CHAPTER SIX
MY GRANDFATHER COMES BACK INTO the kitchen with a manila folder in his hand, and I get a chance to examine him. His face is pale, his breathing a little too fast. He’s obviously worried about something, probably me.
“Who called?” I ask.
“A source for a story I’m working on,” he says, and briefly looks around. “Did Weston leave?” he asks. When I tell him he has, my grandfather shakes his head, letting his politeness fade.
“What were you thinking?” he demands. “Why would you bring him here?”
“He doesn’t remember anything,” I say. “He offered me a ride home, and I took it.”
I leave out the part about Dr. Wyatt interrogating us, the part where Nathan told me I was in The Program. My grandfather doesn’t exactly have my trust right now.
“And what about you, Pop?” I ask. “Why are you home?”
“I needed a file,” he says, holding up the folder. He darts his gaze away, and his file seems more like an afterthought. A prop. I suspect it’s more likely that he knew I was here somehow.
Michael Realm was following me and Wes today. Maybe he wasn’t the only one watching us.
Pop and I are clearly lying to each other about our intentions, but neither of us calls the other out. I can’t believe I’m okay with this level of deceit. We’ve never done this before. At least, not that I can remember.
This is the same person who would slay the monsters under my bed when I was kid. Who would bandage my scraped knee. Who would take up my cause whenever I had a problem. How can he be the same man who would lie about something so awful?
I’ve lived with my grandparents for as long as I can remember. My mother was seventeen when she got pregnant with me, and my grandparents promised to stand by whatever she wanted to do. Athena—my mother—decided to have the baby and get married.
Unfortunately, a few weeks before I arrived, my father announced that teenage parenthood wasn’t really for him. He had plans to go to college in New York the next year, and I guess my mother and I didn’t work into that plan. He left.
I was born, and my mother dressed me up like a doll, a showpiece. I’ve seen pictures. But she had a hard time with the essentials. She’d leave the house without feeding me. Or forget to change my diaper. Frustrated, my grandmother told her she had to do better. My mother promised she would.
The next day, my mother went out and didn’t come home. She called from the road and told my grandparents she was moving to California. That it was best for me to stay with them. That this was her doing better.
My grandparents never really told me about those days, the first days. And I don’t remember them. I’m not even sure how I know the whole story. I guess I put the pieces together over time through scrapbooks and overheard conversations.
In all this time, my mother has never offered any sort of apology for abandoning me. I’m not sure she even feels guilty. She’s never once mentioned it. She’s never once said she loves me.
But she was right—it was better. Leaving me was the best thing she’s ever done for me, will ever do for me. My grandparents are my parents. They’ve raised me. We don’t deceive each other; we’re not supposed to. And yet . . . here we are.
“We should head out,” my grandfather says, startling me from my thoughts. “I have to get back to the office.”
“Yeah,” I say with a quick nod. “Let me just grab my keys.”
I walk into the living room, and as I pick up the key ring from the coffee table, I see that Pop left his phone on the side table. Without thinking, I grab it for him. But when I do, a new text pops up—a preview on his screen. I look down at it, and a chill settles in my bones.
Just keep them apart.
I recognize the phone number. It’s the Adjustment office.
My stomach sickens, and I set the phone facedown on the table, pretending not to have seen it. Now I know who sent my grandfather here. And I guess that means Michael Realm really was there to remind me to stay away from Wes.
The level of interference, spying, and deception is suffocating. It’s clear the people around me are trying to control me.
Inside, my anger builds. I’m tired of everyone meddling in my life. Everyone lying. I was stupid to even come here in the first place. The moment Nathan told me about The Program, I should have left school and gone directly to the Adjustment office. Dr. McKee and Marie Devoroux have a lot to explain.
I keep my breathing steady as I walk into the kitchen and find my grandfather standing by the door with his car keys.
“Ready to go?” he asks, and smiles warmly.
And I can barely hold it together when I smile back and say, “Yes.”
• • •
At the last minute, Pop remembered to grab his phone before we left the house. He doesn’t mention the text he received, and I certainly don’t bring it up. But the minute we’re done, I’m going to the Adjustment office. I’ll demand answers.
Our drive to school is quiet, and my grandfather doesn’t bring up Wes once. I wonder if he’s waiting for my grandmother—she’s the better interrogator in our house. Not that either of them have room to judge my behavior at this point. But it would almost be comforting for them to act normal. Concerned. Instead, I’m getting the silent treatment with an undercurrent of surveillance mixed in.
I think about The Program—their tactics. When handlers would come for people who’d been flagged, it wasn’t just the person they’d take. They’d finish the erasure by confiscating personal belongings. Replacing clothes. Removing pictures.
