The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  “I still don’t understand,” I say. “Wes was reacting to hearing the memory—why?”

  “Yes. He was emotional too,” Dr. McKee agrees. “But the simple truth is, Weston left you—he did. He ran away before The Program ever got to him. And I imagine he has some guilt over that. Something is troubling him, at least.”

  I take a step back from the doctor. Did I tell him about Wes disappearing? Or maybe it was in the file . . . or in the memory?

  “I should talk to Wes,” I say, starting toward the door of the treatment room.

  Dr. McKee holds out his arm, blocking me from going back in. “At this time, I’m going to ask you to wait at home. We’re doctors. Let us do our job.”

  “Then why are you sedating him more?” I ask.

  “We’re not,” he says, turning away to move toward the door. “We’re trying to wake him up.”

  I feel my expression fall, and before I can ask a follow-up question, Dr. McKee goes back inside the room, leaving me here to worry.

  • • •

  The serum is still in my veins. It messes with my emotions, the way I feel them. The way I process them. The waiting room is empty with the exception of the receptionist. Her dark hair is scraped into a top bun, and she’s staring at her computer monitor, clicking her mouse every few seconds. I imagine she’s playing solitaire. The phone rings and she answers, talking casually with someone, maybe a friend. She doesn’t seem worried about Wes, no alarm bells go off, and I let that encourage me.

  I decide to stay. I rest my head back against the wall behind the chair, lost in my thoughts. Time gets away from me as I turn to the memory of the party again and again, trying to find more details. Worried I’d messed up somehow in the recollection of it. There’s a tug inside my chest, in my soul, telling me things aren’t quite right. Like I’m missing a piece of the puzzle. Or maybe I just don’t know what the picture is supposed to be.

  I take out my phone to check my messages; I’d better call Nathan to let him know I won’t make it after lunch. I begin to text him, when suddenly the door to the back office flies open. Marie rushes out and taps her knuckles on the desk to get Megan’s attention.

  “I’ve been calling up here,” she says to the receptionist. “I need an ambulance now. Now!” she says when the girl doesn’t move fast enough.

  My heart leaps into my throat, and I clamor to my feet. “What’s wrong?” I demand. “Oh, God—is it Wes?”

  Marie spins to me, seeming stunned that I’m still here. The receptionist talks hurriedly on the phone and then holds it out to Marie.

  Before she grabs the receiver, Marie purses her lips. “I’m sorry, Tatum,” she says. “But there was a problem with the memory.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I’M SHAKING. I LISTEN AS Marie tells the emergency line that Weston is having trouble breathing, that he won’t wake up. I grow frantic, on the verge of hysterical—the medication in my system makes me unable to mask my panic. Marie tells me to wait there, and she runs to the back.

  I begin to pace, my hand over my mouth as I try to calm down. I ask the receptionist repeatedly to check on Wes, but all she says is that the ambulance is on its way. When they arrive, I try to go back with the EMTs, but they stop me.

  “Please wait here, miss,” one of the EMTs says, pointing to the chair. But I can’t sit. I stand on the side of the room, and when they wheel Wes out on a gurney, I start to cry. He’s unconscious with an oxygen mask over his mouth, an EMT squeezing air into his lungs.

  I have never been more scared, more regretful. I know in that instant that this wasn’t worth it—no memory is worth losing him completely.

  What have we done?

  • • •

  The medication is mostly worn off when I drive to the hospital behind the ambulance. I assume they’ve called his parents by now, so I opt not to. Sure, it’s not brave, but the doctors can explain the situation better than me. In fact, I don’t even know what’s going on. Dr. McKee told me in passing that he’ll consult with me later. And he suggested I get checked out as well, although for what, I’m not sure.

  Then my headache returns, first behind my eyes. It’s the same pain I’ve had before, like a medication hangover. But this time bothers me more. When I stop in back of the ambulance at a red light, I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, a thin line of pink along my lower lids. I’m pale.

