• • •
It’s a little over a week later when I’m sitting in Dr. Warren’s office, my hair newly cut and straightened. The mess of dark curls are now smooth and reach just below my chin. She smiles the minute she sees me.
“You look fantastic, Sloane,” she says. “You have truly been a model patient.”
I nod as if I’m thanking her, but in truth I don’t remember any of our sessions beyond the final few. We spent our last meetings piecing together my memories. She reminds me of the sequence of events because it occasionally gets jumbled in my head. She fills in the things I can’t remember, like about my family.
“You’ll be happy to know that The Program has a one hundred percent survival rate, and that very few of our subjects ever relapse. But there are some precautions you’ll have to take. There will be weekly doctor visits for the first month, then bimonthly until the final evaluation in three months. You’ll have access to therapy and medication if you need it, but it won’t be forced unless you start to exhibit symptoms again. For the first week, we ask that you take the supplied relaxant, just to help with the transition to your new school.
“You are not allowed to fraternize in any serious way with nonreturners. Although you’re cured, you are still considered high-risk pending your final evaluation. After that you’re free to talk to whomever you want.” Her mouth twitches and for a second I don’t think that she means it. But I’m so close to going home now, I don’t mention it. I just nod.
Dr. Warren purses her lips and puts her elbows on her desk, leaning forward. “We want you to live, Sloane,” she says. “We want you to have a full, happy life. We’ve given you the best chance possible by removing the infected memories. Now it’s up to you. But know, if you get sick again, you will be flagged. And then you’ll be required to stay in The Program until you’re eighteen.”
I swallow hard, thinking that my birthday is still seven months away. That would be a long time to be stuck here, especially without Realm. “I understand,” I tell her.
“Good.” She looks relieved as she straightens. “You’ll have a handler assigned to you for the first few weeks, helping you out at school and accompanying you outside of your house. This is a precaution because of your fragile state. Take it easy, Sloane. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“I’ll try my best,” I say, looking at the clock on the wall and knowing that my parents will be here any minute. I’m leaving. I’m really leaving.
Dr. Warren stands then, walking around her desk to embrace me. We hug awkwardly, and when she lets me go, she rests her hand on my shoulder. “At first,” she says almost in a whisper, “you may be a little distant—a little numb. But that will eventually go away. You will feel again.”
I meet her eyes, doing a quick evaluation of my emotions. I’m complacent and calm, but I wonder how I should really feel.
There’s a quick knock at the door, and Dr. Warren says to come in. Nurse Kell stands there, her cheeks rosy. “Your parents are here, Sloane.” She beams, looking proud. “And the boys wanted me to give you this.” She holds out a small wrapped package, and my eyes water.
“Why didn’t they give it to me themselves?” I ask, walking over to take it from her hands. Both Derek and Shep are still here, but Dr. Warren promised me they’d be going home soon.
She laughs. “Because they said you would probably cry.”
I unwrap the paper and smile at what’s inside. It’s a deck of cards, but the back design says BULLSHIT. I reach out to hug Nurse Kell. “Tell them thank you for me.”
It’s all so surreal. I stand for a moment looking around the office, the time I spent in here a complete fog. I don’t know what I was like before, but I feel okay now. I guess The Program works.
I say good-bye to Dr. Warren and follow Nurse Kell out, a handler trailing us with a small duffel bag. I don’t remember what I wore when I came into the facility, but The Program has provided me with a few outfits—ones I didn’t pick out—to send me home with. Right now I’m wearing a yellow polo shirt, the collar stiff and itchy.
The halls are empty, but I hear a spirited game of cards being played in the leisure room, new members taking our places. When we get out onto the lawn, I see my dad’s Volvo parked near the gate. He steps out, my mother scrambling to get to his side. I pause, looking at them from afar.
“Good luck, Sloane,” Nurse Kell says, brushing my hair behind my ear. “Stay healthy.”
