The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  “You didn’t correct anybody,” I say.

  She levels her gaze on me. “We corrected you,” she replies. “Now, as you know, The Program is still operating. They have their own handlers, ones who have no part in the cure. I’m not sure who else is involved.”

  I look at Nathan. “Derek’s one, I bet.”

  “He is,” Marie agrees. “He’s been a handler with them for years.”

  The confirmation chills me, and I turn back to Marie. “I saw him talking to Melody,” I say.

  “She was attempting to dissuade him from following you. Derek is . . . stubborn.”

  “He’s an asshole,” I correct, and she smiles.

  “Yes, he is definitely that, too. But Melody was looking out for you, Tatum.”

  I have a flash of regret, having always assumed the worst about Melody. Sure, she wasn’t honest with us, but I’m grateful that she tried to get Derek off my back. I’m grateful she put herself on the line for that. Maybe I’ve been unfair to her.

  “It makes sense,” I say. “About Derek? Realm told me that The Program was after me.”

  “Michael?” Marie asks. “What else did he tell you?” I don’t like that she expects me to answer so easily, and she must read that in my stance. “Michael always says The Program is after people—it’s how he thinks,” she explains. “My biggest concern right now is for Melody. She and Michael are friends, and I want to talk to him. But he hasn’t returned my calls.”

  The fact that he’s not returning her calls heartens me; it means he wasn’t lying when he said he was done with the Adjustment.

  “What does The Program want from me, Marie?” I ask. “Because I’m not buying the ‘Realm is paranoid’ excuse.”

  “I didn’t say he was paranoid,” Marie corrects. “Although he is most of the time. It’s what makes Michael Realm excellent at his job. But you asked me about The Program, what they want—it’s not a simple answer. There are a lot of moving parts here, Tatum. As you know, Dr. Warren has been your therapist; she’s been keeping an eye on you.”

  “Yeah, thanks for the heads-up on that,” I mutter.

  “I don’t know the nature of the deal that got you released from The Program, but we had no choice in bringing you to her. And . . . I’m guessing Dr. Warren has realized that the memories you gave her in The Program, the ones she erased, were not accurate. The crashbacks you told her about contradict your story. She hates being wrong. And now The Program wants to know if you’re the cure.”

  “Why would they care? Why wouldn’t they want to fix the problems they created?”

  “Because they don’t see crashbacks as problems. They are merely complications. And allowing a cure to come to market would wipe out any hope of The Program returning. They’d be obsolete.”

  “Good,” I say. She smiles.

  “It would be good. But when powerful people have profits to protect, when even more powerful people have ideas on how to use the technology to control the masses, they’re going to fight. You are the cure, Tatum. And believe me when I say that we can’t let them find out.”

  “Because?” I ask.

  “Because then they’ll want you dead.”

  My heart skips, and I look quickly to Nathan. He puts his hand on my arm, pulling me to his side. Ready to jump into the ball pit with a faceless organization.

  “Or at the very least erased or lobotomized,” Marie adds, and I feel like maybe that was the better answer, as disturbing as that is. The concern that settles in her expression makes me think I’m not the only person The Program is after. Maybe they’re after Melody, too. Maybe they’re after everyone involved with the Adjustment.

  “If you talk to him again,” Marie says calmly, “please have Michael contact me. I’m sorry Tom and I didn’t warn you about Dr. Warren sooner, but we were trying to be discreet.”

  “You lie,” I say. “You’re not discreet.”

  A smile tugs on Marie’s lips like she’s impressed with how I’m standing up to her. Before she says anything more, the door to the Adjustment office rips open, and two people rush in.

  The young woman has blond hair and blue eyes that are deeply red from crying. The guy with her looks equally miserable, and he buries his hands in his pockets, staring intently at Marie. The doctor falls back a step as she takes them in, obviously recognizing them.

  “What happened to him?” the woman demands from Marie, not even glancing in my or Nathan’s direction. “What was he doing?”

