The Treatment (9 page)

The girl at the lab table in front of us looks back and then points a panicked finger at our now-flaming table. Miller reaches quickly to turn down the Bunsen burner, and then, with complete calm, he picks up my half-empty can of Diet Pepsi and douses the fire, putting it out with an unceremonious sizzle.

“Well, shit,” he says, staring down at the soggy, smoking, withered paper. “That didn’t go the way I planned it in my head.”

I put my hand on my hip and turn to glare at him. But the minute his dark brown gaze meets mine, we both start laughing.

Miller. I open my eyes, feeling the tears rush over my cheeks. What happened to Miller?

“I remember him,” I whisper. “I have a memory of him.” James grips my forearm, squeezing tight, even though I’m sure he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I shouldn’t have this memory. Is this recall? Will I end up like Lacey, broken and crashing? My heart is pounding so fast, I’m afraid it might just quit. “I think Miller was my friend, and I remember him.”

James gathers me into a hug. “What have they done to us?” he whispers, mostly to himself. I replay the memory over and over like a sad song on repeat, familiar and comforting even though it’s scratchy and painful. “Look at me,” James says, pulling back to examine my face. “Headache?”

I shake my head, and he takes another second to make sure I don’t spontaneously combust. He waits while I tell him the memory, smiling likes it’s a good story and not some forgotten piece of my past. When I’m done talking, I’m calmer.

“Better?” James asks softly.

“Yeah. There’s nothing else trying to break through. It was just a blip—a spike and then back to flatlining. This isn’t like Lacey,” I say. Even though James didn’t bring up the connection, I know it must have crossed his mind.

“Of course it’s not,” he says dismissively, his jaw tight. “But that memory—we’re not going to tell anyone about it. Maybe
you’ll have others, maybe you won’t, but this is our secret.” He looks at me. “Right?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him. I quickly assess myself and realize I’m telling the truth. I do feel fine. A little stressed, but I don’t feel like I’m about to fall apart or anything. This isn’t at all like Lacey.

After a moment James picks up the photo of his tattoos again, checking it against the scars on his arm. “What happened to all these people?” he asks.

“They died.” I think about Brady. My brother’s final days were erased from my memory, and this could be our only chance to find out what really happened to him. “James,” I say, reaching past him to spread out the files, looking for my brother’s name. “See if there’s any mention of Brady.”

He helps me sort through the file, picking out papers that he thinks look promising. “How about this one?” he asks, sliding out a page. “It’s minutes from my sessions with Dr. Tabor.” I look sideways at James, surprised he remembers his doctor’s name. I remember Dr. Warren, but James has never mentioned anything about his time in The Program, nothing beyond that it’s all a blur.

“It’s the only one,” he says, examining the print on a few other papers before he gives up the search. He settles back in the chair with a quick look at me to make sure I’m listening, and then he starts to read from the page. “Session one,” he starts. “Patient 486: James Murphy. Doctor: Eli Tabor. The patient refused medication for targeted recall and was therefore
injected.” James tenses at the line, and I lean down to read over his shoulder.

Dr. Tabor: Why are you here, James?

Patient 486: What? They didn’t tell you? What sort of a seedy operation is this?

Dr. Tabor: Are you depressed?

Patient 486: Not that depressed. Maybe I’m just tired.

Dr. Tabor: Tell me about Brady Barstow.

Patient 486: Fuck you.

(Patient becomes uneasy and another injection is given.)

Dr. Tabor: Better?

Patient 486: No.

Dr. Tabor: I see. James, teens in your position are always combative; this isn’t a new feeling. But you need to understand that we’re here to help you. To cure you. Do you want to live?

Patient 486: Not after you’re done, I won’t.

(Note that patient’s speech is slurred.)

Dr. Tabor: Is it because of your girlfriend?

Patient 486: Don’t have one.

I pause at the line and look at James. The minute he reads it, his breathing changes, but he doesn’t turn to me. A new sort of worry begins, and I read on, hoping it’s just a lie.

Dr. Tabor: You’re not dating Sloane Barstow, Brady’s sister?

Patient 486: I wouldn’t call it dating.

Dr. Tabor: What would you call it then?

Patient 486: Pity.

My stomach drops at the word
pity
. I don’t believe it, but inside, a seed of doubt has been planted.

Dr. Tabor: We have extensive research on you and Miss Barstow. We know you’ve been in a relationship for years now.

Patient 486: Her brother asked me to take care of her. I have been. But the minute she’s eighteen, I’m done. I’ll be done with Sloane and you won’t have to worry about her ever again.

Dr. Tabor: But we are worried. She may not be carving names into her arm, but she’s high-risk, James. We want to bring her in.

Patient 486: You’re wasting your time. She doesn’t love me. I don’t love her. Sure, we sleep together sometimes, but that should be expected. I’m a pretty good catch.

Dr. Tabor: James—

Patient 486: Are we done here? Because I’m done talking.

Dr. Tabor: No. I want to—

(Note that Patient 486 charged the desk and grabbed my coat to attack me. Handlers were brought in to sedate him. He will sit in isolation for three days before his next session.)