I nod to her, and look at the handler who tells me to go ahead. And then I run across the grass. When I get close enough my father rushes forward, swooping me up into his arms, tears streaming down his face. Soon my mother is hugging both of us and we’re all crying.
I’ve missed them. Missed my dad’s smile and my mom’s laugh. “Dad,” I say when I can finally pry myself away from him. “First things first—let’s get ice cream,” I say. “I haven’t had any since I’ve been here.”
He laughs, a painful sort of sound, as if he’s been waiting to do it for a long time. “Anything, sweetheart. We’re just so happy to have you home.”
My mother touches adoringly at my hair. “I love this,” she says earnestly, as if she hasn’t seen me in years. “You look just beautiful.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I hug her again. My father takes my bags from the handler and puts them in the trunk as I have one last look back the building—back at The Program.
Something catches my eye, and my smile fades. There’s a girl in the window, sitting on a chair with her arms wrapped around her knees. She’s pretty and blond, but she looks lonely. Desperate. And I can’t help thinking that she reminds me of someone.
“Here we go,” my father says, opening the back door for me. I tear my eyes away from the window and climb into the car, the smell of it bringing me back to the times when Brady and I used to argue over who got to pick the radio station. My brother’s gone now, but we’ve made peace with that. Our family got through it and now we’re all better. I’m better.
My parents climb into the car, glancing back at me as if they expect me to disappear at any moment, and I smile. I’m going home.
PART III
WISH YOU WEREN’T HERE
CHAPTER ONE
I HAD TROUBLE SLEEPING THE FIRST NIGHT HOME. The house was too quiet, the sounds in my head too loud. I missed Realm, missed playing cards with the boys. I missed the freedom and the restrictions of the facility. In a weird way, I’d been on my own.
After we’d stopped for ice cream, my mother came home and cooked a big dinner, chatting away about what I’d missed. Apparently The Program has been picked up in three more states, and France and Germany are adapting their own versions. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that so I stayed silent.
The minute I wake up the next morning, my mother is waiting with the tiny white pill that Dr. Warren prescribed to help me get through my day—to relax me. As I sit at the kitchen table, my mother flips pancakes, humming a song I can’t quite place. My father has left for work. I sit at the small, round table and stare at the empty seat my brother used to claim. I almost feel that at any second he’ll come bounding into the kitchen asking for Lucky Charms.
But Brady’s dead. Dr. Warren told me that his accidental death was traumatic for me, so they had to erase it. Now, I don’t even know what happened to my brother. In my head it’s like he was here, and then he was gone with nothing in between.
At the end of my therapy at The Program, Dr. Warren tried to help me line up my memories sequentially, filling in some of the blanks. She said my family was devastated by my brother’s death, but that now that I’m cured, we’re all okay. I don’t remember a time when we weren’t okay, so I’m glad. I hate the idea of not having my family.
When my mother—still smiling—puts food in front of me, I thank her. But the thought of eating is far from my mind. Dr. Warren had said that I wouldn’t know anyone at Sumpter High—that they would have been erased even if I had known them because they were infected too.
So I’m starting over. It’s like a new life. It’s like a new me.
When Kevin, my handler, shows up, he’s polite, and almost kind, on my front porch. I have a sense that I should be uncomfortable around him, but he takes my backpack from me and holds the door. So I chalk it up to the confused feelings that Dr. Warren predicted.
Kevin looks to be just a little older than I am, but we don’t say much as he drives us to Sumpter. But then again, my head feels too foggy to ask anything relevant. I think it’s the medication.
When we get there, I see that Sumpter is a large, white building—sort of intimidating. Kevin parks in the back lot, taking a minute to radio in that I’ve arrived. Several students walk past us toward the entrance, some laughing, some alone—and I wonder if I’ve met them before. A feeling of déjà vu creeps over me, and I look away, feeling unsettled.
“Are you okay?” Kevin asks, startling me. I glance sideways at him and see that his light eyebrows are pulled together in concern. I’m not sure who to confide in, what’s even real, but he’s the only one here.