  Marie stares back, wide-eyed in awe or disbelief. “He was trying to do right,” she murmurs, sounding far away.

  “What the hell does that mean?” the woman asks, talking with Marie in a way that’s so personal, so steeped in history, that it feels like a parent/child relationship.

  The woman herself is nondescript. She’s young and pretty, I guess, but in a way that’s not memorable. None of her features are prominent, a face that could be anybody. I don’t know how else to explain it.

  Next to her, the guy surveys the room before he notices us. He’s intimidating—not because of his build or an aggressive expression. It’s how he seems to look right into me, like he can see me and know everything. Know my every secret.

  “Marie,” the woman says, her voice tight but pleading. “What were the two of you doing here?”

  It’s then that the woman’s eyes drift to the picture hanging on the back wall. Dr. McKee told us that his daughter shot it, and as her eyes well up, I realize this is her. This is his daughter.

  Marie sees her looking and reaches to put her hand on her arm. “Quinlan—” she starts, but the woman shakes her off violently.

  “Don’t call me that,” she says. “It’s Nicole. And what is this?” she demands, pointing to the picture. Behind Nicole, the guy she’s with curses under his breath.

  “He remembered, didn’t he, Marie?” Nicole asks. “He remembered me.”

  “You know he didn’t,” Marie says sympathetically. But she’s lying, and the way Nicole shakes her head, she knows she’s lying too.

  Dr. McKee asked for his daughter—why would Marie try to cover that up? What else is she hiding that even after his death she has to keep a secret?

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Marie says to Nicole. She glances at the guy. “You either, Deacon. How did you even know what happened?”

  Nicole scoffs, offended. “Find out that my father was dead ?” she asks bitterly. “A stranger called me, Melody someone. Told me that my father died in the back room of a fucking office.” She chokes up, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “A stranger,” she repeats. “You should have been the one to call.”

  Nathan and I exchange a look, not sure if this means Melody is okay, or if it was her final moment to set things right. He puts his hand over mine where I hold his arm. I can feel him shaking.

  “Go,” I tell him. “Go look for her.”

  He seems torn, partly because he’s upset with her and shouldn’t want to find her. But he still loves her. It’s not something that just shuts off in a day.

  “You sure?” Nathan asks.

  I tell him that I am and pass him the keys to my Jeep.

  I’m glad that Melody called Dr. McKee’s daughter. It proves she has some compassion, after all. And although we don’t know much about the real Melody Blackstone, I hope Nathan can find her. I hope she’s still alive.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  AFTER NATHAN LEAVES, I GO sit on one of the chairs, and Nicole’s boyfriend—husband, I decide when I see his wedding ring—comes to sit in a chair one down from me. He watches Marie and Nicole talk, their voices quieter. He’s intense, like at any second he’ll jump up to defend his wife.

  “The picture was one he found in storage,” Marie says. “He had no idea it was connected to you. He didn’t remember.”

  I can’t believe she won’t tell her. I don’t know the reason, but I refuse to sit here and let it happen. I won’t be her accomplice. Not anymore.

  “She’s lying,” I call out,
and they all turn to me.

  “Stay out of this, Tatum,” Marie says harshly.

  “No,” I tell her defiantly, and then turn to Nicole. “Your dad,” I say. “He did remember. He told me the first time I was here that his daughter took that picture.” I motion to where it hangs on the wall. “And before he died, he asked Marie to call you.” My eyes drift to Marie, and she crosses her arms over her chest, her expression pleading for me to be quiet. “She told him no,” I finish.

  Nicole turns on her fiercely. “Why would you do that?” she demands, hurt in her voice. “Why wouldn’t you let him talk to me?” Marie doesn’t answer, and Nicole tightens her jaw. “It’s time to stop bullshitting me, Marie! You can’t really think I’m this stupid.”

  Marie watches her, softening, and shakes her head. “Of course I know you’re not stupid.” The kindness in her voice seems to annoy Nicole more than anything.

  “Then tell me what the fuck was going on here,” Nicole says.

