The Program

CHAPTER EIGHT




WHEN THE TEARS HAVE DRIED, I’M IN MY BED, LYING under the covers. I know it won’t be long before they come looking for me, wondering where I am. But I can’t go back to the dining hall because my body won’t stop shaking.

I take the pill out of my pocket and stare at it. It might not even work, but I have to try. I have to fight. This is my last chance to keep from losing everything.

I put the pill in my mouth and swallow it dry, coughing once when it gets stuck, but then getting it down. I know what I have to remember. It’s not romantic. It’s not something cherished. But I hope it’ll lead to some answers when I get out. Next pill, I’ll capture a perfect memory with James.

For now, I imagine the picture of him and Brady, the ring. The things I hid in my mattress so that I could find them when I got back. I know now that everything that happened at my house that day will be erased from my memory, so I might never look for the items. This is the only way.

I focus on the picture: James’s face, his chest bare, as his arm is carelessly around my brother’s shoulders. Brady’s laugh and the river rolling through the background. The ring—the purple, sparkly, heart-shaped ring—that James gave me, even if I can’t remember when. But I used to wear it all the time, so it must have been special.

They’re all in the mattress, these things that will lead us back together. So I hold the memory tightly to me as I close my eyes.

Only a few minutes have passed when I’m suddenly ravaged by pain. I cry out, feeling like a hammer just hit me in the back of the head. I lean forward and vomit over the side of the bed, my stomach twisting and my throat burning. I press my hands to my head as if it can stop the throbbing there.

The room spins, and I lie back against the pillow, my eyes squeezed shut. I try to control my breathing, and once again think of the ring and the picture hidden in my bed. It feels like a lifetime of agony, but it’s probably been less than five minutes when I’m finally able to open my eyes again. My stomach is twisted, and I know I’ll have to clean up the puke before Nurse Kell comes for me.

Slowly, I slide out of bed, careful to step around the mess and then clean it up with toilet paper, flushing it away. My breath comes out in jagged gasps, like I might get sick again at any moment. There is a sour taste in my mouth, but behind that—is peppermint.

I lean over the toilet and gag again.

• • •

When I walk into the now half-empty dining room, I’m sure I look bad. I feel hungover; my eyes are bloodshot, and my greasy hair is pulled back into a ponytail. But people don’t seem to notice, and it occurs to me that it’s better not to be pretty here. It’s better to go unnoticed.

I find where I left my tray and pretend to pick at the roll still on my plate. I drink the apple juice, anything to mask the flavors lingering in my mouth. Tabitha’s staring at me from across the room as if she’s studying me, but soon she lowers her gaze.

I wonder if Roger has offered her the pill. I want to ask her, but how can I ask something like that? And what if he hasn’t? She could turn me in and get me sent away for longer.

I miss Realm. I hope that Roger was telling me the truth when he said that Realm would come back soon. What if they’re hurting him? Oh, God. What if they’re erasing me from his memory?

Just then I see Nurse Kell walk into the room, and I jump up to go talk to her. She looks alarmed and then pleased that I sought her out.

“Hello, Sloane, honey. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. But . . . is Realm okay?”

She smiles, reminding me again of a grandmother. “Michael Realm is just fine. He’s cooling off with Dr. Warren right now. He won’t be sleeping in the wards tonight, I’m afraid. But I hope he’ll rejoin us tomorrow.”

I almost burst out crying. “Will he remember me?” I ask in a small voice.

Nurse Kell shakes her head as if it’s a silly question. “Of course. Why wouldn’t he?”

I let out a held breath, but I still can’t stand it. How they all act as if there’s nothing wrong going on here. As if they’re not erasing our minds. “Thank you” is all I can manage as I head out of the room and into the hallway.

• • •

I skip out on the card game, and sit in my room playing solitaire instead, with a pack of cards Nurse Kell lent me. I listen to the hall, hoping to hear Realm’s laugh. I dread seeing Roger walk by, or worse, stop in. But the place is quiet.

I fall asleep easily, even without swallowing the pills Nurse Kell brings me. When I wake up, I have an early-morning appointment with Dr. Warren, but I take the long way around and go by Realm’s room. He’s still not back.

I go inside Dr. Warren’s office, and she beams like she’s thrilled to see me. “Sloane,” she says. “You’re looking well today.”

I know she’s lying because I haven’t showered or even bothered checking my reflection. I did take a hot washcloth and wipe my neck to clean everywhere that Roger’s mouth touched me. I scrubbed it so raw that it left a rash on my skin. I see Dr. Warren’s eyes flick to the spot, but she doesn’t mention it.

“Before we start . . .” She slides the cup with the red pill toward me, but I shake my head.

“I don’t need it. Thank you.”

She smiles. “You will take the pill, Sloane. We’ve already been over this.”

I know from what Roger told me that the pill helps isolate memories, highlights them to be taken later. I don’t want to put it in my mouth. I want to crush it under my socked heel.

“Have we?” I say. “Maybe I don’t remember.”

Dr. Warren’s jaw tightens. “Follow procedures if you want to be released.”

“I’m not taking it,” I shoot back. What should be doctorly advice from her feels more like a threat. My anger starts to bubble over.

“Last chance,” she says, leveling her gaze on mine.

I lean toward her. “I’m not taking the f*cking pill, okay?”

Dr. Warren doesn’t even flinch. She sits back calmly in her leather chair. “Marilyn,” she calls behind me. A large woman in a white nurse’s uniform stalks in, a needle poised in her hand. I barely have time to register what’s going on before I feel it pierce the skin on my upper arm.

“What is this?” I yell, jumping up from the chair.

“Calm down,” Dr. Warren soothes, not even looking a little sorry. “It’s the same dose. But I told you, you will take the medication one way or another. Voluntarily is just the least painful.” Dr. Warren looks at the nurse. “Get the other needle ready for after the session.”

I stand there, clutching my arm and feeling helpless. I’m so violated, so angry, that I think I might completely lose it right now.

“Today,” Dr. Warren says, ignoring my obvious fury, “I want to talk about you and James after your brother’s death. How you became so codependent.”

“We’re not codependent, you bitch. We love each other.”

She looks me over thoughtfully, content to wait until I’m fully compliant. Already I can feel the drug coursing through my veins, and I sway on my feet, knowing it won’t be long until I’m at its mercy. Telling her all of my secrets.

When I collapse back into the chair, my limbs light and my head hazy, I start talking.

“James and I dated secretly for two months,” I say, my temple resting against the fabric. “It was tough keeping it from Brady. James slept over all the time, and each night he’d slip out of Brady’s room at three in the morning and climb into my bed. We’d kiss and whisper, James always making me laugh. I didn’t want to hide how I felt about him, but I knew it wouldn’t go over well. Not with Brady. Not with our parents. So we spent time like that, lying in each other’s arms and talking about leaving Oregon.”

“Were you having sex?” Dr. Warren asks, making notes in her file.

“No. I mean, we could have, I guess. But we didn’t.” I smile to myself. “We just made out a whole lot.”

I let my eyes close, feeling distant. “After Brady died, James was torn up with guilt. I was worse. If I’d known how to swim, maybe I could have saved him. He was my brother and I didn’t even see the signs. I wondered if it was because I was too involved with James. If he was too involved with me. For that first week, James and I stayed far away from each other. I couldn’t even look at him.”

“What changed?”

“After my brother was buried and my house was filled with my mother’s sobs and my father’s drinking, my parents turned their attention to me. They were worried I was depressed too, but they couldn’t see it was just grief. My brother was my best friend and I wanted him back”—I pause then, swallowing hard—“but he was never going to come back. He was never going to take me to the top of the Ferris wheel again. He would never teach me how to swim.”