“Anxious,” I say. “Like I’m . . . unglued. Is that normal?”
Kevin’s expression doesn’t change. “It is normal for you, yes. But that feeling will fade in a couple of weeks. Right now, your mind is repairing itself. You’ll have echoes—a space between memories that will make you feel hollow. But they will fill in. Medication can help with the transition.”
His words don’t comfort me, and instead I feel a tiny twinge of sadness. But just as soon as it’s there, it’s like warm water is splashed inside my chest. “Whoa,” I say, putting my hand over my heart.
“That’s the inhibitor,” Kevin says. “It relieves the panic. You should probably take another before going to class.” He gets a pillbox from the center console and pinches out a white pill before extending it to me. I take it from him, staring down at it while he hands me a bottle of water.
“So this feeling will go away?” I ask, just to make sure. There are competing emotions, and it’s hard to tell which are mine and which belong to the medication.
“Yes,” Kevin says. “You will regulate. Eventually.”
I look again at the other students out the window. I feel empty, but they look normal. Happy, even. And someday, I’ll be like them. Once this damn fog clears. So without another thought, I swallow the pill and let Kevin take me inside.
• • •
“Here’s your schedule,” Kevin says. “It might be tough to pick up in your subjects where you left off, but your teachers have all modified their lesson plans to catch you up. I’ll walk you to and from classes and attend them with you.” Kevin’s gray eyes look me over.
“I’m a little confused,” I say. I take a deep breath, and the white pill works its way through my system. My muscles loosen, and an overall feeling of well-being comes over me.
“You’re doing great,” Kevin says, patting my shoulder.
I smile. Kevin seems genuinely invested in my recovery, and it’s encouraging. I might really need the support.
I walk into my first class, and the room is mostly empty. There’s a girl with blond hair near the front, and she says hi to me as I walk by. I smile in response, the small interaction confirming that I at least look normal, even if I can’t remember parts of my life.
“I’ll be in the back if you need me,” Kevin says after I’m settled in my chair.
He goes to stand by the bookcase, and I glance around the room, noticing the colorful posters on the walls. I can still remember my old school, how washed in white everything was. This place smells like vanilla—like aromatherapy. Are they trying to keep us calm?
On my desk is a paper—just like on every other desk in the room. As students walk in, they drop their bags on the floor and fill out the forms, delivering them to a tray on the teacher’s desk. I take a sharpened pencil from my bag and stare down at the questions on the daily assessment. They seem vaguely familiar.
In the past day have you felt lonely or overwhelmed?
NO.
I fill in the rest of the ovals, pausing when I get to the last question. Has anyone close to you ever committed suicide?
NO.
I pick up my paper but wait a beat, feeling like I did something wrong. I look over the questions again but can’t find a mistake. At that moment, my teacher walks in, nodding politely at us as she does. When she sees me, she smiles.
“Sloane,” she says. “I’m so happy to finally meet you.”
The entire class turns to stare at me, curious expressions on their faces. The day has taken on a dreamlike quality as I float to the front to put my paper on the pile. But unlike the other student’s assessments, my teacher stops to look over my answers. When she’s done, she smiles.
“Good girl,” she says. And then she turns to write on the board.
• • •
Kevin leads me to lunch and decides to pick out my food for me. He says that I need to keep my weight stable, even though a side effect of the medication is loss of appetite. As he tells me this, I realize that he’s right. I can’t remember the last time I was hungry.
I sit at a table, alone, and peek out at the cafeteria. Kevin is leaning against the wall, silently taking in the room. There are three other handlers in here, watching their charges. Dr. Warren told me that a handler would shadow me for a few weeks after I’m released, and then monitor me for six after that. I’m on day two.
“Can I sit?”
I jump and see a girl standing there. She’s pretty and blond, and I recognize her as the girl from my first-period class who said hi to me. “Sure,” I say, although she’s already sat down across from me.
