The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  So why did they trust my memories? They should have known better.

  “Do we wait for someone to come out?” I ask, looking at Nathan. He snorts a laugh.

  “Absolutely not,” he says simply, and opens the door to the back offices.

  My pulse spikes, and I follow closely behind him. There is a soft murmur of voices coming from the end of the hallway, and Nathan and I continue in that direction.

  Dr. McKee’s office door is shut, but whatever meeting is going on is behind a different closed door. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the treatment room—where they give the Adjustments. My stomach feels sick. Are they performing an Adjustment right now? After everything that happened, they should be shut down.

  Nathan must sense my growing fury, because he reaches out to touch my hand. But I won’t let them hurt anyone else—risk any more lives.

  I pull away from Nathan and rush forward, grabbing the handle of the treatment room door and busting in. I startle the people inside, and Dr. McKee lets out a little yelp. Marie clutches her chest. And sitting between them, casually swinging her legs over the edge of her chair, is Jana Simms.

  There is no procedure happening, although there are files laid out on the table, a scan pulled up on the computer screen that they seem to have been discussing. Jana is the only one who doesn’t flinch, but I watch as the color drains from her face. Her eyes drift past me to Nathan. I feel his presence behind me, hanging just inside the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks in a voice so intimate you would think it was just the two of them. Before Jana can answer, Marie gets to her feet and crosses her arms over her chest.

  “No, Nathan,” Marie says. “What are you doing here? Did you break in?”

  “The door was open,” he responds, hostile. He looks past her. “Jana,” he calls, waiting for an answer.

  At first, I’m worried that Jana is here for an Adjustment, and it doesn’t make any sense. She doesn’t need one. But as I look around the room, I notice the files and notes, pens out. She has a coffee near her, an old sandwich wrapper. She’s been here awhile. She . . . belongs here.

  Jana isn’t here as a patient. It must hit Nathan at the same moment, because he curses under his breath.

  “Who are you?” he demands.

  “Nathan, calm down,” Jana says, keeping her voice steady. But her eyes are too wide. Too innocent. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, you have no idea what I’m thinking,” he says coldly. “But the past couple days are starting to make some sense.”

  I look from Nathan to Jana, the tension ratcheting up. Nathan was suspicious, and it turns out he had a right to be. It also means Jana did know the truth about me. She must have if she’s involved with these doctors.

  “This is a private facility,” Dr. McKee says, as if he’s never met us before. I turn on him fiercely, and I watch his pretend professionalism falter.

  “Who are you?” Nathan asks Jana again, but this time his voice is pleading.

  “Jana,” Marie says in warning. But Jana looks over her shoulder at her, her expression miserable, and shakes her head.

  “That’s not my name,” Jana says. Marie closes her eyes, frustrated, and Jana turns back to Nathan. “My name is Melody,” she says to him. “I used to . . . I used to be a handler. I used to be a lot of things.”

  I’m not sure what Nathan thought she was going to say—I don’t even know what I thought—but he rocks back on his heels. I put my palm on his back, reminding him that I’m here for him.

  “Foster was right,” Nathan says. “I should have known; he’s always right. He didn’t trust you, and he told me you were hiding something. But I defended you.” Nathan’s voice crackles with hurt. “I fucking defended you.”

  “That’s enough,” Dr. McKee says, coming over to put his hand on Jana’s shoulder. Melody. “You need to leave,” he tells us. “This is a private facility.” He shifts his eyes over to me, and there is a moment of apology there. I pounce.

  “We’re not leaving,” I say. “You owe me an explanation. And she”—I jab my finger in Melody’s direction—“owes Nathan a little clarification.”

  Marie’s hard stance behind Dr. McKee eases. “It’s time to tell her, Tom,” she says, surprising me. “She already knows anyway.”

  Dr. McKee turns to her, and after a moment, he nods and motions toward the door.

  “Let’s go into my office,” he says to me in a low voice.

  I check with Nathan, and he’s a bit torn, not wanting to leave me alone.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, and look toward Melody. She stares at Nathan desperately, not even acknowledging me.

  I’m burning up, ready to scream at her and ask her how she could do this to him. How she could lie to him? Ask her why? But ultimately, this is Nathan’s fight. He gets to decide what he forgives—if he forgives.

  Nathan swallows hard, seeing the anger in my expression, and tells me to go ahead with Dr. McKee. He turns back to Melody, his jaw set hard, pink high on his cheeks like he might cry but is trying to tough it out.

  Melody, on the other hand, is dragged down. Devastated. She stares at him intensely like she can explain everything. Well, she’d better have a good excuse, then.

  I follow Dr. McKee and Marie out into the hall, the three of us submerged in heavy quiet as we walk. The doctor leads us to his office and goes inside. Marie stays in the doorway, watching me as I move past her and take a seat in the chair in front of the desk. I don’t even realize I’m sitting until I look at them, both standing by the file cabinet. It was an automatic response to entering the office.

  Dr. McKee presses his lips together, making them go white. Nathan said the doctors manipulate people for a living, but I have to concede that Dr. McKee doesn’t seem all that good at it. It’s probably a ruse, but he seems defeated. A little regretful. And if I’m being honest, he looks older than he did last time I saw him. Maybe his guilt is aging him.

