“Cool,” I say sarcastically. Honestly, I don’t understand why she wants to be in my business so much. Sounds like she has plenty of problems of her own.
My phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming call. I don’t want to react immediately, so I let it buzz several times until Nathan walks out the door. The second he’s gone, I quickly grab the phone. It’s the Adjustment office.
“Hello?” I say, my voice high-pitched from nerves.
“Tatum, it’s Dr. McKee,” he says. “Everything went well. The memories were implanted and Weston is awake. He’s asking for you.”
I put my hand on my heart. “He’s okay?” I ask.
“He is perfectly well,” the doctor says, sounding proud.
“Did it work? Does he remember?”
He’s quiet for a moment too long. “That part is uncertain,” he says. “It takes time to smooth out, but yes—he has the memory. It’s just not quite his yet. He’ll have a few gaps that his mind will have to fill in. But he’s doing fine. I’m encouraged so far.”
I’m slightly confused, but I just want to see Wes. “Let him know I’m on my way,” I tell the doctor. And after we hang up, I grab my keys and head out the door.
CHAPTER TEN
THE RECEPTIONIST BUZZES ME IN before I even ring the bell at the Adjustment office. The entire drive over, my nerves continued to ratchet up. The doctor said Wes was fine, but had it work? Will he remember?
“They’re waiting for you in the recovery room,” the receptionist says, and I pull open the door and head down the hallway. I pause for only a second—a second of total fear—before pushing inside the room.
I find Wes sitting in one of the chairs, his eyes downcast. I quickly dart a look over to Marie, who’s standing at the computer cart, typing something. She looks up at me first.
“Tatum,” she announces, pushing aside the keyboard. “You got here quickly.”
Wes immediately looks at me, and at first his expression is unreadable. He sweeps his gaze over me like he’s seeing me for the first time. I have another spike of fear, but then Wes lifts one side of his mouth in a smile. It’s slightly devious, so very Wes. I think my heart actually skips a beat.
He stands, and I run over to hug him. His arms wind around me, his hand resting on the back of my neck. “Are you okay?” I ask, close to his ear.
Wes slides his fingers into my hair, and when he pulls back, he smiles. “Your hair’s different,” he says. “But I think Cheyenne would have liked this too.”
I gasp, covering my mouth, and Wes’s eyes tear up. “You remember?” I ask. Across the room, Marie watches us, her head tilted, both examining and empathizing with us.
“Somewhat,” he says, holding up his hand to tip it from side to side. “Right now it’s kind of like a movie I only half remember.”
Wes places his palm on my cheek, an intimate move that sends sparks over my skin. I don’t want to cry in this office, but I’m not sure I can help it. There’s hope.
Wes turns to Marie. “So when’s the next session?” he asks, taking a step back from me to address her.
“We usually like to wait twenty-four hours before—”
“No,” Wes says, shaking his head. “I’m ready now.”
Marie bristles slightly under his determination. “Weston, please.”
“It’s working,” he says. “The Adjustment’s working, I can feel it. And it’s so close.” His voice hitches on his heightened emotions. His eyes blaze with energy, like the memory has given him new life. “I can almost touch it,” he says. “I think I can unlock everything. We have to keep going. Right now.”
I put my hand on his arm, about to caution him about pushing too hard. But it’s Marie who speaks first. “I understand,” she says. “But I can’t.”
“Where’s Dr. McKee?” Wes asks. “I’ll beg him, then.”
Marie exhales heavily, standing from the stool. “He’s not here at the moment,” she says. “After he contacted Tatum, he had to go check on another patient. He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Then it has to be you,” Wes says, shaking his head. “Please. This is almost worse—like I’m suddenly able to feel again, hurt again—only I can’t figure out what I’m hurting for. What I’m aching for. Just one more memory, Marie. Please,” he repeats. “I want to be whole.”
I quickly think back to what Nathan said about the memories not being real. That they may even be causing problems. But looking at Wes now, his hunger for more of his past, the slight change in his demeanor and confidence . . . I know that Nathan was wrong. The Adjustment isn’t the problem. The Program was.
Marie sighs, and turns to me. I expect her to refuse outright, but there must be something about Weston that evokes her sympathy. She looks at me. “Would you . . . would you be willing to donate another memory, Tatum?” she asks.
I’m taken aback. I’d almost forgotten that I’m the donor, that I’d be involved in this. “Oh, uh . . .”
“Tate,” Wes begs, turning to me. It’s like a fix, a high he needs to re-create. I should say no—it doesn’t feel right. But I can see that he really believes it will work. I can’t deny him that chance.
So I make my way over to the chair.
Wes and I go through the motions once again, the uncomfortable angle of the chair, the sticky tabs on my chest and temple. Even the truth serum, although this time it comes with a wave of sickness. Maybe from taking the doses so close together. Marie watches me as the drugs take effect.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“For what?” I ask.
“I should have known he’d want more right away. They always do.” She turns and walks over to Wes to get him situated, and I wonder why she said yes in the first place.
“Is this safe?” I call out. Marie straightens, and then glances over her shoulder.
“I wouldn’t do it if it weren’t safe,” she says, like I’m accusing her of something.
