“I can start,” the doctor says, “but perhaps you can just tell me why you’re here, Weston. And then I can tell you if we can help.”
I like that he’s to the point. The last thing we’re here for is a sales pitch.
Wes leans forward, his elbows on the knees of his jeans. He takes a moment before speaking. “Were you a part of The Program?” he asks, surprising me. Dr. McKee doesn’t even flinch.
“No, son,” he says. “My partner, Marie, and I fought against The Program from the start. Fought against its creator. In the end, even Arthur Pritchard realized the danger it posed. When The Program ended, Marie and I finally saw our chance to right the wrongs. Yes—I was part of the initial phasing. Have you heard of the grief department?”
“No,” Weston says. “Sounds awful.”
“Yes, I suppose it was,” Dr. McKee says, taking off his glasses and setting them aside on the desk. He rubs his eyes. “I lost a daughter.”
I swallow hard, my eyes finding the picture again. Dr. McKee notices my gaze, and shakes his head like it’s not her he’s talking about. He turns back to Wes.
“I lost my wife and my little girl more than fifteen years ago, but there isn’t a day that I don’t mourn them, don’t miss them,” the doctor says. “The grief drove me close to insanity. And Dr. Pritchard used that to make me agree to things I wouldn’t have normally done. But that’s the thing with pain—you’ll do anything to make it stop. I’m not proud of myself. I’m not proud of the things I’ve done. But if there’s anything I am proud of, it’s this.” He motions around us. “The Adjustment will set things right—like how they should’ve been from the start. Whether you know it or not, Weston, your heart is grieving for all that you’ve lost. All that they took. That sort of pain will find its way out somehow.”
“It’s already started to,” Wes admits, like he’s embarrassed. “Nightmares. headaches. I’m afraid . . .” He looks over at me, and then leans closer to the doctor. “I’m afraid of crashing back hard. I feel it coming.”
Dr. McKee nods, and I see him thinking this over. I wonder if it will disqualify Wes as a candidate. “Then it’s good you’re here,” the doctor says. This seems to set Wes at ease, and he rests back in the chair.
“Tell me how this Adjustment works,” Wes says. “How can it stop me from getting worse?”
Dr. McKee pushes back in his chair and stands. “Better yet,” he says. “I’ll show you.”
• • •
We take a tour of the facility, starting with the recovery room. Unlike the starkness of the lobby, the room is cheerful, colorful. As if the world has come into focus. I wonder if they decorated this way for just that effect. So a waking patient will feel more alive, suddenly enlightened.
The recovery room has deep-blue walls, with gorgeous gold-leaf art, orange accent pillows on a couch. There is a hospital bed, but the blanket is woven and beautiful. Dr. McKee turns to me.
“My assistant decorated this one,” he says, sounding amused.
“She did a good job,” I respond. There is an eclectic sense of home about it. A sense of good intentions.
The doctor then leads us through a swinging double door to another room, this one in total contrast. The walls are white, like the lobby, and there is an alarming amount of medical equipment. The kind of stuff straight out of a science-fiction movie.
On one side of the room is a metallic reclined chair with a series of controls on the arm, a screen on a rolling cart, and a heart-rate monitor standing next to it. Across from the chair is an exam table with white paper draped over the top. At the end of it is a machine with a circle cut into it—similar to an MRI machine. But it’s the metal crown set on the edge of the table that catches my attention. The outside is smooth metal with snaps, while there are lights all along the inside. There is a pile of sensors with sticky pads on a metal tray between the chair and exam table.
“This looks intense,” Wes says, wrapping his arms around himself. He’s definitely having second thoughts.
“Not at all,” the doctor says, going over to pick up the metal crown. He flips it over to show us the inside. “These sensors distribute light, stimulating parts of the brain following a pattern. That pattern will help create images. When it’s all said and done, you’ll remember—or your brain thinks you do—the events of the pattern. In time, your own memories may fill in the gaps. It’s how the brain works logically.”
Wes listens as Dr. McKee goes on to explain the rest, much of what he’d already told me and Nathan. Some of it is technical, a lot of it philosophical: People shouldn’t have the right to erase memories. It’s the same as killing a younger version of you. No one wants a life half lived.
These are sayings we’ve all heard before, but now, with the possibility of reversing the damage, they suddenly have more weight. It reminds me again of Alecia—Time has a way of going backward. Isn’t that what this is? Us, living backward?
Dr. McKee finishes his speech and sits on a stool near the computer, like he’s waiting patiently for us to decide. Wes turns to me, and I expect hesitation, but instead I see hope.
He lifts the corner of his mouth. “Sounds too good to be true,” he says with a smile.
“Exactly,” I reply.
“Only this time,” Wes says, “no matter what: It’s my decision, not the government’s. Not my parents’. Mine. And I choose to deal with my shit. Even the bad shit.” He looks at the doctor. “And this will stop me from breaking down, right? Stop the crashbacks?”
“Not stop it,” Dr. McKee says. “Manage it. We still have to be careful, Weston. Every implanted memory will open a door. We can’t let everything flood in at once. We’ll take it step by step. And, luckily, I’m confident in your donor.” He smiles at me. “A clear memory is invaluable. A memory that hasn’t been corrupted by alcohol or emotions. Tatum is a perfect specimen.”
“Geez, doc,” I say. “You’re making me blush.” Wes snorts a laugh.
“I’m just being honest,” Dr. McKee says easily. “And, Weston, after the first implant, we’ll start therapy to temper the headaches and nightmares. You won’t be actively fighting the erasure anymore, so it should give you some relief.”
Wes closes his eyes as if this is the best news of all. It occurs to me that I’ve been selfish, worrying about getting him back and not about what he is going through here and now. I should have seen it. I should have known he was getting sicker.
“You’re in good hands, son,” the doctor adds. “I wouldn’t even consider doing it if I thought otherwise.”
Wes glances at me, and then turns to the doctor. “Sign me up,” he says.
“Wonderful,” Dr. McKee returns, and hands him a clipboard and a pen. “I have an opening right now if you’re ready. And, really, I’m so happy for you both. You deserve this. Truly, you do.”
Wes smiles, filling out the paperwork. Dr. McKee picks up the phone on the wall and murmurs something into the receiver. It’s all moving so quickly, a runaway train.
The lab door opens and a black woman with long braids and a lab coat walks in. Dr. McKee steps over to introduce her.
“This is my partner, Dr. Devoroux,” he says fondly.
“Nice to see you,” she says to me, holding out her hand. “And please call me Marie.” Her red nails are filed sharp, a shiny gold watch on her thin wrist. I shake her hand and it’s warm. Her temperament is peaceful, confident, and competent. She turns to Weston.
“And it’s good to meet you,” she says kindly. Wes says the same, and actually shakes her hand when she offers it. “Now,” she continues, “I’ll be assisting on your Adjustment. Tatum, if you wouldn’t mind taking a spot in the chair.”
I shoot a panicked glance at Wes, but he’s watching Marie with an expression of absolute trust. So I swallow hard and walk over to take a seat.
“Just relax,” Marie says. She wheels over the metal tray from the other side of the room. I sit back in the chair, reclined at an uncomfortable angle. I try t
o shift my shoulders, and rest my arms at my sides. I look over at Wes as Marie helps him onto the table. Once settled, he stares up at the ceiling. I can see his chest rise and fall quickly.
What are we doing?
Marie returns to my side and picks up a thin plastic sheet with round circles stuck to it. She slowly peels them off and then places them on my temples and along my forehead; the sticky side is cold and I shiver. I’m not sure if it’s from the temperature or fear. She asks me to pull up my top, and then places a few others on my chest, near my heart, and I gulp as she begins to connect wires into the tabs.
“Is this how you get my memories?” I ask. My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat. She presses her lips into a smile.
“Well, these measure your heart rate.” She tugs on the wires from my chest. “That way we can tell if you’re lying. As I’m sure Dr. McKee mentioned, lying can skew the results. So recall the memory exactly as you know it. And these”—she lovingly brushes my hair away from the tabs on my head—“detect the patterns.”