  For her part, Marie studies me from the doorway, giving nothing away.

  “Well?” I ask them both, unable to take the suspense anymore. “Are you ready to admit that I was a patient of The Program and the Adjustment?”

  “Yes,” Dr. McKee says immediately, and it’s a punch straight to my chest. The easy answer steals my fight, and I blink a few times, trying to solidify my resolve.

  “Okay,” I say, my voice smaller. “So do you want to start, then? Because I’d really love to know why everyone lied to me.”

  Dr. McKee slips his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, measuring his words. He comes over to the desk and leans against it, facing me.

  “Tatum,” he says kindly. “I’ve known your grandmother for years.”

  I look at Marie, expecting her to contradict this, but she stands stoically at the side of the room. I worry suddenly that Dr. McKee is a better liar than I’ve given him credit for. I can’t see where this response is leading, though.

  “I don’t believe you,” I tell him.

  “I’ve worked on and off with your grandmother through the hospital,” he says. “She used to assist me and my work with the grief department.”

  “The what?” I ask.

  “Grief department. It was a company that helped grieving families. Marie and I used to run it, under the supervision of Arthur Pritchard.”

  There’s a nagging in my brain, something familiar, although I can’t quite place the name. Dr. McKee breathes out heavily.

  “Arthur went on to create The Program,” he adds.

  I jump up from my chair. “So you are part of The Program?” I ask, taking a step back from him. “And you’re saying my grandmother was too?”

  “No,” Dr. McKee says. “My goal was to stop The Program. We”—he motions between him and Marie—“tried to prevent it. But it was beyond our control. Now, as you may have heard, last year Arthur Pritchard died from complications of violating his contract.”

  I furrow my brow, not understanding what he’s ge
tting at.

  “But in the beginning, we all had good intentions,” he says. “The grief department was a force of good. I would work with hospitals to identify parents and loved ones who had been left behind by tragedy. Your grandmother helped me find those who needed help, those so devastated by grief that they were at risk of dying themselves. We would send in closers—a therapy method where an impersonator filled in for the deceased family members so that others could say good-bye. We would close the loop of grief. For nearly ten years, your grandmother helped our department change lives.”

  I can’t believe my grandmother would have anything to do with a company that manipulated people. Manipulated their feelings. I must have been small when she worked with them, because I don’t remember even a hint of this. Then again, it’s hard to remember a time before the epidemic.

  “When the grief department was shut down,” Dr. McKee continues, “your grandmother reached out to me. Even offered me a job within the hospital. But Marie and I were already trying to work on a cure for what The Program was doing. I told her so.”

  Dr. McKee’s gaze grows sympathetic then. “And when you were taken by The Program, your grandmother called me. Begged for my help. I didn’t have much influence anymore—Arthur Pritchard was already on the outs with the company he’d created. But there was help from within—there were people there on your side.” He smiles like this should make me proud. Instead, it makes me wonder who the hell else was involved.

  “So how’d I get out?” I ask, breathless.

  He lowers his eyes, folding his hands in front of him. “Dr. Warren was able to facilitate your release after a few weeks, limited erasure.”

  Realm was right. She did know me from The Program. It’s horrifying when I think about it; the idea of her listening to my problems while knowing more about me than I knew about myself. It was the ultimate manipulation.

  “So The Program’s back?” I ask.

  “Tatum,” Dr. McKee replies. “The Program never left.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARIE SHIFTS, SCRAPING THE HEEL of her shoe across the floor. “I’m going to step outside and check on . . . the others.” Marie exits, and I run my palm down my face, holding on for the bigger reveals to come.

  “After your release from the facility was secured,” Dr. McKee continues, “your grandmother brought you to us. She was concerned because you still seemed so deeply sad. Marie and I . . . we felt we had a viable cure with the Adjustment. We thought we could fix you.”

  “I’m a human being, not a computer virus. And how do I know any of this is true? Nathan told me that my grandfather used his journalist connections to get me out.”

  “That was part of it,” he admits. “The possibility of exposure did aid in your release. But there were side deals. And ultimately, Dr. Warren signed off on a statement saying you weren’t a threat to yourself, her position supported by your handler.”

  “I wasn’t a threat,” I snap at him automatically.

  “But you were,” he says sadly. “You most certainly were, Tatum.”

  I want to deny it, but I remember what I was like the night I was taken into The Program. The way my knuckles bled. The way I hated myself. I needed help. I didn’t need The Program, but I did need help. Maybe I was a threat.

  Dr. McKee continues talking, beginning to pace the room, slightly out of breath. “In the agreement to let you out, Dr. Warren insisted on erasing your time in The Program. Erased the history of you and Wes. We’ll never know all that she erased, but we had a good idea because we had your file. Still, this had to be done undercover—without her knowledge. If she knew you’d been adjusted, it would have broken the arrangement. You would have gone back to The Program.”

  “Give me my file,” I say.

  “I don’t have it. We lost it months ago.”