  The phone on the desk rings. Marie glances at it and then back to Nicole. “I need to take that in my office,” she says briskly. “Wait here.”

  Nicole tilts her head as if asking if she’s serious, and Marie darts her gaze between Nicole and Deacon before pulling open the door for the back offices. When she’s gone, Nicole looks at Deacon in disbelief.

  “Not much changes,” he says.

  “Apparently not,” Nicole replies. “Marie lies as easily as she breathes.”

  Nicole sits in the chair between me and Deacon and presses her palms together before bringing them to her lips, staring at the office door. Lost in a thought. It’s almost like she forgets she’s not alone.

  I cross my legs to get more comfortable, and she jumps and looks over at me.

  She smiles politely, embarrassed that she drifted away. “Thank you,” she says. “For calling her out. I’ve found it’s the best method to deal with her constant deceit.”

  “I’m really sorry about your dad,” I tell her.

  At the mention of him, her blue eyes begin to water, and she lowers her gaze to the floor. “I’ve been a grief counselor for the last few years,” she says. “And I’ve worked with grieving parents most of my life.” She looks at me, tears running over the light freckles on her cheeks. “And you know the one thing people say when they find out someone they love died? The universal response?”

  I give my head a little shake, not knowing the answer.

  “Almost every time, they say, ‘It’s not true.’ In one form or another, their body’s initial response is to deny that it happened. Deny the death. Deny the loss. They can deny it so completely that sometimes the people around them believe them and start to doubt it too. Grief is a bitter pill. It can destroy everything if you let it. It’s a beast.”

  She rubs her hand over her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

  “And this time,” she says, sounding lost again, “I was the one saying it wasn’t true when Melody told me.”

  “When did Melody call you?” I ask.

  “About two in the morning,” she replies. “Deacon and I jumped in the car and drove through the night. Why? Do you know her?”

  “Yes.” I furrow my brow. “Not really. It’s actually pretty convoluted.”

  “It usually is if McKee or Marie was involved,” Deacon says. He puts his arm around Nicole and pulls her into him, kissing the top of her head and closing his eyes. Whatever his relationship was to Dr. McKee, I can see that he’s grieving too.

  I’m a third wheel, uncomfortable with their closeness. Nicole straightens, brushing her blond hair back from her face.

  “Tatum, is it?” she asks me.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a patient of my father’s . . . I’m assuming,” she asks.

  “I’m not sure how much of his patient I really was,” I say. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “That sounds like McKee,” Deacon says, and the intimidation I felt when he first walked into the Adjustment office is completely gone. Around Nicole, he’s gentle. He holds her hand while she continues to talk to me.

  “Tatum, I don’t mean to pry,” Nicole says. “But what exactly have my father and Marie been doing here? I don’t expect Marie will tell me the truth.”

  “She won’t,” I say. Nicole smiles as we bond over the fact that we’re both dealing with someone who is a compulsive liar. I don’t know Nicole’s or Deacon’s history, but they’ve clearly been involved with Dr. McKee and Marie their whole lives. What could it have been like having Tom McKee as a father? And how, after whatever happened, could she still love him this much?

  It makes me wonder if we forgive our parents (or grandparents) for their sins too easily. Or if it’s because when you love someone, you’d rather forgive it as a mistake, a bad choice with good intentions, than accept that they’ve nearly destroyed you.

  At least, I wonder if that’s why I’ve waited so long to confront my grandparents. Yes, I’m scared they’ll deny it. But I’m also scared they’ll admit everything. Because then . . . what? What comes after that?

  “What have they done to you?” Deacon asks. Concern creases the skin between his brows.

  I’m embarrassed, even though it’s not my fault, when I say, “Have you heard of the Adjustment?”

  Nicole and Deacon exchange a look, but it doesn’t seem like either of them connect with the word.

  “Would you mind explaining?” Deacon asks, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.