  I watch as my lower lip begins to quiver; water floods my eyes. This is my fault. I brought Wes to get the Adjustment. I might have just killed him. I might have ruined everything.

  A car beeps behind me, startling me, and I see the ambulance is far ahead now. I press on the accelerator to catch up, swiping my palm over my cheeks to clear the tears that spill over.

  I can’t let this pain overwhelm me. I have to be strong like I was after I left Weston’s house the night he was taken into The Program. It would have been so easy to give up then, almost like my body wanted to give up.

  As if giving up was the familiar.

  An ache started in my chest and hollowed it out. Slid into my muscles, whispering that it was too hard to keep fighting. You’re not strong enough.

  I remember lying on my bedroom floor, wishing to be sucked into the wood boards. Wishing it would all end. But then that moment would pass. Happen again, and then pass. I held on until it became less frequent, and when it was over, I was so grateful that I didn’t die. Sure, it still hurt. It was misery. But I found hope. I found hope and I imagined that Wes would find it too. He’d come home.

  And so I struggle to find that hope now, watching the back of the ambulance with familiar pain. Wes will be okay. He’ll come home.

  I won’t believe anything else.

  My fingers and hands are numb as I park in the hospital lot, and I make my way through the emergency room entrance. Wes is already being admitted, so I let the desk nurse know I’m here and that I’m looking for Dr. McKee. She has me take a seat in the waiting area: another person pushing me aside, making me wait.

  The smell of burnt coffee hangs in the air, and there’s an old man sitting by himself, a handkerchief balled up in his hands. He doesn’t look at me.

  I’m scared that Wes’s parents will come through the doors at any moment. What will I say to them? How can I explain that we did this? I consider calling my grandparents, but I want to wait until I know more about Wes’s condition. I nervously rub my neck and shoulders. I just need to know what’s going on.

  I hear the tapping of footsteps and look up to see Dr. McKee coming down the hallway. His face is set in a stern expression, and I jump up to meet him halfway across the hall.

  “Tatum,” he says, and his voice holds a hint of anger.

  “Is Wes okay?” I ask immediately.

  Dr. McKee crosses his arms over his white jacket. “Weston has been stabilized,” he says. “He will recover. Physically, at least.”

  My stomach sinks. “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means the memory was corrupted,” Dr. McKee says. “His system rejected it.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “What did you do?”

  He seems to resent the remark and he lowers his arms to his sides, his chest puffed up. “Before this all started, I told you how important honesty would be. It was everything. The Adjustment can’t work without it. You’ve compromised us all.”

  “What?” Is he seriously blaming me for this? “I told you exactly what I saw!”

  He shakes his head like I’m not understanding. “The memories were wrong from the start, Tatum,” he says with agitation. “What you don’t get is that although patients have lost their memories, they haven’t lost the feelings associated with them. I purposely asked for ones that should have been clear.”

  He waits, but I have no idea what he means by this. When I don’t speak, his defenses lower slightly.

  “The memory doesn’t match up with the emotions in his system,” he says. “It doesn’t match with your emotions. So you’ve
been lying to yourself, as well. And by extension, lying to us. Call it denial. Call it whatever you want, but Weston is having a reaction. In plain terms, his heart and head don’t agree. I’ll say it again, the memory is corrupted. I just don’t understand how.”

  “But . . . it’s all true,” I say, feeling confused myself. I run my fingers through my hair, and walk past him, pacing. I think back again to see if I missed something.

  Dr. McKee studies me a moment, and then he nods down the hall. “Look, Tatum,” he says more softly, “memory is a funny thing. It’s all a matter of perspective. Normally, we can pinpoint the right moments, find a way to fill in the blanks. You both seemed like perfect candidates; I wouldn’t have taken your case otherwise. But . . . until this is sorted out, I can’t perform any more Adjustments on Weston. There’s too much at stake.”

  “But . . . you can’t abandon us,” I say. “If he’s messed up, you have to fix it!”

  “Weston will recover from this,” he says. “But with a corrupted memory, there’s no way for me to move forward with him. It would only endanger both of you, and I can’t allow that.”

  “What are we supposed to do, then? What about the other returners getting sick?”

  He nods and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes,” he admits. “Without the Adjustment, he does run that risk. But at this point, the only way out is through. Weston will have to manage the symptoms on his own.”

  “What if . . . what if we find the anomaly in the memory?” I ask. “Would it help?”

  Dr. McKee wilts at my suggestion. “Theoretically, yes, I guess it could trigger his final Adjustment—a flow of memories. But it wouldn’t be controlled. It would be dangerous. And, Tatum, you’re under so much stress. You both need to see someone. I have the name of a great therapist who could—”

  “I’m fine,” I say, my mind racing. “This isn’t about me.”

  The double doors at the end of the hall slide open, and I recognize Wes’s parents immediately. His mother jogs toward us, her fuzzy blue sweater saggy and misshapen, and her hair pulled into a messy ponytail.

  But the moment she sees me, fire burns in her eyes. Guilt attacks my conscience, and I take a step backward, afraid of her reaction.

  “Where is he?” she asks loudly, as if I’m keeping him hostage somewhere. I open my mouth to answer, but the doctor makes a move toward her, holding out his palm.

  “Mrs. Ambrose, I assume,” he says. “I’m Dr. McKee. I’ve been treating your son for the last—”

  “With whose permission?” she demands. “Hers?” She spits the last word, pointing her finger in my direction. She intimidates me, and as her husband approaches, I want to shrink back inside myself.

  “With all due respect,” the doctor says, “Weston is over eighteen. He doesn’t need your consent.”

  Mrs. Ambrose narrows her small eyes as if the doctor just said exactly the wrong thing. Her husband stands at her side, and the doctor asks them both for their discretion before he can explain what’s going on. They reluctantly agree, and Dr. McKee gives them the shortened version of the Adjustment—and how Wes is rejecting a memory.

  Wes’s mother spins to face me. “This is your fault. You couldn’t just leave him alone, could you?” she asks venomously. “You never could. You won’t be happy until you kill him.”

  My lips part, and I swear I want to hurt her. Because Mrs. Ambrose’s words do what she intended and my soul crumbles with guilt. Because what if she’s right? What if my pursuit of happiness will kill him?

  “Well, at least I didn’t call The Program on him,” I say bitterly, and she recoils as if I’ve slapped her. I wrap my arms around myself and walk through the hospital doors.

  When I get to my car, my head still aching, I decide I can’t go home, not like this. I’m broken down, emotionally drained. I sit in the driver’s seat and take out my phone—it’s past three and school’s out.

  I have to talk to Nathan; he’ll understand why I did this. Why I agreed to the Adjustment in the first place. He’ll know what to say to make it better. But this isn’t something I can tell him over the phone. Although I’m scared of his reaction, I’m willing to risk his anger. Because I need his support. I need his help.

  I need Nathan.

  I drive toward my house but don’t park in the driveway. I’m not ready to face my grandparents. Not alone, at least. I go to Nathan’s front door and knock, trying to stay hidden under his porch awning.

  I glance nervously at my house, seeing my grandmother’s car in the driveway. I blink rapidly, my eyes burning from the tears I refuse to let fall. I know if I see my grandparents like this, I’ll melt right into a puddle of despair. And I still don’t have any answers to what went wrong. Or . . . if things will be okay.

  No one answers Nathan’s door; I knock again, louder. A shadow passes by the window, and I see Nathan heading down the steps of his split-level home. I know he’s going to be so pissed when I tell him about the Adjustment.

  The door swings open and Nathan is half squinting, his hair a mess like he’s been sleeping. “Hey,” he says.

  “Were you asleep?” I ask, because I’m afraid to get right to it. “It’s not even four.”

  “Long day,” he says, rubbing his palm over his face. “Where did you go? I looked for you all day. Foster pointed out that Wes wasn’t in school either, and then hummed ‘Afternoon Delight’ all lunch period.”