  “Of course,” I say, not believing him. “So you gave me back memories—wrong ones—and wanted it secret. But you let me keep seeing a Program doctor,” I continue. “Putting myself in danger every time I showed up for therapy. She could have flagged me at any point!”

  “We couldn’t risk her knowing we’d interfered with your care. We erased the Adjustment while we gave it.”

  “What did my file say?” I ask. “What memories did you put back in, and why are they wrong?”

  “Over two days, we implanted all the information we could gather. But we focused on memories that would allow you to resume your life. We had no idea that you and Weston Ambrose had broken up. It wasn’t something you admitted to in therapy, even with the help of medication.”

  “How?” I ask. “Doesn’t The Program always find out the truth?”

  “Yes,” he admits. “They have their ways. And that’s also why we’ve dedicated significant resources into keeping you healthy, both you and Wes. You beat The Program. To some extent, you did. We’re hoping your continued health will prove the Adjustment works.”

  Right now I don’t feel like the victor. I feel like a lab rat. “My grandparents let you put memories in my head?” I ask.

  “They wanted you to come home, not just physically—fully. They were worried about you.”

  “Did I fight?” I ask, sitting back in the chair. Dr. McKee comes to lean on his desk, and I notice his right shoulder sags slightly. He swallows hard.

  “Yes,” he says. “You were not a willing subject, Tatum. And this was . . . this was difficult for everyone involved. But it was for the best. Your grandmother knew she could trust me, so she let us treat you.”

  I cover my mouth, horrified at the idea of these doctors strapping me down, injecting me with serums, all while my grandparents stood by. How far will people go to keep their family? At what point is it no longer my life to control?

  “Tatum,” Dr. McKee says softly, as if he can see I’m struggling with his explanation. “You’re safe now,” he says.

  “But I’m not,” I say. “I’m going to fall apart just like the rest of them. I’m a returner too. And in case you missed it, they’re crashing back.”

  “That won’t happen to you,” he says. “Not the same way. You’ll have crashbacks, yes—but you come back. You process these memories differently. Don’t you see? You are the only one who has come through the Adjustment without a setback. You are our proof of concept. You are the cure.”

  “I’m no cure.”

  “But you are. Our entire case study is built around you. We haven’t figured out the difference—why the procedure worked on you and not the others. Why not Wes? Why not Vanessa? We don’t know the answer yet, but your existence proves the Adjustment can work. And Marie is close to the answer. You’re going to save lives.”

  “No,” I say, horrified. “I’ve ruined lives. Because it worked on me, Vanessa is dead. You wouldn’t have replicated it if I hadn’t proven it could work. And Wes wouldn’t have been reset again. You’ve turned me into a weapon. It’s on my conscience.”

  “Oh, honey,” Dr. McKee says, and reaches for me. I slap his hand away, a sharp sting on my palm. He slides his hands into his pockets.

  “Why did you use my memories in Wes’s Adjustment?” I ask. “You knew they weren’t real.”

  “We thought they were accurate,” he corrects. “In fact, we thought they might be better, clearer than real memories. It was a risk that didn’t pan out.”

  “Didn’t pan out,” I repeat in disgust. “And what about Jana—Melody? Or whoever she is. What is she doing in all of this?”

  “Melody Blackstone is a handler, and she has worked closely with Marie since the beginning. She left The Program and wanted to make things right. She wanted to cure people. So she was assigned to watch Vanessa and, from a distance, you. Unfortunately, Vanessa found out who Melody was, and it caused her breakdown. We’d hoped to avoid that.”

  “So she’s using Nathan?” I ask, my anger rising. “She’s using him to watch me?”

  “She’s trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t want your protection!” I shout.
“I want you to leave me alone. Leave all of us alone. I won’t be your cure, your case study. Leave me out of it. I won’t be your excuse to kill anyone else.”

  “Tatum,” Dr. McKee says like I’m being unreasonable. He stands up and tries to take my arm, but I rip from his grasp.

  “Don’t touch me,” I hiss. “Don’t you get it? You stole my life.”

  “We were trying to give it back to you. We did.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “This was a deal with a doctor who erased only part of me, a part that you tried to fill in, patching up holes with false memories. Changing my life. Who knows if anything I said in The Program was real. If I could hide one truth, I could hide them all.”

  I stare at him, and the familiar sense that I know him is back. An awful idea itching at the corners of my mind. I take a step toward him.

  “You knew my grandmother for years,” I start, my voice hoarse. “Am I supposed to believe that using me as your pet project only occurred after I was taken into The Program?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you say so?” I ask. “How long have you been treating me, Dr. McKee?”

  And it’s the slight pause, the one second of raw guilt that makes my heart sink. Before he goes on to deny it, I lunge forward and grab him by the collar of his lab coat, fierce and violent. “How long?” I demand.

  Dr. McKee meets my gaze head on, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “I treated you when I was with the grief department,” he says quietly.

  Oh my God. He has treated me before. “For what?” I ask with barely a breath.

  “Your mother,” he says. “She neglected you.”

  “I know—”

  “No,” Dr. McKee says with a wince. “You don’t know, Tatum. Your mother took off with you when you were about five. She left the state.”

  “Five?” I say, letting go of his jacket. “No, my mother left when I was a baby.”