Dr. Warren hands me a tissue, and I wipe my eyes even though I’m not sure if I’m crying. I can’t feel anything on my cheeks. I’m numb.

“And then one afternoon,” I start again, “I found my mother in Brady’s room, trying to pack up his clothes, and I lost it. I couldn’t stand the thought of his things in a box—in a box like he was in. I told her I hated her.” I lower my head. “I’m not proud of it, but I’d been caught up in my parents’ emotional wake, and I needed my own time to grieve. They wouldn’t let me grieve! The next day I found a pamphlet for The Program near the phone. And I knew I couldn’t ever let them see me cry again. And I knew I had to talk to James because Brady told us to take care of each other.

“At school I was overwhelmed with the interviews, the therapy, the monitoring. I felt so alone I thought that maybe I was becoming ill. But later that week, I walked out of class to find James standing at the lockers—as if he’d been waiting there all along. And I realized how much I’d missed him. He didn’t hesitate when he saw me. He stomped right across the floor and picked me up in a hug, smashing me to him. I wanted to cry—but I couldn’t.”

“There are healthy forms of showing emotion,” Dr. Warren says. “You could have talked to the counselors.”

I stare at her, wondering if she’s serious, if she doesn’t know the extremes the outside world has gone to in order to try to “protect” us. “Believe what you want,” I tell her. “But the handlers were looking for any excuse to flag us. All we could feel was the pressure of it.”

I turn away, thinking again about how relieved I was to see that James was okay. “That day he gave me a ride home. And then the next. It started to feel like the only time we were normal was when we were together. We would tuck ourselves away where we could cry and no one else could see us. As the weeks passed, we started to talk about other things. About leaving town again, just me and him. About being together forever.”

My chest swells as I remember our first time, how scared I was. We were camping, snuggling on a blanket next to the warm fire. I was so in love with him.

I close my eyes now and think about how James kissed my neck, his mouth hot. His hands gentle on my skin. Soon he was kissing me passionately, seeming to want me more than ever before.

His knee moved between my legs, and I pulled his shirt over his head when he stopped, gasping for breath. “Wait,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”

His blue eyes were heavy lidded, filled with desire. Lust. I pulled him down and kissed him again, working at his belt, even when he told me again that we didn’t have to. He’d brought protection, which showed me he’d at least considered it could happen. And we used it, just like we always would after.

I open my eyes and see Dr. Warren waiting for the story. I wish I didn’t have to tell her anything, but I just can’t stop. I hate that I can’t stop because I know what it means. She’s going to steal this moment away from me, and the thought is unbearable.

“The night James and I first had sex,” I say, “it wasn’t about our hormones. It was desperate, sad, even a little painful. And then it was beautiful and hopeful. It was a promise we made to each other, that we would protect each other. Take care of each other.

“James told me he loved me, and that he would never let anything happen to me. I promised the same—” I choke on my words. “But I lied. I didn’t protect him. I tried so hard, but I wasn’t strong enough. They came and they took him. And now he doesn’t love me anymore.”

I cover my face and start sobbing, realizing how much it hurts to be alive. How I don’t want to live with the loss. “I have nothing,” I say through my hands. “I’m all alone now.”

“You’re not,” Dr. Warren asks. “I’m not saying James is a bad guy. Neither is Brady or Miller or Lacey. But they’re the reason you’re really here. They were infected, Sloane. They infected you. And now you have to get better. Just like a cancer, we have to cut out what’s making you sick.”

I look at her, still hating her, but with the pain raging in my chest, maybe a little less so.

“Here.” She offers the yellow pill. “Take it. Empower yourself, sweetheart. It’ll make everything right.”

I consider her offer. Then I think of Roger’s disgusting mouth on mine. I think of how his purple pill will let me hold on to some of my memories. So instead I look at Dr. Warren and say, “Go to hell.”

And then someone grabs me, and I feel a pinch in my arm.