“Will actual images show up, or just . . . lines?” I ask. Even though the doctor explained it to me a few times now, I still don’t quite understand what they’ll see.
“No,” she says. “On our end, we’ll see different parts of your brain light up, the parts you’re using for recall. We record the pulses to the finest point, and then we re-create it, stimulating that exact pattern in Wes’s brain.” She leans in and wipes the inside of my elbow with an alcohol swab. “I’m going to give you an injection now.”
“Injection?” my voice squeaks the word. Marie looks at her partner, then back at me.
“The truth serum,” she says. “Dr. McKee already explained it to you.”
“Oh . . . ,” I say, and turn toward Wes.
“Hey, do I get one of those?” he asks.
“No,” Marie responds.
“Thank God,” Wes says, and then he shrugs an apology at me. I laugh and lay my head back against the chair. I’m glad he’s still trying to make me laugh.
“It’s imperative we get the true memory from the donor,” Marie says quietly to me as she aligns the syringe with my vein. “But this won’t affect you in any other way. It compels you by relaxing you, lowering inhibitions. Don’t worry,” she says with a smile. “We won’t be asking intrusive questions—just details on the memory. Triggers for his.” She nods in Wes’s direction. I like this woman; she seems to get it. I trust her. And with that, I try to let go of my fear.
The needle tip pricks my skin and I wince. There’s a burning sensation up my arm, but it fades quickly. Marie removes the needle and puts a bandage over the tiny hole.
She pulls a blanket up over my legs and walks to the other side of the room with Dr. McKee. “We’re ready to begin,” she says.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DR. MCKEE ROLLS THE STOOL OVER to my side and sits facing me. He brings the computer cart in front of him, and begins typing. Marie attaches the wires to the cart, and, I assume, it feeds information into the computer.
She then goes over and talks to Wes, only her voice is low and I can’t hear what they’re saying. I look at Dr. McKee.
“You’re sure this is safe?” I ask.
He pauses in his clicking and glances down at me. “I swear it,” he says. “Safe enough I’d perform it on my own daughter if I could.” Only he says it with a bit of loss in his tone, and rather than comfort me, it makes me more apprehensive.
Wes laughs at something Marie says as she puts her hand on his shoulder encouragingly. And with that, all is decided. We’re moving forward. I can see the corner of the screen the doctor is working on, and pulled up is a series of numbers and words I can’t quite read from here.
“Weston is ready,” Marie says, and comes to stand between us. I glance sideways and see Wes is wearing the metal crown, only now there are lights on, coloring the skin on his forehead different shades. It doesn’t look silly like I thought it would. It looks dangerous.
“Let’s get started,” Dr. McKee says, and the heart monitor begins to beep quietly. Marie sits in a chair between me and Wes, keeping a close eye on both of us. I’m embarrassed at how quickly my heart is beating, the sounds blending together. Wes watches the monitor too, like he’s concerned. I wish the sound were off, because I feel exposed. Just another way I can’t lie, I guess.
“Memory,” Dr. McKee says, watching his computer screen, “is really just a series of electrical pulses generated by neurons. If we put an electrode there and monitor it, we’re able to map out the memory. Tracking the electrical signals in your brain creates a pattern, and each pattern represents a specific experience. Look around this room, Tatum,” he says.
I do just that, taking in the white walls, the door that seems farther away than it was when I first walked in. “Your brain,” he says, “has just created a series of pulses. Next time, when you want to recall this memory, your body will repeat those pulses to call up the image. Along with the image, the brain attributes feelings. Fear, I’m assuming?”
I nod, and the wires breeze over my neck.
The doctor looks thoughtful. “Sadly,” he says, “there isn’t much I can do to re-create the feelings—those will be interpreted by the brain. Your memories are implantable. Your emotions are not. That way, you can’t entirely force your will on someone else. It’s your body’s safeguard.”
“Okay. . . .” I worry that he’s accusing me of something, but I must be projecting my guilt, because he glances at his computer screen without judgment.
“Now,” he says, “once we have the pattern of an event, we’ll compress it and then send those exact pulses into Weston’s brain. The mind wants to understand things—it’s a miracle. We make logic jumps every day—images we see are interpreted. We make natural assumptions to form an understanding. Weston’s brain will interpret the pulses, only it will see his part of the memory and apply it to him. He won’t think he’s you; we’re not creating a false identity. We’re re-creating a situation and activating his brain’s desire to make sense of it.
“When it’s done,” he continues, “Weston will feel as if he was there. He saw what you saw, took part in it. There will be no distinguishing reality from the memory. For him, for all of us, really, they are one in the same. We will do this with four triggering memories. Afterward, Weston’s mind will put together the filler between events—jumping in logic and plugging up the holes.”
“But today we’re just starting with the first memory,” Marie adds. “We want to make sure it takes before moving forward. So after we extract your memory, we’ll streamline the pattern and then implant it—although that will take several hours. Wes will stay under our constant supervision during this time.” She looks over at Wes. “Does everything we’ve talked about so far make sense to you, Weston?” she asks.
“About as much as it can without a degree in neuroscience,” he says.
“All you need to know is that we are not The Program,” Marie says. “We will take care of you.”
Marie’s words send a chill over my skin, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I look at Wes and see him tighten his jaw.
“So,” Marie asks us both, “are we ready to begin?”
Weston turns to face the ceiling. “Ready,” he says evenly.
“Good,” Marie says. “I’m going to give you something to help you relax. It may make you sleepy, but that’s all right. It’ll open your mind.”
As Marie picks up another syringe, Dr. McKee taps a button on his keyboard and I feel a slight buzz go through the electrodes stuck to my temples. It’s not uncomfortable, just a soft motion to let me know they’re there. I notice that the beating of my heart has slowed.
“What is your name?” the doctor asks me.
“Tatum Masterson,” I say.
“And can you describe yourself, Tatum?” he says. “It will help the memory isolate you and, therefore, separate you from the identity of Weston.”
“Oh, uh . . . I’m five foot s
ix, short brown hair. Brown eyes.” I pause. “A wide, goofy smile.” Across the room, Weston laughs, and I wonder if it’s because it’s his compliment, even if he doesn’t remember saying it.
“Good,” Dr. McKee says, using a red pencil to mark on a paper. “Now,” he says, “we’re going to start with something simple, but important. Can you please tell the story of how you and Weston met? Tell it exactly how you remember it, with as much detail as you remember. Be the observer. Don’t talk to me. Just . . . recall.”
I swallow hard, suddenly nervous. The beeping on the heart monitor speeds up again.
“It’s okay, Tatum,” Dr. McKee says. “Lean into the memory. Live it.”
And so I close my eyes, and I do just that.
“It was at a funeral,” I start. I’m pulled out of the memory, worried about how the story will sound to Wes. But the drugs in my system are clouding my judgment—they’re making me want to talk. Want to live in the past.
My eyes flutter closed again.
• • •
It started as a sunny day two years ago, although the weather eventually grew overcast. I was at the river, saying good-bye to someone. It wasn’t technically a funeral, more of a makeshift memorial.
I was with Nathan and Foster, honoring their friend Malcolm. He and a passenger in his car had died a few months earlier, drove off the bridge and straight into the river. We were paying our respects along with thirty or so others—funerals weren’t allowed back then because it was feared they would elicit a reaction.
I was standing at the edge of the water, a cool breeze blowing through my hair, when I looked over and noticed Weston sitting on a boulder upriver. He was wearing a black hoodie and jeans and smoking a cigarette. I couldn’t believe he was wearing black. No one else ever did, because we were too afraid of catching the attention of the handlers and getting flagged for The Program.
I watched as Wes inhaled and then slowly let the smoke drift out of his mouth as he stared at the water. I didn’t know who he was, so I elbowed Nathan—who was midconversation with Foster—and nodded my head in Wes’s direction.