The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  Dr. McKee watches me carefully, and then continues his story despite the discrepancy. “Your grandparents didn’t think your mother was well, and they wanted her to get help. But she refused, and she ran off with you. I’d sit with your grandmother at work as she called around to hospitals, searching for unidentified bodies of a mother and her child. There was a stretch—nearly three months—when she was convinced you were both dead.”

  He looks at the floor, his expression weighted with compassion. His mouth sagging. I don’t want to believe this. I have to trust some of my memories, and my childhood is beyond reproach. The manipulation can’t go that far back.

  “Your grandmother asked me to help her . . . help her cope,” Dr. McKee says. “I was going to send in a closer to end the loop of grief—someone to pretend to be you so your grandmother could say how much she loved you. How she’d always protect you. And just before the closer was due to arrive,” Dr. McKee continues, “we got a call. Police had found your mother, safe—but malnourished and filthy.”

  “And me?” I interrupt, growing invested in the story despite my doubts.

  Dr. McKee’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at me when he talks. “You were there,” he says. “Same condition. Your mother was set to face charges of neglect, but she agreed to sign over custody of you to your grandparents and be on her way. However,” he says, looking at me finally. “You were having trouble with the new arrangement. You wanted to stay with your mother. Your grandmother asked what I could do to help you cope. And I . . .”

  Dr. McKee flinches and clears his throat, looking perturbed.

  “I brought you to Dr. Arthur Pritchard,” he says. “He was renowned for his work with children. He met with you, and through a combination of therapies, you forgot about before. Those memories were rewritten—happy ones with your grandparents placed instead. We gave you the gift of contentment.” He loosens his tie. “If you saw what you were like when you arrived, you would agree that it was a gift.”

  “I was five. You stole my memories,” I say, offended. Horrified. “You and that prick thought that you knew what was best. You decided. At least my grandparents loved me; their complicity in this is somewhat understandable. But you . . . ,” I sneer, unable to even find the right word to describe a man who manipulates grief, abuses broken hearts.

  I’m about to shout, scream, when Dr. McKee sucks in a wispy breath of air, seeming to choke on it, before taking another. His eyes widen, and he quickly bangs once on his chest, hard enough to make it echo in the room. I take a startled step back, knocking into the chair and sending it to the floor with a loud thud.

  He gasps again. “Marie,” he chokes out.

  I look around the room and remember that she left. The doctor’s face is growing red on his cheeks, blue near his lips.

  “Marie!” I scream, and it’s only a second before she rushes into the room.

  I turn back to Dr. McKee, and his expression is twisted in pain. He reaches his arm out to Marie. Before she gets to him, he falls forward, and I do my best to catch him, stumbling back. Marie grabs on to him and carefully lowers him to the floor.

  “Call 911,” Marie says to me calmly as she brushes the doctor’s hair off his forehead.

  I take out my phone and dial, holding it to my ear as I watch them. Marie looks down at Dr. McKee.

  “Stay calm,” she tells him soothingly.

  Dr. McKee wraps his hands in her coat, his face pleading. “You have to call my daughter,” he begs. “You have to call Nicole.”

  Marie stares at him, her dark eyes filling with tears. “You know I can’t do that, Tom,” she whispers back miserably. They hold each other’s gaze—a million words passing between them without a single one being uttered.

  Dr. McKee’s hands slip from Marie’s coat, but she quickly catches his grip, her hand tightly around his. A tear drips onto her cheek and runs through her makeup.

  Doctor McKee’s face has gone ashen, his glasses askew. His lips are bluish as he winces in pain again, his other fist clutching his chest. The 911 operator comes on, and I tell her we need an ambulance. She gets the address and tells me one is on the way. I put my phone away just as the door opens, and Nathan and Melody come rushing in.

  Melody gasps and watches in horror, and Nathan comes to stand next to me, wrapping his arm over my shoulders—holding me steady.

  Marie doesn’t let go of Dr. McKee’s hand; they watch each other. It’s a moment so full of secrets that I feel like I’m intruding. I open my mouth to ask if he’ll be all right, when Dr. McKee’s eyes roll back, his face scrunches up, and he chokes out a gurgling sound.

  “Hold on, Tom,” Marie murmurs, although she doesn’t seem to believe it will do any good. She brings his knuckles to her mouth and presses them against her lips, her eyes squeezed shut as the tears flow freely now.

  Dr. McKee fights to look at her, his eyelids fluttering. His face clears for a moment, and he smiles sadly at her.

  “Tell her that I loved her more than anything,” he whispers, his face wet with tears. “Tell her that I’m sorry.”

  Marie moans out what sounds like “I can’t,” and I don’t understand why she won’t just placate him. Lie to him to give him peace. But that must not be the sort of relationship they have. Painfully honest even until the last second. Even as they lie to everyone around them. I don’t know what it would be like to have someone be so truthful with me. Does anyone know that kind of loyalty?

  Dr. McKee blinks slowly, his body relaxing back. “We could have done anything, Dr. Devoroux,” he murmurs. “Together, we could have saved the whole damn world.”

  She laughs and uses her free hand to wipe the tears off his cheek. “I still will,” she says. “I’ll do it for her.”

  Dr. McKee’s face breaks a little at the mention of “her,” but he nods as if that’s all he wants. Her.

  And then Dr. Tom McKee closes his eyes and dies quietly in the back room of the Adjustment office.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I FOLLOW THE AMBULANCE TO the hospital—I’m not even sure why. I guess I feel responsible, even though Dr. McKee’s heart attack wasn’t my fault. Nathan left with Melody. He wasn’t happy about it, but she begged to talk to him. He told me he’d find me later and that I should be careful. I’m not sure what could happen in the hospital, but who knows anymore. Like Dr. McKee said, The Program never left. We were never safe.

  Dr. McKee didn’t regain consciousness, and although they tried to revive him at the Adjustment office, they couldn’t. Marie didn’t look at me once while the EMTs were working on him, not even when I asked if she was okay. She was lost in her head, and it makes me wonder about her and Dr. McKee’s relationship. It didn’t seem romantic—more like . . . family. A closeness that could only come from unabashed loyalty and care. It makes me suddenly sorry for her. She’ll be all alone now.

  I text my grandparents to let them know what happened with Dr. McKee, but I don’t mention what he told me yet. His explanation doesn’t quite make sense in my head.

  Something feels off. Wrong.

  I need to talk to Marie for clarification, but now isn’t the time. I’ll let her grieve. I understand how controlling grief can be, and unlike her and Dr. McKee, I won’t take advantage of that pain.

  As I sit in the hospital waiting room, I’m reminded of the other times I’ve sat here, worried about Wes. I was hoping I’d never have to be in this hospital again, and yet here I am.

  The sliding doors open, and I’m relieved to see Nathan walk in. He looks awful, drawn and tired. He drops down into the chair next to me. When he turns to me, my soul aches. Nathan with a broken heart is too much for me to take. I reach for him and pull him into a hug, and it nearly kills me as he silently cries into my shoulder.

  Nathan tells me that he already filled in Foster on the fact that he and Jana/Melody have broken up and that she has been working for the Adjustment. As Nathan relayed it, Foster’s response was: “Well, fuck her. I knew it.”


  Nathan promises to tell me what Melody said to him after they left the office, but first he wants to head home.

  As we drive back to our houses in my Jeep, I’m torn on how to feel about Dr. McKee’s death. I didn’t want him to die, obviously. But I also think about Vanessa, how the Adjustment contributed to her death. How it nearly killed Wes. How Dr. McKee has spent his life manipulating others. It doesn’t justify him dying—I’m not a monster. But it does add an extra layer of emotions.

  “She used me,” Nathan says under his breath. It’s dark outside, and I glance over at him and see he’s still the same brand of sad he brought with him to the hospital.

  “Nathan,” I say, but he shakes his head and looks out the passenger window.

  “She used me,” he repeats. “She was a fucking spy, and I was stupid for not seeing it sooner. I put us all in danger.” He turns to me, miserable. “I put you in danger. I welcomed her into our lives, and I even made you be friends with her.”

