The Complication (The Program #6)(69)

“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: