The Complication (The Program #6)(106)

“I can’t,” I murmur, a dam inside of me breaking and flooding me with warm water.

“You have to,” Marie says.

“Please,” I hear from behind her, knowing it’s Sloane. “Please don’t let him die. Don’t let any of us die.”

She doesn’t even know if I’m really the cure, but we’re desperate, all clinging to this possibility. I can’t let them down. I have to try. Even if it means destroying Tatum Masterson.

I close my eyes again, and Marie hits a key, causing a vibration in my temple. The room dissolves around me.

? ? ?

I didn’t stay at my grandparents’ house that night, although I wasn’t allowed to go home, either. Dr. Pritchard brought me to a place he called the grief department. In the back, there were toys, a small bed. I was the only one there.

I took off the bracelet that my mother had given me and kept in my pocket, scared they’d take it away.

I cried myself to sleep the first night, hugging a stuffed dog to my chest. The entire place smelled like rubbing alcohol, like the hospital where my mother had died. I didn’t mind the daytime at first, playing alone. But at each therapy session, I would dread going into the white room. Sitting with Dr. Pritchard as he told me about my life. About my grandparents.

“They’re not my grandparents,” I said stubbornly.

“Yes, they are, Tatum. And they love you very much. They—”

“My name isn’t Tatum!” I screamed at him, and he reacted quickly, grabbing me by the wrist and setting me down in the seat. It startled me, and I began to cry, asking for my father.

Dr. Pritchard stood up, staring down at me sternly. “Your father’s dead, Tatum. He didn’t survive the grief. And now you have no one but your grandparents. I expect you to appreciate that.”

Just as my lip began to shake with my cry, he walked out and left me all alone in the room. I held my stuffed dog close to me, sniffling as I cried into his ears. My daddy was dead. I reached into my pocket and held the bracelet in my fingers, wishing my mom had come home to me instead.

When Dr. Pritchard returned to the room a little while later, he brought a girl with him. She looked about eleven or twelve. She was plain with blond hair, blue eyes, and a tired face. Dr. Pritchard led her into the room and sat her down across from me.

“Since you plan to be difficult, Tatum,” he said, calling me by the wrong name, “let Quinlan show you how that can work out.” Quinlan cursed at him, and he laughed and left us there.

The girl turned to me, circles under her eyes. “My name’s Nicole,” she said, using a different name. “And when you don’t listen, they reset you. They erase you.”

“I want to go home,” I told her.

“I know,” Quinlan said. “But they won’t let you. You’ll never go home again. As long as they’re around, at least.” She leaned forward in her chair and reached to take my hand. It made me start to cry again because I hoped she would help me.

“They might take it,” she whispered. “But the memories come back sometimes. You have to be stronger than those memories, otherwise, you’ll fall apart. You’ll be so angry, and you won’t be able to hide it. I haven’t been able to. I don’t even know how many times I’ve been reset at this point. How many more times they’ll erase. You have to learn to lie,” she said emphatically. “Don’t ever let anyone know the truth, or they’ll take it from you. Understand?”

The door opened, and Arthur Pritchard walked back in with two sodas. He set them both on the table for us.

“Quinlan,” he said, staring her down. “Are you ready to cooperate? Your father is worried.”

She ground her teeth, stubborn like me. She wanted to shout that this wasn’t her life, but she just stood up and spun to face him.

“Go fuck yourself,” she said, and brushed her hair over her shoulder. The doctor grabbed her arm and dragged her from the room. When they were gone, I was left in silence.

Never let anyone know the truth, I thought. If they didn’t know my real past, they couldn’t erase me—the real me. But I knew I’d have to bury it deep. I’d have to lie to myself most of all.

When Dr. Pritchard came back in with a pill in a small white cup, I took it from him, staring down at it. I didn’t want to take it. I wanted to go home.

“After today,” he said firmly, “Cynthia Wilds never existed. You are Tatum Masterson. Your birthdate is . . .” I listened as Arthur Pritchard read off the facts of my life, my name, birthday, family. When he was done, he told me to take the pill, and I did, tears in my eyes.

This went on for days, weeks. And even though I never gave him all of my secrets, Arthur Pritchard convinced me that my name was Tatum Masterson. And that my grandparents were the most loving people I’d ever known.

He brought me back to them eventually, and clutching my stuffed dog, a bracelet from a person I couldn’t remember still hidden in my pocket, I ran into their arms. I’d missed them. My grandmother smiled down at me, told me she had baked me a cake. She was so happy, offering a watery smile. My grandfather watched me, and I couldn’t understand why he didn’t look happier to see me.

But over time, he talked to me more and more. He grew to love me, not as the old Tatum, but as the new. I never once crashed back. I never once remembered, until now, the memory stored away like a dusty box in a closet.