“I could just . . . tell. It sort of reminded me of something. Something terrible that I can’t quite remember myself.”
Realm’s eyes widened, and he looked around the room, disturbed. When he turned back to me, he leaned in close enough to kiss me, although none of his intentions were romantic.
“Tatum,” he asked. “Do you know Dr. McKee?”
“No,” I said, not recognizing the name.
Realm didn’t seem deterred. “Have you ever met Arthur Pritchard?”
That name did hold a familiar ring, and I quickly sorted out that he was the creator of The Program. I must have heard his name on television. I told Realm that I didn’t know him.
“You’re different,” Realm said, and then laughed. “And that’s not a pickup line. I mean . . . you’re not here like the usual patients.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Dr. Warren told me you were being evasive, even with truth serum. The source on your file is doubling down on the assertion that you’re a danger. Dr. Warren assigned me because she wanted me to get the details you wouldn’t share with her.” He smiled a little. “But you’re not going to share them with me, either, are you? You’re shut off. You’ve turned it off. Your . . . emotions, or something.”
“It’s the medication,” I said, but Realm shook his head.
“No, it’s not. It doesn’t work that way.” He leaned back, his arms outstretched behind him, and studied me.
“Tatum . . .” He furrowed his brow. “Have you ever had a lobotomy?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“I don’t know what they did,” he said. “But now I definitely know you can’t be here. You can’t let The Program get too close.”
“Great idea,” I said. “Any plans on how I can achieve that?”
“Your grandfather’s a reporter, right?” Realm asked. “Can you give me his number?”
It occurred to me then that Michael Realm was a handler here to manipulate me. But since I’d been in this facility, I’d been able to see through the lies. And I believed that Realm was telling me the truth. I gave him my grandfather’s number, and he scrawled it down on a piece of paper and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Okay,” he said like he was about to deliver bad news. “I’ll do everything I can to get you out of here, but you have to give me something in return.”
“What?” I asked.
“A story. Something about you and Wes, something they can erase.”
I scoffed, and he quickly apologized. “I don’t want them to erase anything either,” he said. “But if we don’t give them something, they’ll realize you’ve been . . . tampered with. So, please. Let’s give them something. I’ll get it back to you when this is all over.”
Michael Realm could have spun this entire story to get at my secrets. And it probably wouldn’t have been the first time he’d done it. But I wanted to believe his sincerity; I wanted to believe he’d help me.
“Just stick with me, and we’ll get through this,” he said. “I promise.”
And so I lay back on the bed, Realm lying next to me, and I told him the greatest love story I knew. The story of me and Wes. And when I was done, I didn’t even feel bad for lying about most of it.
• • •
There’s a rustle of sounds, light seeping in from under my closed eyes. I feel a cloth pressed under my nose, making it harder to breath, as wetness slides down my neck.
“Tatum,” a voice says, and I realize it’s Sloane. “You’re having a crashback. You’ve got to stay with me. Do you understand? We need you.”
She pinches my nose, and I gasp out of my mouth, my eyelids fluttering open. I sit up, Sloane’s hand falling away as she stares at me, wide-eyed.
“Are you back?” she asks like I’m not really here.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to clear the blood in my throat. I look around the room, James standing in the doorway. Sloane next to the bed, terrified. I blot the blood under my nose, furrowing my brow.
“I told half-truths,” I murmur, turning toward Realm.
I find him lying there, staring at me. His every breath is a small gasp, followed by a rattle. He tries to smile, but he winces like it hurts.
Realm got me out of The Program. I remember now. I remember us.
Realm and I had planned it all, how he would present my memories to Dr. Warren. How I could call them up for erasure. He and I would lie in my hospital bed night after night and play card games during the day. We knew the system. Michael Realm told me all of his secrets, but I didn’t tell him all of mine. He was so lonely. He said he always had been. I wanted to take that loneliness away, and we grew close. I wanted to save him.
Eventually, a deal was struck—one where Dr. Warren would let me out but keep an eye on me afterward, looking for any signs of depression or suicidal thoughts. If they appeared, she’d put me back in The Program.
My grandfather came in and assured her that wouldn’t happen. Realm assured her that I was well, supplying my distorted memories of Wes as proof. I didn’t know then, but he had tracked Wes down, told him what had happened in the facility. He fed him my memories, even if he didn’t realize they were lies. It skewed Wes’s files.
We’re all liars, just like Michael Realm said. But in the end, he saved my life. And a tear drips onto my cheek, mixing with the blood from my nose, because I realize I don’t think I can save his life in return.
I lie down next to Realm, my head on his shoulder, just like how we’d lie some nights as he told me about Sloane. How he wished he could be good enough for her.
Realm continues to gasp in breaths, slowly, but he reaches to put his hand on my hair. “I’ve missed you,” he says.
I close my eyes, knowing that I’ve missed him too. Our relationship was never romantic; it was friendship. It was the closest thing we had to real in a place that demanded lies.
We did our best. We grew real enough to survive.
And so when there’s a sudden stillness next to me, and Realm’s breathing stops, I cover my face and I cry.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“MOVE, MOVE,” SLOANE YELLS, PUSHING me off Realm’s shoulder as she turns him on his side, sitting on the edge of the bed. “James!” She screams so loud her voice cracks, the mirror on the wall rattles.
“Don’t you fucking die, Realm,” she says, swiping her finger through his mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare!”
I sit there, stunned. Realm’s cheeks are hollow, and his mouth has gone slack. I put my hand on my chest because my heart hurts. I remember him. He can’t go now.
James rushes over to the bed, his blue eyes scanning Michael’s body before he falls to his knees next to Sloane’s legs. Together, they work him onto the floor.
“Find out where Marie is,” Sloane says to James. She tilts Michael’s chin up and presses her mouth to his. She begins to administer CPR while James, looking pretty awful himself, calls Marie.
Sloane starts chest compressions, up on her knees to apply enough pressure. At one point, I hear the pop of a rib, and my stomach swirls with sickness.
“Don’t do this,” Sloane is murmuring over and over. Tears run down her face even though she’s laser focused. “Not after everything. You can’t leave me like this.”
She leans in to give him more breaths.
“Marie?” James says into the phone, squeezing his eyes shut. “Marie, it’s Michael. He . . . he needs help.” But James starts crying, and I have to reach over and grab the phone from his hands.
“Realm stopped breathing,” I tell her. “What do we do?”
Marie is silent for a moment, and I check to make sure the call didn’t drop. I put it back to my ear. “Please, Marie, he’s dying.”
“I’m on my way,” she says. “Get him breathing again. I’m ten minutes away. Just get him breathing.”
“And then what?” I ask.
“Then we’ll find out if the cure works,” she says.
Sloane falls back t
o sit on the floor, and I turn. Realm gasps, coughing and moaning. He places his hand on his ribs, and I forget all about Marie on the phone.
James sits there, his face covered, and Sloane stares at Realm like he’s the sun and moon. And when he opens his eyes, it’s her that he focuses on first.
He’s still having a hard time breathing, wincing with every intake. But he reaches out his hand to her, and she takes it and offers a fragile smile.
“Was I asleep for long?” Realm asks weakly, and then grins when she laughs and kisses his hand.
“You fucking died,” she says, shaking her head. “You died, Michael.”
His eyelids are heavy, but he looks at her with complete adoration, and I can see that he still loves her. Same way he did back in The Program. And despite everything he did, she loves him, too.
“Not a chance,” Realm says, touching her cheek to wipe away a tear. “I wouldn’t leave without a good-bye.”
Her face starts to crumble again, but she straightens it quickly. Fact is, Realm is still dying. And so is James. A whole hell of a lot of people will die if we don’t get that cure.
And I can’t help but look around this small room, some tiny apartment in the middle of the suburbs, and wonder how the hell this can all work out.
• • •
We get Realm into the bed again and keep him stable while James goes to the couch, telling us he’s fine but looking worse. I was surprised when he leaned down to Realm, his hand on the back of his neck, their foreheads together in a quiet embrace. I wonder how they can be such close friends while in love with the same woman. Then again, I guess we all have some relationship issues.
Marie arrives a short time later, and when I hear the door open, I’m sitting in Realm’s room. “I’ll be right back?” I ask, and he nods for me to go. He hasn’t been able to say much, mostly just watching me with deep-set eyes. Pained.
I jog out into the kitchen and find Marie standing in the living room, talking to James and Sloane with a black medical bag in her hand. Next to her, Wes is holding a box with his good arm, his eyes a little glassy. He’s a little high, and he all but confirms it when he smiles dreamily in my direction.
I walk over and take the box from him. Just as I set it on the kitchen table, he comes over to kiss my cheek, murmuring that he missed me.
“I see she gave you the good drugs,” I say, not hating when he stays against me, wrapping me up from behind.
“Did you know I could smell colors now?” Wes asks, and when I turn to him, he grins. I laugh, and Marie appears behind him.
“Where’s Michael?” she asks, and I wonder if she thinks he’s dead. Like I’d be out here smiling at Wes if that were the case.
“In the room,” I say. We head back that way, and Marie grabs the box. I want to ask her what’s inside, but I imagine I’ll find out soon enough. Marie moves urgently, reminding me that time is of the essence.
I wait at the door while Marie goes inside. She sets the box down and stands above Realm, her arms crossed over her chest. Her expression is unreadable as she looks him over. For his part, Realm smiles at her, and she softens when she meets his eyes.
“Thought you were going to get out of this, huh?” she asks. He sniffs a laugh, and then holds his side and groans. Marie’s smile fades.
“I have a cure,” she tells him, but her lack of excitement isn’t encouraging.
“Isn’t that good?” Realm asks in a low voice.
“I don’t know if it will work on you,” she confides. “You’re pretty far gone, Michael. Right now it’s a fifty-fifty shot.”
“Those aren’t terrible odds,” Realm replies.
“Fifty percent you’re cured, fifty percent you die within ten seconds.”
Realm’s lips twitch with the start of a joke, but the moment drags on, and the heaviness of the truth weighs us down. His eyes tear up, and Marie doesn’t break his gaze. Her lips press together, holding in her emotion.
“I don’t want to die today,” Realm whispers to her, and I have to turn my head. “Don’t let me die, Dr. Devoroux.”
Marie dips her chin in a nod and then reaches to put her hand on Realm’s cheek, making him turn into it. I don’t quite understand their relationship; Realm never talked about her. But when it comes down to it, Marie has known Realm since he first went into The Program. I imagine she’s known him the entire time. Somehow, they’ve worked together, maybe not always on the same side.
But there’s respect and mutual admiration in their relationship.
“I’m going to warn you,” Marie says, taking her hand away. “This is really going to hurt.”
Realm rests back against the pillow and closes his eyes like he was waiting for it. “Everything good usually does.”
Marie begins to prep Realm, helping him take off his shirt so she can attach some sticky tabs and wires to his skin. Wes and I go out into the kitchen, and Sloane and James are on the couch. James’s head is in her lap while she plays with his hair, the two of them talking quietly. They just watched their best friend die. They know time is running out for all of them.
Wes pulls out a chair at the table, offering me the seat, and I thank him as he sits next to me.
“Thanks for going with Marie,” I say. “You didn’t need to take that risk.”
“I’m just doing my part to save the world,” he replies. “Besides, I wanted to know what sort of equipment she planned to use on you. I don’t want you to forget me again.” He smiles at me, and it makes my heart warm.
“You’re so cute,” I murmur, smiling.
“God,” he says, dramatically. “We’re like obsessed with each other or something.”
I laugh, and he reaches to pull my chair closer to his. He flinches a little, overextending himself because of the haze of medication. “Speaking of obsession,” he says. “My phone rang about eighty times, and eventually I answered it.”
“I swear, if this is another conversation about your mother—”
“It was my mother,” he says, talking over me. “And she apologized and asked me to come home.”
