CHAPTER EIGHT
NEITHER OF MY GRANDPARENTS IS home when I arrive, and I immediately rush inside. I pause in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, and it’s like walking over my own grave—an incredible sense of dread. A part of me died here—the part The Program erased. It’s a horrific feeling, and I practically run up the stairs as if handlers are still chasing me.
At the top, I grip the railing. My heart is racing, sweat gathering in my hairline. I’m suddenly struck with grief, loss. I wish Nathan never told me about The Program. But then again, it would have come out. It had to. Besides, I deserve to know the truth. This is my life.
I open the door to my grandparents’ bedroom and peer inside. I’ve obviously been in here hundreds of times before, but everything takes on a new meaning now. Their room is part of their deception. Strangers live here.
I walk past the bed and immediately go to the armoire. One half is filled with drawers while the other has a stack of wool sweaters stashed away for the upcoming summer. The space smells like wood mixed with a light scent of Gram’s perfume. It makes me nostalgic, lonely. I push away the feeling and begin to go through the drawers.
There are envelopes with receipts going back to Christmas nearly ten years ago. I scan them quickly and pull open the bottom drawer. My grandfather has saved newspaper clippings, yellowed now with age. They’re his first stories, and I have a swell of pride as I look through them.
My grandfather had retired from the paper, but a few months ago, he decided to go back to work to help conduct research on the Adjustment. I thought it seemed like a good idea, but it only resulted in him warning me to stay away. I should have listened.
When I find nothing useful in the armoire, I go to the closet and open the bifold doors. There are rows of boxes on the top shelf, just out of my reach. One in particular stands out—an old moving box, wilted with age. I get on the tiptoes of my sneakers, and as I reach up, my phone slips out of my back pocket and hits the floor. I grab it and set it on the dresser.
I stretch again, getting my fingertips under the box and slowly working it off the shelf. When I get it down, I set it on the bed. There’s a coating of dust on the lid, and I run my palm through it to read the label on the box.
My heart beats faster. A date, a few months off from my birthday, is scrawled across in faded black marker.
I carefully take the lid off the box. This could be it. This could be everything. I’m surprised to find a small stuffed dog. I take it out, my fingers shaking. Something about it is intensely familiar, and I bring it to my nose, expecting a certain scent. But it only smells like old cardboard.
Longing begins to nag at me, a shadow in the back of my mind, and I clutch the stuffed dog to my chest. Comforted by it, but wondering why it’s in a box with the wrong birthday written on the top.
The doorbell rings downstairs, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see it’s not even two. Everyone should still be at school.
I quickly put the dog back in the box and stash it in the closet. I walk down the stairs as whoever is at the door begins to knock. Fear claws at my throat. It could be someone to collect me. Collect me like a box of memories.
My breathing becomes erratic. I press my palm against the door and lean in to look through the peephole. My relief is immediate. I pull open the door and find Foster standing there, looking impatient.
“What the hell, Tatum?” he says, and then immediately starts coughing—the sound deep in his throat. He hits his chest to clear it up. “I’ve been calling you,” he adds wearily.
“You should probably be in bed,” I tell him, opening the door wider and ushering him inside. Foster looks awful—swollen eyes, a hunched walk that makes me think he’s probably still feverish.
“Then you should have called me back,” he says. He rounds the couch and collapses. He throws his arm over the side and rests his head back against the cushion. “I was worried,” he adds.
“I’m sorry,” I say, coming over to sit next to him. I debate telling him what Nathan told me during class. Nathan said Foster didn’t know I was in The Program—he’d been out of town. But . . . when he came back, did he at least notice something different about me? It’s horrifying to think he wouldn’t. Like no one really knows me at all.
“It’s fine,” Foster says. “I went to school looking for you during lunch. Did you know Wes came back today?”
I smile. “Obviously.”
He laughs. “I guess you would. Anyway, I talked to Arturo while I was mostly coherent, and he mentioned that he saw you in the office with Dr. Wyatt. Wanted to know if you were okay.” He coughs and waits a beat before continuing. “You didn’t mention over text that you’d been in to see that witch,” he adds. “What was Wyatt about today?”