“I’m Lacey,” she says, her voice deep and raspy like an old-time movie star. In front of her, she unrolls a brown paper bag and pulls out a package of orange cupcakes. I look down again at my lunch tray and the slab of meat on it.
“You’re Sloane, right?” she asks.
I must look surprised that she remembers, because she shrugs. “New-kid thing,” she says. “We notice all of the returners as they enter. Sort of like . . . will they or won’t they?”
“‘Will they or won’t they’ what?” I ask.
“Remember. I’m convinced that eventually one of us will remember something, and then the entire system will break down. What can I say? I’m an anarchist.” She smiles broadly, and I like her already. She’s alive. I can feel her vitality oozing off her.
Lacey shoots a glance at my handler. “They’ll stop following you soon,” she offers, tilting her head toward Kevin. “As long as you don’t mess up.”
“Mess up?” It hadn’t really occurred to me that I would mess up, or even what messing up would entail. I’m cured. But I lean forward to listen because Lacey’s been in The Program, has been successful at returning. Maybe she knows something I don’t.
“I’ve been back for fifteen weeks.” She lowers her voice and brushes a strand of her blond hair behind her ear. “I’m still missing the pieces that The Program took away. At first I didn’t care, right? I was just glad to have survived. But now . . . Now I’m wondering about things. Did you know that they said I wanted to kill myself ?” she whispers, as if she’s been dying to talk to someone about it. “That doesn’t even seem possible. I’m like . . . the most well-balanced person I know. Did they say you tried to kill yourself, too?”
I hold up my wrist, the faint outline of a scar still there. “They say I did this.”
“Wow.”
We’re both quiet for a minute, absorbing our shared mystery. But then Lacey slides one of the cupcakes toward me. “Hint number one,” she says as she takes a bite of cupcake. “Pack your own lunch. I’m pretty sure they put sedatives in the food.”
My sense of well-being has been interrupted by Lacey’s suspicions, and I wish that I hadn’t taken the white pills today. I’d like to be lucid enough to figure out if she’s being paranoid. But for now I take the orange cupcake and break it in half to lick out
the white cream first. And then we enjoy the rest of the period, passing the time with safe conversations about teachers and music.
The bell rings, and Lacey gathers all her wrappers, stuffing them back into the bag. I haven’t touched the food on my tray, but I feel satisfied enough. When Kevin begins to make his way over from wall, Lacey grins at me.
“Make him take you to the Wellness Center tonight,” she whispers. “I can meet up with you there if you want.”
“Really?” I can’t help but smile. I’ve made a friend, and somehow that makes me feel better about myself. It’s such a normal thing to do.
“Seven o’clock.”
“Excuse me,” Kevin states when he gets to our table. “We need to go, Sloane.” He takes the tray from in front of me, giving me a disapproving glance when he sees all of the food still on it. With one hand on my elbow, he gently guides me out of my seat. “Miss Klamath,” he says to Lacey in greeting.
She waves suggestively at him, and Kevin shakes his head with a smirk as if he’s used to her antics. Before I can even say good-bye, Lacey is gliding across the cafeteria and out of my line of vision. When she’s gone, Kevin drops his hand from my arm. “I’m glad you’re making friends,” he says. “It’s good for your recovery.”
“What’s the deal with the Wellness Center?” I ask. “Can I go there tonight?”
“The Wellness Center was developed by The Program as part of the aftercare, a way for you to interact with others—including nonreturners—in a safe, monitored environment. If you’d like to check it out, I think that would be okay. Let’s just be sure you’re not overdoing it. Too much stimulus can disrupt the healing process. In fact . . .” Kevin slips a pill box out his pocket, taking out the white pill. “Here. You haven’t had a dose since this morning. You might start feeling on edge if you don’t.”
I consider it. What happens if I don’t do exactly as I’m told? Would refusing be considered messing up—especially on the second day? I glance around the room, wondering if the other returners felt this lost when they first came back. But I learn nothing, as they all grab their backpacks and dump their trash, heading for their classes.
The Program Page 19