“Why break the rules for us?” I ask. “Assuming there are rules about this sort of thing.”
Marie gives Wes the sedative, taking her time before answering my question. “Like Dr. McKee, there are moments from my past I’d like to take back. If we had acted sooner, maybe we could have stopped The Program. If we had just fought a little harder. But we’ll never know that now.” Marie fits the metal crown on Wes’s head, and then walks over to the computer and taps a key to make my sensors buzz. “So if you want to know why I’m doing this, it’s because Weston’s memories should have never been stolen in the first place. You have yours . . .” She pauses. “It’s only right that he has his. And if there’s even the small possibility that Weston could remember everything, then I’ll take that chance. I’ll take a chance on all of you.”
Wes smiles, and meets my gaze from across the room. We watch each other, even as I feel the warm splash over my chest that tells me the medication’s kicked in, even when Wes’s eyelids flutter under sedation.
“Wes,” I call, trying to draw him awake. He looks at me lazily. “Are you sure?” I ask, my heart beating fast, beeping on the monitor.
“Tell me everything,” he whispers.
Although reluctant, I promise that I will. I turn away and stare up at the ceiling. Marie sits down next to me, and I focus on the sound of the heart monitor, willing the beats to slow while Marie asks a few baseline questions.
Once that’s done, we’re ready to begin.
“What would you like to focus on this time, Tatum?” she asks. “Something about the two of you that can help Weston make connections. Something emotional for him.”
I turn my head on the pillow and see that Wes is listening, but his eyelids look heavy, and each time he blinks, they stay shut a little bit longer. I don’t want him to drift away. I want him to listen.
“The first time he said I love you,” I say in a low voice. It’s incredibly intimate, and I’m happy it’s just Marie in here. As if she’d understand better than Dr. McKee.
Marie
types something into the computer, and tells me to go on. And so I close my eyes and spill my guts.
• • •
It was raining, and had been for the past few months. The time of year in Oregon when it seemed like it had never not been raining. Weeks would go by without even a hint of sunshine. And for a town buried in the misery and fear of the epidemic, it was constant gloom.
The weather affected Weston more than me because he couldn’t ride his motorcycle. He would either have to borrow his mother’s car (which he hated to do) or depend on me for rides. I didn’t care even one bit, but I think he missed the power of his motorcycle. Now he rode shotgun and controlled the stereo.
The day was cold, and Wes had the heat on full blast. Even though he was wearing a beanie and a heavy jacket, I could see him shivering.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, but I didn’t believe him. A quick check of his person and I could see his cheeks were flushed. I reached over and put my palm on his forehead.
“Wes,” I said. “You’re burning up.”
He turned his head out of my reach. “Burning up for you, baby,” he joked, only he sounded exhausted when he said it.
I saw a Walgreens coming up on our right and I pulled into the lot. “Aw, what,” Wes mumbled. “Seriously, Tate,” he said. “I’m fine.”
I parked near the door and glanced over. “Uh, clearly you’re not. Stop being stubborn. I’ll be right back.” I ran inside and grabbed some aspirin and a Gatorade. I’d never once seen Wes sick before, but I wasn’t surprised he was going to try to reduce his fever by sheer will.
When I got back into the Jeep, I made him take a few pills, and then I drove to his house instead of going to the movie theater like we’d planned.
His parents weren’t home. This was back when they mostly ignored him, and he said he thought they might be gone for the night. We went inside his basement room.
I took Wes’s temperature and confirmed that he did have a fever. He didn’t look too sick, but he was a little pathetic in an adorable way. I helped him into bed as he shivered uncontrollably, and I lay at his side, brushing his hair away from his forehead.
He groaned and rested against me. He said he hated feeling helpless. “Will you stay with me tonight?” he asked, gazing up at me with glassy eyes. Normally, I would have said no, but this time I didn’t want him to be alone and sick. I shrugged one shoulder as if reluctantly saying yes. I’d call my grandparents later and let them know where I was, and that I’d be taking care of Wes that night. I never lied to them.
Wes lifted the corner of the sheet, wanting me closer, and soon I was resting against him, fully clothed and tucked up right under his chin. His skin was fire against mine, but it was also comforting. He sighed, like having me there made all the difference.
I ran my fingers over his arm, soothing him as he breathed steady and deep. And just when I thought he had fallen asleep, he whispered, “I love you, Tatum Masterson. I love you so fucking much.”
I was his girl. His love. He said it all the time after that, recklessly and with abandon. In front of my grandparents, and eventually in front of his parents. He even said it once during an English report in front of the class.
Our love burned bright, hot and feverish just like his skin that day.
And now I’m in a treatment room with wires hooked to me, openly sobbing for that boy. I wish for every second of that day back.
“Good,” Marie says, startling me. I reach to wipe the tears off my cheeks, but I’m not sure how the story sounded out loud. When I look at Wes, he’s asleep.
“I’m proud of you, Tatum,” Marie says, standing up from the stool to begin removing the tabs and wires. “That was not an easy memory for me to catch—you felt it very deeply, I assume. It was real. It was really yours.”