  I tell Nicole and Deacon all about the Adjustment procedure, the implantation of memories. I include the fact that they’re trying to get a patent, and I was their proof of concept, something they neglected to tell me until yesterday. Nicole smiles ruefully.

  “He never stopped experimenting on people,” she says. “I guess all the blame heaped on Arthur Pritchard wasn’t fully deserved. And Marie was part of this?”

  “She was most of it, it feels like,” I admit. Even though Dr. McKee did a lot of the talking, it always felt like Marie was the driving force.

  “Yeah,” Deacon says. “Marie has always pulled the strings.” He looks at Nicole. “On all of us.”

  I glance over to the closed door that leads to the offices. Marie’s only been gone a few minutes, but it feels too long for a simple conversation. What could be so important that she wouldn’t put it aside to talk to Dr. McKee’s daughter the day after he died?

  “I just want answers,” I say, mostly to myself. “I want to move on, but I don’t know how. I don’t know what’s true.”

  Nicole sighs, and there’s a sense of camaraderie between us, as if she’s been through something similar. She gazes at me, and I wonder if I somehow remind her of herself.

  Abruptly she turns to Deacon. “I have an idea,” she says. “There’s not much time. She’s probably already thinking of excuses and cover-ups.”

  Deacon stares at his wife for a moment, and then his lips flinch with a smile. “You have a plan,” he says.

  “Yep,” she says. “And—”

  “Oh, I’m already in, Nic. Let’s go.”

  She smiles and then turns back to me. “I’m sorry to drag you into this deeper, but I need your help.”

  “I just want my life back,” I say.

  Nicole presses her lips together sadly. “I can understand that. Now,” she says, motioning toward the back offices. “Do you have any idea where she keeps the syringes?”

  • • •

  While Deacon keeps watch in the hall, Nicole and I creep past the closed door of Marie’s office. I lead Nicole into the treatment room where the Adjustments are performed.

  As we enter, I see Nicole take it all in, seeing it for the first time and looking horrified. There’s a large machine, computers and files, and various instruments ranging from sci-fi-looking to archaic. From a distance, the entire room is dangerous. I wish I’d seen it that way before.

  I glance at the door, scared Marie will walk in. Nicole rushes across the room and starts goi
ng through the drawers of the cabinet. I don’t know exactly where Marie keeps the syringes; they were always in her pocket. But I assume they keep some in the treatment room.

  Toward the back, I pull open a drawer underneath a set of cabinets and find a few syringes in blue plastic bags. I grab one and turn to Nicole. “I got it,” I say. She comes to take it from me.

  “Perfect,” she says. “Now we need to find the drugs.”

  Nicole goes to a white cabinet set against the back wall. She opens one side and finds folded paper gowns on the shelf. When she opens the other side of the cabinet, she pauses. There are rows of small glass bottles, neatly lined up. She turns a few with her fingertips to read the labels until she gets to the last row and snatches one out.

  “That it?” I ask.

  “Yep.” She closes the cabinet and sets the bottle on the counter.

  The label indicates it’s the truth serum Marie uses. I watch as Nicole opens the syringe, pulling apart the plastic, and then picks up the bottle. She sticks the needle into the rubber top, and pulls out a dose . . . or two. I flick my eyes to her to see if she’ll acknowledge how much medication she withdrew, but she doesn’t look at me. I’m suddenly worried how far this will go. What is her intention here?

  Nicole slips the bottle into her pocket and turns to me. There’s a flicker of hesitation in her expression, but then Deacon’s voice echoes through the hallway.

  “Who were you talking to, Marie?” he asks loudly. “Didn’t sound like you were making funeral arrangements.”

  Nicole curses and takes me by the arm, moving us into the center of the room, close to the exam table.

  “Get out of my way,” Marie says sternly, and then the door flies open. Marie sees us standing there, waiting for her, and she quickly glances around the room.

  “What are you doing in here?” she demands. Deacon dashes inside and skids to a stop as he takes in the scene.

  Nicole keeps her hand holding the needle behind my back, positioned as if she’s comforting me.