  “You didn’t make me do anything.”

  “You did it for me,” he says, and he’s not wrong. Jana and I were never completely on the same page, but I gave it a shot because he’s my best friend.

  “And that’s not all,” Nathan says. “She wasn’t just a handler. I was right to be uncomfortable the other day. The woman she lives with is not her mother. Jana—” He stops and closes his eyes. “Melody was assigned to her as . . . a closer, she called it. She was . . .” Nathan doesn’t seem to want to go on, and I reach over and put my hand on his leg.

  “She was impersonating Jana Simms,” Nathan says quietly. “A girl who died last year. Melody took over her life, originally at the mom’s request—some twisted kind of therapy. But lately, she and her ‘mother’ had been arguing. I guess the mother had gotten her closure, and wanted Melody to move on. But Melody hadn’t finished her assignment.”

  Nathan looks at me. “That’s you. Her assignment.” The words seem to make him sick, but I don’t want his apology. Nathan hasn’t hurt me. Melody did.

  “So what does she do now?” I ask. I take a left onto our street and continue toward the light of my front porch.

  “She’s pretty tore up,” Nathan says. “She actually cared for Dr. McKee. She’s done with the Adjustment—I can tell that much. She hinted she might leave town soon. But I’m not sure she has anywhere else to go.”

  “If it matters,” I say, “I think she really did care about you.” I pull into my driveway and turn off the engine of the Jeep. I look across the car, and Nathan meets my eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says simply.

  He gets out of the car, and I watch him from the driver’s seat as he crosses the driveway toward his house and disappears inside.

  • • •

  Over a late dinner of reheated food, my grandparents ask what I was doing at the Adjustment office. My grandmother flinches when I tell her that Dr. McKee died in front of me, but she adds nothing other than to say it’s a tragedy. It’s especially unsettling given the fact that Dr. McKee told me they were close. Given the fact that she and my grandfather offered me up to this experiment more than once. And yet, my grandmother sits there showing only quiet concern.

  I tell my grandparents about Jana really being Melody. I lie and say Nathan and I were there to find her, afraid she was getting an Adjustment. But it turned out she worked for them. I try to gauge my grandparents’ reactions—my heightened sense for bullshit ready to find any discrepancies.

  But either my grandparents didn’t know, or their lying skills are expert level now. My grandmother frets about Nathan and wonders if she should call his mother. But it’s late, and I agree to invite him over for dinner tomorrow.

  “And how are you feeling, honey?” my grandmother asks me. I notice that Pop hasn’t said much the entire meal, and his passivity in this pisses me off.

  “Well,” I say, pushing my plate away. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I’ve ended things with Wes; I’ve gone to therapy; hell, I even tell you about my headaches. So basically, I’m miserable.”

  I’m purposely prodding them, seeing if they’ll break down and confess. Confess what, I still don’t know. It’s already bigger than I imagine.

  “It’ll pass,” my grandmother says. “You’ll be in college soon—things will be better. You’ll see.”

  I stare at her, and my eyes must be cold, because she lowers her gaze.

  “I’m going to bed,” I say suddenly, and stand up. I’ll be better at faking normal tomorrow. Right now, I’m spent. Unable to pretend for another second.

  My grandparents stay at the table, murmuring good night as I leave. But when I get to the top of the stairs, I don’t go directly to my room. I’m drawn to the box in my grandparents’ closet. Something about it felt off. And I want to know exactly why.

  I slip inside their bedroom and stride over to the closet. I open the doors and get on my tiptoes, but as I reach up, I find the box is gone. I take a step back, surveying the space, in case I put it back in the wrong spot. But my heart sinks because I know I didn’t. The box is gone.

  It’s so bizarre; I’d entertain it was never there in the first place, except there is a box-size hole on the shelf. An empty space exactly where it had been. And then I remember that I didn’t just tell Nathan and Foster about it—I told Dr. Warren, as well.

  I fall back a step, overwhelmed. My grandparents aren’t who I thought they were—how could they be? At this point, if I confront them, will they tell Dr. Warren? Will The Program come for me? I need help—I see that very clearly now.

  Paranoid, I quickly dash back to my room. I don’t understand what’s happened, how quickly my life has unraveled. And that box . . . I don’t get. It was baby stuff. What was in there to hide?

  I shut my door, and consider locking it—just like Wes locks his—but I have to accept that physically, if I can keep pretending, I’m not in any danger. I have to believe that for now because there isn’t another option. Not yet.

  My bed creaks as I sit down, and I’m more confused than when I woke up. So much of my past is a lie. Not even my recent past, but my actual childhood. And although I should be too worried to sleep, my eyelids are heavy. My conscience tired. I lie back, staring up at the ceiling.

  I watched someone die today. I had my reality shaken. Once Nathan deals with his broken heart, we’ll figure out what to do next about Melody. We’ll figure it out together.

  I’m drained, ready to slip away into the darkness of sleep, but I think about Dr. McKee again. How his last wish was to talk to his daughter. And how, for some reason, Marie said no.

  There’s a buzzing, and I glance over wearily and see Wes’s name lit up on my phone. I debate answering, sure that if I talk to him, we’ll talk for hours. I watch the phone until it grows silent.

  There’s a vibration, and I pick up the phone and see he texted.

  I really need to talk to you, he writes. Can you please call me?

  I stare at the words, and I hate that he has to ask. I should have answered the phone; I should call back. Wes has only known me two days—he can’t feel that strongly about me. Not after I told him we weren’t together like that. Then again, muscle memory. His heart remembers me.

  But I don’t respond. I tuck the phone under my pillow, and I close my eyes. So tired. So fucking tired.

  There’s an itch in the back of my head, deep in my skull. A fuzziness begins to spread, and then all at once, the bed drops out from under me as I fall deep inside a memory.

  • • •

  Wes and I were at the park, six months before The Program came for me. The weeping willow tree rustled quietly in the sunny afternoon sky. Blanket spread out in the grass; birds singing on the branches.

  I turned the page of my magazine, and Wes leaned in to kiss my bare shoulder, his finger teasing the spaghetti strap of my tank top.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said, kissing my skin again. I shrugged him off and turned another page.

  “S
ure,” I said. I didn’t really want to talk. The Program had been collecting more and more people from class, their threat bigger than ever. Closing in on us. Talking seemed like a terrible idea.

  “Do you love me?” Wes asked in a quiet voice.

  I looked over at him with a sudden skip in my heart. His soft brown eyes reflected the light, shining even as he squinted at me.

  “Yeah,” I said impatiently. “Of course.”

  Wes fell silent, and then pushed on. “But you don’t love me the same,” he added.

  We stared at each other for a long moment, and then I set my magazine aside. Wes and I had been together for years, we were a team. I cared deeply for him, but lately . . . things around me had started to feel hopeless. What was the point of loving anybody anymore?

  We would never survive The Program.

  That idea consumed me; it consumed my love for Wes. It was all I thought about.

  Something was wrong with me. I was unwell, and I didn’t have a single person to talk to about it aside from Wes. Anyone else would turn me in to The Program. But I couldn’t spread this to Wes, this . . . sadness. I couldn’t do that to him.

  “Tatum?” Wes asked, still waiting for me to answer. But what could I say?

  “No,” I told him. “It’s not the same.”

  Wes flinched, lowering his eyes to the blanket. He sniffled, his lips parting as he tried to find the question he needed to ask.

  He was right—I didn’t feel the same anymore. I was starting to think I didn’t feel at all. For weeks, I’d been retreating further and further inside my head. Finding a safe spot. From The Program, from the world. From his mother. I was detached from everyone, including Wes. If I stopped feeling, stopped loving, I could still make it. I could still survive.

  But new guilt crawled into my chest as I realized what I was doing. I would destroy him if I kept this up—this push and pull of a relationship. This lie. I’d basically be handing him over to The Program.

  I had to let him go.