But I still have pictures of Wes. My clothes were all the same. How? The only explanation is that my grandparents saved my memories from The Program—even though they couldn’t save me.
So why keep The Program a secret? Why can’t I remember?
The lack of conversation in the car is starting to become obvious, and at one point, Pop looks sideways at me.
“About that headache,” he starts. “Did it happen after seeing Wes?”
It got worse after Nathan told me I was in The Program, but to get out of the conversation, I say, “No. Just a steady headache since this morning.”
Pop nods and tells me he’s worried. “We should let the doctor know,” he adds. I wonder which doctor he means. The nice older pediatrician I’ve seen since childhood—the one who gives me shots and physicals? Or the doctors who’ve manipulated my memories?
The school parking lot is full as we pull in, and I quickly scan for Wes’s motorcycle. I don’t see it. The students are back in the building now, but I’m not going to join them. My grandfather pulls up in front of my Jeep and parks.
The day has only gotten more humid, and the air in my Jeep is practically steam when I climb inside. My grandfather walks around, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop the sweat that’s gathered on his brow. He tells me to fire up the engine, and when it doesn’t start, he tells me to turn it off.
I do, and then get out of the Jeep while he props up the hood and looks around.
Even though we’re only a few feet apart, it feels like miles. I’m suddenly struck with the most intense loneliness I’ve ever known—like I’m lost. Adrift at sea. My earlier anger begins to feel like desperation.
“Pop,” I say, and take a gulp of air. He raises his head from the other side of the hood and looks at me. His gaze is steady, his expression unreadable. I hesitate, afraid to confront him. Afraid of what he might say. I lower my eyes.
“Have you checked the battery?” I ask instead. I hate myself for not challenging him here and now. I’m a coward.
Pop furrows his brow and looks at the battery. “Let’s try and jump it, but we’ll definitely want to replace it tonight,” he adds. “Even if we get it started, it won’t last too much longer.”
“Good idea,” I say.
Pop gets jumper cables out of his trunk, and I help him set them up. I go back to the Jeep, and when I get inside, trickles of sweat slide down my back. I turn the ignition, and although the engine takes a minute to catch, it starts. I give my pop a thumbs-up, and he tells me to keep her running.
He walks around, drying his brow again, and opens the passenger door to heave himself onto the seat. He adjusts the air vent to blow on his face and asks me to rev the engine while he leans over to fiddle with the loose knob on my gearshift. I stare at the side of his face.
“Who told you to come home, Pop?” I ask suddenly. My grandfather pauses but doesn’t look up.
“Someone saw you leaving with Wes,” he replies. “They were concerned. They asked me to check.”
“Who?” I ask, my heart pounding. Pop turns to me.
“Someone who works for Dr. McKee,” he admits. “The doctor was concerned you’d trigger a crashback in Wes. Undo the work he’d done to save him. The doctor asked you to stay away from him, Tatum. It appears you don’t intend to listen. Think about what happened last time. You both landed in the Adjustment, and that didn’t end well for either of you.” His voice hitches on this last statement, and he turns to look out the window, hiding his face.
He’s hurting me, and part of it is because he’s right. But he’s also misrepresenting what happened. My grandfather knows I went into The Program, and yet he still doesn’t say it. Doesn’t acknowledge the effect it had on me, on my memories. He lets me think this is entirely my fault for not letting go. And it really pisses me off.
“It was just a ride home,” I say. The lie is obvious, but the truth is evading us both, it seems.
“It was unethical,” Pop says. “And I expected better from you.” He opens the passenger door to climb out. His words are a slap in the face, and I physically recoil from them.
“The Jeep is running now,” he adds. “I’ll pick up a new battery and swap it out when you get home. You going back in?” he asks, motioning toward the building.
I look in that direction and then shake my head. “No,” I say, my jaw tight. “I decided I still have a headache.”
He watches me. “I can have your grandmother call in a prescription,” he offers.
Yeah, right. Last time she gave me meds they nearly put me in a coma. “I think I’ll just take some Tylenol,” I say, my voice a little bitter. “Maybe a nap.”
“Okay,” he agrees, and presses his lips into a smile. I wonder if he regrets how he talked to me, so in return, he’s rolling over on this. “Let me know if you need anything,” he adds.
I nod that I will, and he closes the door. I’m angry that he hurt me, lied to me. I’m angry that I was a coward and didn’t ask him about The Program. His loyalty should be with me—not Dr. McKee.
And the minute my grandfather pulls out of the parking lot, I shift gears and head toward the Adjustment office.