I shouldn’t be upset that he’s asking, but I don’t like being watched, seemingly by everyone. “Wes was in there with her,” I explain, “and when I went to check on him, Dr. Wyatt dragged me into the meeting. She’s seriously unhinged.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“She demanded to know what was wrong with Wes. I couldn’t tell her about the Adjustment, but I also couldn’t say anything that would affect Wes’s memory. Dr. McKee warned me not to bring up the past, but that monitor . . .” I shake my head. “She was getting worked up.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told her to stop, grabbed her arm when she got in his face.”
“Damn,” Foster says, proud.
“Yeah, well, she scared the shit out of me. It was either that or run for it.”
“I’m glad you were there,” Foster says. “What did Nathan say about all this?”
Tension settles in my neck, and I pretend to pick at my fingernails. “I, um . . . I haven’t talked to him about it. Did you see him when you were at school?”
Foster watches me suspiciously and sits up a little straighter. “I did, in fact. And he was acting like a weirdo too. Especially when I told him you thought you were being watched by handlers.”
My stomach drops. Nathan definitely knows something’s up now. I wish Foster had stayed home, sick in bed.
“Nathan said he hadn’t seen you since lunch,” Foster continues, studying my reaction. “In fact, he said he didn’t even have lunch with you. Which, of course, set off my ‘Tatum is doing something dangerous’ alarm. Nathan promised to find you, but turns out, I found you first. Now,” he says. “You want to tell me why you’re avoiding him?”
I should tell Foster the truth. I can trust him. I have to trust him. “I’m scared to tell you,” I say. And immediately my eyes fill with tears. I’m embarrassed, afraid of how he’ll react to the fact that I might not really be me anymore. Not the Tatum he knew last summer. I could be someone else entirely.
Foster reaches to put his clammy hand over mine where it rests on the couch. “We don’t keep secrets, Tatum,” he says seriously. “Look what it did to Wes. I can’t have that happen to you. Just tell me what’s going on.”
I swallow hard, my words filled with grief. “I was in The Program,” I whisper.
Foster continues watching me, seeming confused by my statement. “What do you mean?” he asks.
“Nathan told me this morning,” I say. “He said it happened last summer, and at first, I didn’t entirely believe him. But then . . . I had a memory. A crashback. There were handlers”—my voice chokes up, and I point toward the entryway—“and they dragged me out of my house. This house. And I realized Nathan was right—it was true.” I sniffle and wipe away the tears that spilled onto my cheek with the back of my hand. “I was in The Program,” I repeat.
Foster stares down at his lap like he’s thinking over my words. His face flinches a few times, his horror at the revelation clear.
“You didn’t know?” I ask him.
“Of course I didn’t know,” he snaps, and then looks over apologetically. “What’s bothering me is that if Nathan knew, why didn’t he say something sooner? Why didn’t he tell either of us?”
“He said my grandparents begged him not to,” I explain. “They warned him that it could make me break down, even kill me. Nathan only now decided he didn’t want to hide it anymore. But that doesn’t change the fact that he kept it from me all this time. And my grandparents . . . they haven’t told me shit. They’ve all been lying to me.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Foster says. “If you were in The Program, why were you allowed to hang out with us again? Why aren’t you labeled a returner?”
“I don’t know. But it proves Wes’s Adjustment failure wasn’t my fault—not on purpose. The Program did something to my memories, and I’d bet that Marie and Dr. McKee knew that. My grandparents, too. And yet, they’re all still trying to make me feel guilty about it.”
“Why would they do that?” Foster asks.
“Because they want me to stay away from Wes.”
Foster lifts one eyebrow. “Not a terrible idea,” he allows. But when he looks over at me, he smiles. “So did you tell him about your relationship anyway?”
“No,” I say. “I didn’t. Although he knows something’s up thanks to the monitor. And then he came by my Jeep and asked me to lunch. I couldn’t say no.”
“Definitely not.”
“I didn’t tell him that we were together before,” I say again. “But I needed someone to talk to; I was freaking out. We came back here, and—”
“And you had sex,” Foster says like he’s finishing my sentence.
“What? No,” I say. “We talked a little. Then my grandfather came home. Dr. McKee called him. Like, what the fuck, right?”
“How did Dr. McKee know you were with Wes?” Foster asks.