The joking stops, and a spike of fear plunges into me. “You didn’t agree, did you?” I ask.
“Uh, no. I’m not stupid,” Wes says. “But I also told her I didn’t know where you were. I thought it was better that way. I told her I needed a night away to think. Do you hate me for lying?”
“To her? No. Just don’t lie to me.”
“Okay,” Wes says, leaning to kiss me, lingering there. “We’re full-on honesty here,” he murmurs, his lips grazing mine. “Unfiltered, naked honesty. Completely—”
“I get it,” I say with a laugh, pushing him back down in his chair. “So,” I say. “What kind of equipment was in that box you brought in?” I ask.
“Not much, actually. Some computer equipment, a bunch of vials of the truth serum. A metal-looking crown with wires. We talked a bit in the car, and from what I can gather, she has a theory that if she can synthesize your memory patterns, the way your mind lays them out, she can apply it to others. She says as long as you’re healthy, you have a unique connection—a bond—between memories.” Wes shrugs, like he can’t confirm if it’s true. “She said you and Nicole have similar patterns, but you’re the glue. Your patterns can make the transitions seamless because you also went through The Program—you’re like, extra special.” He smiles.
When Arthur Pritchard turned me into Tatum Masterson, he had to erase or rewrite who I was. I’d only been a child, but even children have lasting memories. As Marie describes it, memory patterns are unique pulses, creating images. In the Adjustment, to add memories, they re-created those pulses in a patient’s brain, letting it build a memory from the ground up. It was never exact; things like hair color, anything on the periphery, would be up to the individual brain to fill in. The core of the memory stayed mostly the same.
Marie and Dr. McKee thought this would be enough to cure what The Program had done. They were wrong. The Adjustment failed mise
rably, and as a result, people died. What if this cure has the same problems?
“Tatum?” Marie says, appearing in the doorway of the bedroom. I gasp in a breath, not sure how long she’s been standing there. “We’re ready,” she adds.
I exchange a nervous look with Wes, scared of what’s about to happen. Marie comes closer to the table when I don’t move right away, and she rests her hands on the back of a chair.
“I assume Wes told you about our conversation?” she asks.
“I was hoping you’d want to explain it,” I say. “What exactly are you going to do to me?” I tell her what I already know, and I find Sloane watching us, listening in from the other room.
“The Adjustment did fail,” Marie admits. “You’re right. But what The Program did is having a worse effect. When the doctors extracted a memory, it left a crack”—she runs a finger down the side of her head—“a crevice between events. The Program sought to fix this by overlaying a false memory, a bandage over a gaping wound.
“Returners have hundreds of these cracks,” she continues. “And Treatment patients have thousands. Over time, as memory continues to grow and expand, those cracks also expand. And when a former patient has a crashback, they fall in, sometimes getting lost entirely in their own head. They shut down. They die.”
I swallow hard. Wes had one of those crashbacks, and it nearly killed him. He takes my hand under the table and holds it.
“So what we’ll do,” Marie says, steadying her gaze on me, “is find the moment where Arthur Pritchard stitched together your brain pattern. Whatever he did all those years ago, it was more intricate than anything we’ve ever seen. And it’s different from Nicole, probably because she was reset multiple times. Re-created.”
The words make me sick, and I let go of Wes’s hand and lower my eyes. I haven’t had time to fully grasp what it means to have lived my life as someone else. I’m not sure when it’ll actually hit me, but I don’t have time for it now.
“We need to find that pattern,” Marie continues. “And once we do, we’ll mimic it over the breaks in the memory of returners. We can bond their reality, like a computer getting an upgrade. We won’t add any new memories. Won’t take any out. Instead, this new pattern will make them process things differently, glide over cracks without a hitch. If nothing else, Arthur Pritchard was a brilliant man. No one could have created a system as sophisticated as his. We need his original work. You”—she smiles—“you are the only one I’ve seen with this pattern. You survived the grief department. The Program. And the Adjustment. Each manipulation changing you, perfecting you, in a way. For this. Tatum, you are the cure.”