  “I, uh . . .” The words get caught in my throat and I stare at him, unable to answer. It only takes a second for him to realize something’s wrong, and he steps aside and motions me into the house.

  “Get in here,” he mumbles, and I walk past him into the foyer.

  Nathan’s house smells like various plug-in air fresheners, none of which are the same. There’s vanilla and Hawaiian breeze and peach blossom. It’s not a bad scent necessarily, just . . . convoluted. But I know it as well as I know the scent of my own home.

  “What happened?” he asks, closing the door and turning to me. His jaw is set hard like he’s ready to take a punch. And although I thought I could bravely tell this story and defend myself, the emotions burn in my chest.

  “He’s in the hospital,” I choke out.

  Nathan’s eyes widen and he takes a step toward me, putting his hand on my arm. “Who is?” he asks. He waits to read it on my face, and it occurs to me that his first thought is my grandfather.

  “It’s Wes,” I say. “Wes is in the hospital.”

  “Holy shit,” he says. “Is he going to be okay? What happened?”

  “Can we . . . ?” I point up the stairs toward his living room and I watch him debate the answer. His mother isn’t home from work yet; she works until six or seven most nights.

  “Yeah,” he says, like he knows it’s going to be bad news. He leads us upstairs, and I sit on the couch while he drops in the chair, facing me. I wring my hands in my lap as he waits impatiently, tapping his socked foot on the carpet.

  “It’s the Adjustment, isn’t it?” he asks. I look up and find him watching me. I don’t have to answer. He already knows. “I’m not fucking stupid, Tatum.”

  Shame washes over me. Nathan is my best friend, but because I knew he’d try to talk me out of it, I lied to him. I hate that I lied to him.

  “Wes shut down today,” I say. “His body shut down. The doctor said he’s rejecting the memory. And I—”

  Nathan’s anger fades from his expression and he leans forward in the chair, his hands hanging between his knees. “Which memory?” he asks.

  “The most recent one,” I say, but furrow my brow. “Although, what if it’s not just this one? What if it’s all of them?”

  “What exactly did the doctor tell you? I can’t believe you let them inside your head again.”

  I stare at him. “Again?”

  He pauses and takes a cleansing breath. “Again,” he says. “Like, multiple times, multiple memories. Okay,” he says in a calmer voice. “Start from the beginning.”

&
nbsp; I nod that I will, glad that Nathan’s in this with me. Then again, I knew he would be—that’s why I’m here. I knew he’d have my back. He offers me a small smile, and I’m ready to tell him everything. I dive into all the details. I tell him about the memories, about the flirting and texts. How Wes decided to get the Adjustment. I spill my guts all over his living-room floor.

  Nathan sits quietly and after I finish talking, I glance out the window and see that the day has turned to dusk. His mother will be home soon. My grandparents will be worried.

  “The basement party,” Nathan says, startling me. “That was the last memory?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can barely remember that night,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “You were . . .” He stops. “Well, I definitely don’t remember seeing Kyle Mahoney,” he adds. “You sure she was there?”

  “I . . . yeah,” I say. “I think so.”

  “Maybe she’s the difference in the memory,” he says. “The anomaly. Because if it weren’t for the last week of her acting weird around you, you might not have noticed her in the memory.”

  Nathan could be right about that—I wouldn’t have remembered Kyle so clearly otherwise. The present is influencing my perspective on the past.

  “It wasn’t even just that she was there,” I say. “It was the feeling that . . .” Sickness bubbles in the pit of my stomach. “That maybe she and Wes . . .” I don’t want to put words to the thought, but Nathan tightens his jaw.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he says. “For now, she’s just a girl he was talking to at a party.”

  I nod, but I must not look convinced. Nathan sits back in the chair and crosses his legs.

  “I’m worried about you,” he says. “Why did you have to dredge all this up? You were doing better.”

  I’m surprised by his reaction. “Because I wanted Wes back,” I say.

  “He was back, Tatum.” Nathan watches me, his eyes growing sad. “The Program nearly destroyed you. I don’t want to lose you. This isn’t worth it. Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”