CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WHEN I WALK IN THE front door of my house, I stop. I study everything, every picture on the wall, every scrape in the paint. The stairs that I’ve gone up thousands of times, even the couch we’ve had for as long as I can remember.
This is my home, but for a moment, I’m a stranger in it. I take time to adjust to the truth, and soon, the house comes back into focus.
“Honey?” my grandmother calls from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
My reaction is immediate, and I grab on to the bannister to steady myself. I close my eyes, a lifetime of memories with my grandparents playing across my mind. I wish they had been real.
I’m about to cry, but I force my eyes open, force strength into my spine. I have to face this. I have to know why they kept a little girl who wasn’t theirs.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I say, unsteadily. I’m shaking as I walk toward the kitchen. The room is brightly lit, and I blink against it—my eyes dry from crying earlier.
My grandparents sit at the table and look up as I enter. Pop’s eyes narrow behind his glasses as he studies me.
“Is everything okay?” my grandmother asks, her voice dripping with worry. She tightens her sweater against herself. “When you told us to come home,” she continues, “we thought—”
My gaze drifts past her and settles on my grandfather. There’s an irrational side of me that just wants to scream Why? and have him tell me that none of it is true. But logic wins out.
“What was in the box?” I ask Pop quietly.
My grandfather’s mouth tightens, and I don’t even need to explain about the box in their closet. He knows exactly what I mean. Next to him, my grandmother stills and looks down at her folded hands.
Pop exhales and removes his glasses, setting them on the table. It occurs to me that this is it—any lie I want to live is now over. I’m about to get smacked with reality.
My grandfather steadies his gaze on me, and his gentle blue eyes begin to tear up. “You know, don’t you?” he asks.
I sway and grab on to the back of the chair closest to me. “Most of it,” I say. “But I think it’s time I hear the whole story. And from you.”
“We were going to tell you,” Gram says, still not looking at me. “When you got older, we were going to confess everything. But it got harder and harder, especially once the epidemic hit. We didn’t want it to affect you, push you toward any behavior that might land you in The Program.” She looks up. “But you got taken anyway. And when you came back, we knew we couldn’t tell you. We couldn’t risk hurting you.”
My gram bites on her lower lip like she’s trying not to cry, and seeing her like this hurts me. I can’t watch her in pain. I can’t bear it.
I round the table and wrap my arms around her from behind. My small gram lays the side of her head on my arm and cries softly, murmuring how sorry she is for not telling me sooner. Tears drip down my cheeks, and I look over to my grandfather. He’s watching us, his head tilted as he cries too.
“Your mother,” he says, then stops himself. “Our daughter,” he corrects, acknowledging that she wasn’t my mother at all.
I straighten, my entire body shaking, and sit across from him at the table. Losing my mother doesn’t hurt like it should; she and I were never close. Not like I am with my grandparents.
“Athena isn’t a bad person,” Pop continues. “She had problems. She needed help, but rather than get it, she ran. She self-medicated. She lost her way. We wanted to keep you—” He winces, closing his eyes. “We wanted to keep Tatum with us. She lived with us for nearly five years. We were prepared to raise her. We wanted to. But Athena took her and cut off contact. We were in the process of getting custody when the police showed up one afternoon.”
His expression weakens, and Gram—sensing it—looks at him. She puts her fist to her mouth and nods for him to continue. I’ve stopped shaking, the feeling instead is weightlessness, an out-of-body moment.
“Two police officers stood on our doorstep with Athena,” Pop says. “She didn’t speak, and the officers were the ones who told us that our granddaughter had died. Tatum was alone. Her little, lifeless body all alone in some hospital morgue—” My grandfather chokes on his words, crying openly. My grandmother moans; I feel like my heart is getting ripped out. I’ve never seen this kind of ruin. I’ve never known it.
“She had . . . ,” he tries to say, but takes another moment to clear his throat and find his voice. “She had fallen into the swimming pool at the motel, somewhere in Phoenix. Athena had been drinking, and she didn’t notice Tatum had slipped out of the room. She heard another woman scream. The firefighters told the police you’d . . .” He stops again. “She’d been under water for at least fifteen minutes before she was pulled out. Paramedics pronounced her dead on the scene.”
