about my fucked-up day. I have to wonder if she’ll have insight. A way for me to reconcile how I feel about my grandparents. Isn’t that her job?

  “Dr. Warren?” I start, my voice low. “You aren’t allowed to tell my grandparents anything I say, right?”

  “Not without your permission,” she says cautiously. “After all, you’re my patient—not them. However, if you’re a danger to yourself—”

  “It’s not that,” I say. “It’s something I was told today. A secret.” I open my eyes then, check that I’m alone in the room. It all feels a bit surreal, waiting to confess that my grandparents aren’t who I thought they were.

  “I’m listening, Tatum,” she says.

  “Did you . . . ?” I falter with my words, but then sit up straighter and force them out. “Did you know I was in The Program?” I whisper.

  “No,” Dr. Warren says with finality. “No, you were not in The Program. Weston was.”

  “And so was I,” I say. “I heard it today, and then . . . I remembered.” My eyes tear up as I go through the moment the handlers took me in painstaking detail, reliving it. For her part, Dr. Warren stays very quiet. I wonder if she’s writing any of this down.

  Dr. Warren clears her throat. “I’m not disputing your memory,” Dr. Warren says. “But . . . that’s just not how The Program worked. And your grandparents certainly never mentioned it to me. I doubt they could keep a secret that big from you.”

  “There’s a box,” I say. “One in their closet. It has some of my baby stuff in it, but I don’t remember it. Is it possible there’s more they’re not telling me? I don’t know what to do.”

  “I think you should come in tomorrow,” Dr. Warren says, a rustling of papers in the background. “I’ll clear my schedule, and we can talk this through. I’m worried, Tatum. You don’t sound like yourself. Did something else happen with Wes?”

  I have a flash of annoyance. “No,” I say. “Not everything has to do with Wes. This is about my grandparents.” I look at the door again. “This is about The Program,” I add in a quieter voice.

  “I understand,” Dr. Warren says. “Well, then I’ll help you. We can research together, formulate questions for your grandparents so you can confront them. This is a big deal, Tatum. And you don’t have to go through it alone.”

  I consider telling her about seeing Marie today, about Michael Realm watching me, but I decide it might be better to talk in person. I feel too vulnerable here. Too exposed.

  “Tatum?” Dr. Warren asks, waiting for an answer.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow after school,” I say.

  “Great,” Dr. Warren responds quickly. “I look forward to seeing you.”

  “Same here,” I say. But before we hang up, I furrow my brow. “You’re not going to tell them, right?” I ask. “My grandparents?”

  “I won’t,” Dr. Warren assures me. “I promise.”

  Once the call is over, I set the phone down on the bed, feeling worse than I did before I talked to my therapist. I’ve stirred up emotions. Reignited them. Right now, Dr. Warren is my best option for help. She’ll know what to do about my grandparents. Help me sort the lies from the truth.

  “Tatum,” my grandfather calls from downstairs, and I gasp at the sound of his voice. Even though he can’t see me, I quickly brush back my hair, straighten my expression.

  “Yes?” I yell back.

  “Can you come down, please?” There’s a hint of hostility to the question, and panic begins to build. Does he know what I just told Dr. Warren?

  When I don’t answer right away, Pop calls my name again.

  “Coming,” I say, my voice lower than before. I stand up, leaving my phone on the bed, and walk out of the room.

  My heart pounds in my ears as I descend the stairs, scared of the impending confrontation. This might be about my phone. He’s probably going to ask why it was in his room. Ask about seeing handlers.

  Pop appears in the entryway, his forehead creased with concern, and before I can ask if he’s okay, he swallows hard.

  “There’s someone here to see you,” he says, and motions toward the couch.

  My legs weaken when I find Weston’s mom waiting there. She spins to face me, and he
r expression is intense and, if I’m honest, a bit rage filled.

  I flip my eyes to my grandfather, but he crosses his arms over his chest and goes to stand near the window, his back to us. He’s punishing me. I look at Dorothy Ambrose.

  “Hello,” I say meekly.

  She scoffs and gets to her feet. I brace myself for her verbal assault, which seems to be the only sort of communication we’ve had since the night Wes was taken to The Program.

  “Dr. McKee warned you about the consequences,” she says. “But you didn’t listen. You never listen.” Her eyes, so much like Wes’s, are watering with anger.

  Well, I’m not just going to admit that I did anything wrong. “What are you talking about?” I ask. My grandfather looks over his shoulder at me, disappointed.

  Dorothy tightens her jaw. “Weston came home and told me about this ‘pretty girl’ he met. Said you went for a ride on his motorcycle. Skipped school. I could guess who it was.”

  First, I have no idea why Wes would tell his mother anything. They weren’t even close. Unless . . . maybe they are now since he doesn’t remember that she can be a serious bitch sometimes.

  “We didn’t discuss our relationship,” I say. “He has no idea. And it was Wes who asked me to lunch. It was Wes who wanted to come back here. So don’t put this all on me.”

  “You should have said no.”

  I laugh. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “I love him, and you know that.”

  “That’s the problem, Tatum,” she says. “You never do what’s best for him.”

  “You don’t know what’s best for him,” I snap.

  She shakes her head like she can’t believe how pathetic I am. It cuts me, and I take a step back from her. My grandfather turns around to look at both of us, ready to intervene in case this breaks out into a physical altercation. “You’re a kid,” Dorothy says instead.

  “I’m eighteen,” I remind her—although my birthday isn’t for another two weeks.

  “Don’t you understand?” she asks. “You’ve ruined his life twice, Tatum. Do you really think I’ll let you do it a third time?”