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up. “And it hurts.”
“I can tell,” she says. She doesn’t dismiss me right away when she’s finished. Instead she walks over to check Wes’s vitals. “It conveys, you know,” she says. “Although the emotions can’t exactly be transferred, pain that deep—it shows in the memory. Just so you know.”
“Is that going to mess things up?” I ask with fresh concern.
She shakes her head but doesn’t look at me. “It just means Wes will have to be closely monitored. It could cause a crashback.” She turns to me. “It could also trigger his old memories,” she adds. “All of them.”
“What?” I ask, getting to my feet. “Are you saying it’s possible that Wes could remember . . . everything? Like, from his perspective? Right now?”
“Everything.”
Hope fills my chest and I wish Wes were awake to hear this. “That’s great,” I say. “How come Dr. McKee didn’t bring up this possibility?”
“Because he’s taking a more methodical approach. He doesn’t want to rush it. My personally held belief, though, is that we have to overload the system to reboot it, so to speak.” She looks down at Wes, a touch of sadness in her expression. “He reminds me of someone, you know,” she says quietly. “An employee named Reed—a friend. I didn’t get a chance to save him before the epidemic. I should have done more. So this time, I will do everything I can.” She looks at me, and I can read her loss. Her regret.
The moment is heavy, and by the time I leave, Marie has already started condensing the patterns to implant. Like Dr. McKee, she asks that I leave. She promises to transport Wes home once she’s sure he’s stable.
I only agree when I see her working on the computer, tapping away with stony concentration. It’s familiar somehow, seeing her so focused. I realize that I trust Marie. I trust her with our lives.
• • •
I get home, eat at the kitchen table with my grandparents, and continue on like nothing happened today. My stomach is slightly upset from the injections, and I worry that its effect is long lasting enough that if my grandparents ask me about the Adjustment, I’ll confess everything. But they don’t ask. And the medication fades.
I sit and watch TV with them, my grandmother knitting in the recliner while my grandfather seems distracted, even though he’s facing the television. I take out my phone to check for messages, worried that I haven’t heard from Marie. But also worried that I haven’t heard from Foster.
I click on Foster’s name and text him. Hey, I write. Haven’t heard from you. You okay?
I wait through the remainder of the show, but he doesn’t respond. Tomorrow is his brother’s funeral—it’s understandable he might be busy or tired or just too damn sad to talk to me.
I look over at my grandmother in the recliner. “Are you sending flowers to the Linns?” I ask. She glances up, her expression immediately stricken with grief.
“Yes, of course,” she says. “I’m going to bring a salad by the house too. I heard the funeral is private.”
I nod, and she purses her lips like she doesn’t agree with the decision. “When will they ever learn?” she says quietly, looking at my grandfather. “Hiding grief isn’t the answer.”
My grandparents watch each other for a long moment in silence, and then my grandmother goes back to her knitting. Their exchange leaves me slightly uncomfortable, but no one brings up the Linns again.
A little while later, I tell both of them good night and head upstairs.
Marie calls eventually to say that Wes is fine, recovering at his house, and I’m relieved that he’s okay. She says he’ll have to sleep off the sedatives, but that he was responsive and upbeat when she woke him. He even asked for me.
I thank her for her help, wondering what she’ll tell Dr. McKee about this. Wondering if he’ll be mad. Then again, she might opt to not tell him at all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AT AROUND MIDNIGHT, MY PHONE lights up my room from the nightstand. I pick my head up off my pillow and glance over, sleepy eyed. When I see it’s Wes, my heart leaps. I quickly grab the phone.
Hi, he writes. You awake?
I am now, I r
espond. I’d call him, but my grandparents would hear me on the phone, and I wouldn’t want to wake them. How are you?
A speech bubble pops up, but then disappears. It does the same thing again. Are you okay? I write, starting to panic. Marie said she brought him home, but maybe I should have checked on Wes sooner. I was scared to wake him.
It’s working, Tate, Wes writes. The Adjustment is working.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I bite down on my lip to try to stop them when they blur my view of the screen.
What do you mean? I ask. What do you remember?
I remember you. The day by the river. The night in my room. And I feel more, just below the surface. It’s coming back. You’re coming back to me.
Tears sputter between my lips as a cry finds its way out despite my attempt to hold it back. We text a little longer, but then Wes tells me he’s still tired and that he’ll call me in the morning.
I’m tempted to write that I love him, that I love him so much. But I don’t want to put that pressure on him.
We say good night and I set the phone aside. I lie back down on my pillow, and the room is dark with the absence of light from my phone. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about the other times Wes will remember about us. About our love.
But just as I think that, there’s a small glitch—a sharp pain in the side of my head that makes me wince. It’s gone just as quickly, leaving behind a dull ache in its place. I rub my temple over the spot, waiting to see if the pain will return.
Eventually it fades, and my body grows sleepy. And I drift off.
• • •
Wes and I decide to keep his treatment secret a bit longer, at least until the process is finished. We don’t want anyone to interfere or try to stop us, especially when Wes tells me he slept through the night for the first time in weeks.
So for now, we’ll try not to draw attention. We’ll keep this secret.
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