“Athena wouldn’t call us,” my gram says, outstretching her arm across the table toward me. I meet her halfway and grip her hand. “She told the police to call us,” Gram says, “claiming that we were the ones who had custody. We didn’t bother explaining to the officers that day that the case hadn’t been settled yet. What was the point? Tatum was gone. We’d never get to see her sweet face again.” She closes her eyes, and I squeeze her hand.
“It wasn’t right,” Pop murmurs, and I turn to him. “But we were traumatized. This . . . unspeakable kind of grief. We didn’t think we could survive it. Physically or emotionally.”
“So I called Dr. McKee,” Gram says, wiping the tears off her cheeks. “He and I had worked together before; I knew he helped grief-stricken families. And I asked him to help us.” “Your grandfather tried to talk me out of it,” she says, and Pop nods.
“I told her no,” he agrees. “But when Arthur Pritchard showed up one evening, and I took one look at you—the little girl he brought with him . . .” He shakes his head. “You looked so much like her.”
I blink quickly at the thought of looking just like his dead granddaughter. But in their faces now, I see a couple who is still traumatized by their grief.
“We weren’t sure we could go through with it,” my gram continues. “We didn’t want a closer. But when you came to us as Tatum, it was like you were home. Like you never went away.”
“We considered going through the legal channels,” Pop adds. “But we didn’t know where he found you—we had no claim to you. We were scared we would lose you. And you didn’t remember your real family; you were so small.”
“Arthur Pritchard tampered with my memory,” I tell them. “I was small, but I’m sure I remembered something. It’s long gone now.”
“The grief department—Arthur,” Gram says, “knew how to fix the paperwork. And so we agreed to raise you. We struck a deal with Athena so she would stay out of your life. It hurt her too much to see you.”
I flinch at the thought, realizing I’m the ghost of her dead child. No matter how bad of a mom she is, she doesn’t deserve that. It adds an extra layer to every sidelong glance she gives me during the holidays. Every awkward silence when it’s just the two of us in a room.
“Athena’s been able to move on with her life,” Gram says. “She started a new family. And so did we—thanks to you.”
“I wasn’t a solution,” I say. “You should have sought help.”
“I know,” Gram says. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.” Her voice cracks. “I know that makes me a horrible person, but I can’t imagine the alternative. I can’t imagine a life without you.”
“Tatum,” my pop says softly, and I turn to him. “If I can swear one thing to you, it’s that you are and always have been the most important thing in the world to us. We’ve fought for you. And even though we’ve made mistakes”—he winces—“like with the Adjustment, we’ll never make another one. You’re a grown woman. We support you. We’ll do anything for you. All we can ask is that you try to forgive us. We may not deserve it, but we’re begging for it anyway.”
“Of course I forgive you, Pop,” I say, aching for them. This isn’t the kind of pain that would drive me away from them. It brings us closer now that we’re being honest. It makes me want to take care of them.
“I understand why you didn’t tell me,” I say honestly. “The Program had us all in their grip, and I would have definitely broken down. I do believe you were trying to protect me.”
“We have fought,” Pop says. “And we will continue to fight. Whatever you need, Tatum. Anything at all. Just please . . .”
“Don’t leave us,” my grandmother adds weakly. I look across the table at her, struck by grief so heavy that I put my hand to my chest. My grandmother looks broken, as if, after thirteen years, I would just get up and walk out, never speaking to them again.
They’re my family. I love them, and they love me.
“I won’t leave you,” I tell her, and she covers her face with both hands and cries. Her shoulders shake, and Pop looks at me, his eyes welled up with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“I know you are,” I say.
“What can we do to help you?” he asks. “What’s going on?”
I can trust them; in fact, I always could. Despite the huge lie of my life, and the Adjustment, they did try to keep me from The Program. They won’t let them take me now, either.
“The Program is coming, Pop,” I say, fear prickling my skin. “And the only way to stop them is to get the cure first. I need help locating someone.”
“Finding people is part of my job. Who am I looking for?”
I rest my elbows on the table. “His name is Michael Realm.”
• • •
I sit with my grandparents at the kitchen table for the next hour, telling them everything I’ve learned so far. Even Dr. Warren comes up. Although they knew she was previously with The Program, they didn’t think she was still in contact with them. They truly believed she was trying to help me.
At Dr. McKee’s warning, they never told Dr. Warren that I was a replacement. McKee told them it would be an automatic flag. They also never told her that I had had an Adjustment performed on me.