“He had someone watching me. For real,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s seriously too much to tell you.”
“Seems so,” Foster agrees. “Well . . . let’s start with Wes at your house. What did Dr. McKee tell Pop?”
“I’m assuming he told Pop to make sure I don’t tell Wes about our past. But I wasn’t going to.” I pause. “Okay, I wanted to. But I didn’t. I don’t need to be micromanaged. I mean . . . he’s not even my doctor.”
“That was very selfless of you,” Foster says encouragingly. “Not telling him.” I appreciate that he understands how hard it was for me to restrain myself from professing my love to Wes. “What else happened?” he asks.
I tell Foster about going to see Marie, about her dodging my questions. I tell him about Michael Realm, and how, in the end, I’ve realized my grandparents might be more deeply involved than I first imagined.
“I searched their bedroom,” I say. Foster scrunches his nose like maybe I’ve crossed the line, but he seems to internally fight his reaction as he weighs all that I’ve told him so far.
“And I found a box in there,” I continue. “Dated a few months before my birthday, and the contents seemed familiar. But at the same time, it was kind of creepy. It was packed away in the closet like I was . . . gone.” I swallow hard. “I’m not entirely sure it’s mine, but it has to be, right? Unless it was my mother’s or . . . I don’t know,” I say, exasperated.
“Tatum,” Foster says, his voice hoarse. “Not to alarm you, but this is all really fucked. We need to tell Nathan.”
“But Nathan knew,” I say, still unsure. “He kept this from me. How can I—”
“Hey,” Foster responds, leaning in. “Don’t ever doubt him. Sure, Nathan messes up sometimes, but if you think about it, he was the only one being honest with you. Don’t punish him for that.”
I consider his statement, and ultimately, I know Foster’s right—Nathan would never hurt me, not on purpose. And he doesn’t lie. At least, he tries not to, I guess. The minute he told me about The Program, I should have questioned it. We could have figured it out together.
Foster takes out his phone but gives me the courtesy of pausing in case I want to reject the idea. I nod for him to call Nathan, a bit concerned about how it’ll play out. I’m sure Nathan will be offended that I confided in Foster first, but eventually, after a little brooding, he’ll get why. And then he’ll help. I hope he can help.
Foster tells Nathan to come to the house, and after he hangs up, he says that Nathan was already on his way. “He’ll be here in about two minutes.” He coughs a laugh and leans back against the sofa again, closing his eyes like his head hurts.
“Do you want something for your headache?” I ask.
“A guillotine,” he suggests.
I laugh, and with effort he lifts his head and looks at me. “So tell me about your afternoon with Wes,” he says. “I need the distraction from my pain.”
“He still looks good, shockingly good,” I say, knowing Foster will find that tidbit especially interesting. He smiles.
“Not sure it’s much of a shock,” he replies. “And how was he acting? You said he got kicked out of class?”
I nod and pull my legs underneath me. It feels good to talk about Wes, talk about him in a way that’s normal. Not focusing on our past or our mistakes.
“He was in a really good mood,” I say with a smile. “They erased all of his problems, and I got a glimpse of a different version of him. A happy one. It was . . . refreshing.” My smile fades as I stare at my reflection in the blank TV set.
“But?” Foster says, furrowing his brow.
“But they erased me, too,” I say, turning to him. “That’s why he was happy. Because I was never part of his life.”
Foster scoffs and leans forward. “That’s bullshit,” he says, but pauses. “Okay, not total bullshit, but you weren’t the problem, Tatum. It was the situation. Either way,” Foster says, waving his hand to get past this emotional turn, “Wes ended up at your house. How’d that happen?”
I tell him about the Jeep not starting, about the ride home. As I talk, the corners of Foster’s lips upturn.
“That’s awfully nice of him,” Foster observes. “You know, seeing that you’re strangers and all. Does he like you?”
The pure innocence of the question makes me smile. “I think he might,” I say. “I think he does.”
“Promising.”
“Is it, though?” I ask.
We fall silent, both of us knowing that Wes and me getting back together would be tempting fate to rip us apart again. Maybe this time for good. It’s dangerous. And it’s stupid.
“Yeah, well. At least hook up,” Foster offers casually, making me laugh.