I asked my grandparents how I got out of The Program in the first place, and they didn’t know that, either. My grandfather had been putting out stories with the local paper in an attempt at influence, but then he and my grandmother were pulled into Dr. Warren’s office. She told them I was getting out but would require follow-up therapy—my possible readmittance to The Program at her discretion. They didn’t strike any deals with her.
So I still have no idea how I got out of The Program.
My grandmother gets up from the table to put on a kettle and make herself some chamomile tea, saying she needs it for her nerves now that we’re all part of the rebellion. I tell my pop that I should call Nathan and let him know we’re okay.
“Yes,” my grandmother says from the stove. “We need to speak to Nathan and apologize for asking him to lie to you. It was unfair of us. Please”—she turns to look at me—“tell him how sorry we are.”
“I will,” I say. I stand up and start toward my room, but at the door, I stop.
“Pop?” I ask, turning around to look at him. He lifts his head. “What was all the stuff in the box anyway?” I ask.
“Oh,” he says, wilting guiltily. “I moved it to the basement after Dr. Warren called and asked about it. I lied to her, said it was nothing. But those were the items you came to us with when you were a child. We didn’t feel right about throwing them out. We planned to give them back to you one day. It’s yours.”
“I’ll bring the box up,” Gram says, an apology clear in her expression.
“Thanks,” I say, giving them both a warm smile. Letting them know I love them. I still have a lot of questions and emotions to get through, but at the core, we’re family.
• • •
The box is on my bed, but I’m afraid to open it now that I know its meaning. I have no recollection of that time, but the idea of a little girl, brought here and given away . . . I must have been scared. I run my hand over the top of the box, wishing I could be there for her—even though she’s me.
I examine the date on the box again, a few months off from my own birthday.
That means I’m already eighteen. It’s strange to imagine your birthday isn’t really your birthday. Maybe I’ll celebrate twice next year. The idea makes me smile but is immediately replaced with sadness. I wonder if I ever felt it growing up. On the day of my actual birth, was there a part of me that knew?
I take off the lid and set it aside. The stuffed dog is on top, and I examine it again. I don’t feel any pull, any significance. It’s dirty—the kind of dirt that means it was well-loved. I put it next to the box and dig through some clothes, a dress that’s yellowed over time. At the very bottom of the box, I feel an object. I hold the fabric to the side and pull out a charm attached to a silver bracelet—a piece of child’s jewelry. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s sweet.
I examine the charm, running my finger over it. It’s a heart with a C carved onto it. There’s a twist in my stomach, and my eyes begin to tear up. Could that have been the first letter of my old name? I turn the charm over, and my breath catches when I see it’s engraved in tiny letters:
XOXO
—Mommy
“I had a mother,” I whisper, and the words, once out of my mouth, are a sudden wrecking ball to my heart. “I had a mother,” I repeat a little louder.
She must have loved me once, but something happened to her. Was she alive still? Did she give me away, or did they take me? Does she still wonder where I am?
You’re not the only replacement, Marie had told Nicole. Marie and Dr. McKee have destroyed lives. Changed them. Rewritten them.
I’m the replacement for a girl who died, and in that moment, I died too—whoever C was. My family was gone. Now I have this new life, still battling my past. And it hurts to feel like an imposter.
I take the stuffed dog, and I curl up on my bed and cry. And after a while, my thoughts turn to Wes, and how he said the past has the power to destroy us. I think he could be right, but only if we give it power. Only if we let it.
So I sit up, clearing the tears from my cheeks. I neatly fold the dress and place it back in the box, breaking down a few times. I lay my stuffed dog on top. I stand and bring the tiny bracelet—too small to wear—and set it on my dresser. I gaze at it an extra second, wishing I knew my mother. I put the lid on the box and place it on the floor of my closet.
I don’t want any more lies. I don’t want to pretend for another second about anything. Being honest with my grandparents, and having them be honest in return, has lightened my soul. Keeping secrets is a heavy burden, and I’m ready to let it all go.
It’s time I find Wes and tell him about our past. No matter what, he needs to know. I can’t be the one keeping it from him. And maybe he’ll say that he loves me again. That he always knew that we’d find our way back together. It’s a naïve viewpoint, I know. But I can’t help imagining the best-case scenario.
I can’t help but allow in just a little bit of hope.