Additional notes: Patient 486 attempted to terminate his life following his session. After waking from his sedation, he used his sheets to try to hang himself in his room. Dr. Arthur Pritchard has been called in for a consult.

I stand up from the kitchen chair, bumping it back against the wall. James is motionless, still staring down at the papers. He tried to kill himself. He said he never loved me. I can remember Miller.

Suddenly my head
is
pounding, my heart racing. I touch my temples just as a wave of dizziness hits—I shouldn’t mess with my memories, but I can’t stop myself. I’m trying to piece together what I know for certain.

When I first returned from The Program, I met James outside of the Wellness Center. A guy named Liam had called me a freak, and although we didn’t know each other, James stood up for me. As we got closer, James always held back. Is this why? Would he have really left me when I turned eighteen?

Tears start to sting my eyes, and I rub them roughly as I back away from the table. I need a minute to figure out what’s happening. I leave the kitchen, heading for our room . . . and James doesn’t stop me.

I WALK INTO THE BEDROOM
and begin pacing. My mind is in overdrive, imagining the worst—making up elaborate scenarios where James was my unrequited love. Is this what Realm said I wouldn’t want to find? He’d told me I loved James madly, but he didn’t say James loved me back. Could that be why I got sick?

I cover my face, begging myself to stop, stop the negative thoughts that are feeding on me. But I can’t. Something I’d accepted as fact, this love story between James and me, might not be true. When I think about it, there were plenty of signs. That day he came to my house to talk about Brady—he walked out on me when I hugged him. And later he even told me I was imagining our relationship in my head.

“Sloane.” James’s voice startles me, but I don’t
respond. James pulls my hands from my face, and I start to sob. It’s not just because of James’s file. I’ve lost Lacey. I’ve lost Miller. I’m completely falling apart and I’m scared. I’m so scared!

“You’re spinning out, Sloane,” James says, his voice hurried. “I need you to pull it together right now. Right fucking now.” I start to shake my head, but James takes my wrist to pull me up, hugging me tightly against his chest. “Stay with me,” he murmurs next to my ear. “Stop thinking and stay with me. Everything is going to be okay. Everything is just fine,” he soothes in his liar’s voice.

It comforts me though. Those words ease down my skin as James strokes my hair, telling me we’ll be all right. I measure my breathing until it settles into a normal pattern, the tears dry on my cheeks. James is right: I’m spiraling, and I need to pull myself out.

“Do you think you were lying to the doctor?” I ask, my voice thick from tears.

James holds me away from him so I can see his face. “Yes, Sloane. Obviously, I wasn’t telling him the truth. Do you think I’d really tell The Program about us? There’s no way.”

“But how do we know?” I ask, hitching in a breath. “How do we know what’s real anymore?”

James puts his hand over his heart, anguish on his face that nearly kills me. “Because I can feel it here, and I could read it in my words. I was protecting you. I would have died to protect you had they not stopped me. We’re fucking mental for each other—but maybe that’s how we survive from
here. We just have to be crazier than The Program.”

I choke out a small laugh, and James hugs me once again. “I’m tired of running,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he says. “But this is when we have to fight the hardest. This is all that’s left of us—this right now. We have to make it count.” James brushes my hair behind my ear. No matter what the file says, lies or not, who we are now matters.

“I still love you madly,” I whisper.

“I love you too.” He says it so honestly that I can’t believe there’s any other way for him to feel. My doubt begins to fade, and James buries his face in my hair. Gliding my hand up his arm, I stop over his scars—his tattoos—tracing patterns until I feel him kiss softly at my neck.

A soft sound escapes my throat, and I turn my face to kiss him. He professes his love again, his hands gripping my hips. I back us toward the bed, kissing, whispering. I’m quickly losing layers of clothing, but James is still dressed as we lie on the bed. When I try to undo his belt, he stops me.

“Don’t,” he says. He looks down at me and laughs. “I can’t handle the temptation.”

“Then stop resisting.” I lift my head to kiss him again. He returns the kiss, but then quickly flops over onto his back.

“I can’t, Sloane,” he says. “I forgot the condoms back in Phoenix.”

I freeze for a moment, and he turns to me, smiling sheepishly. “Are you kidding?” I ask.

“No. But believe me—I’m pretty pissed about it.”

I groan, but then I realize I’m better. The distraction worked, and my head doesn’t hurt as much—although there’s still a tiny ache behind my eyes. But James made me forget the pain. I throw my leg over his, and put my head on his chest. “At least we’re building some anticipation,” I say with a smile, content to feel well again.

“At the very least,” he mutters.

I slide my hand under James’s shirt to rest it over his heart, feeling its rapid beats. They say stress brings on the meltdowns, so I block out the thoughts of Brady, Miller, and Lacey. If there’s one thing The Program made us experts at, it’s repression.

“I mean it, you know,” James says quietly. “I love you like crazy, and I don’t give a goddamn about anything else.”

We’re quiet for a long while until James has to sit up because his arm fell asleep. “Should we check out the rest of that file?” he asks tentatively. “You’ll have to take it easy, but this could be our only chance to find out what happened. Pretty sure The Program isn’t handing them out like greeting cards.”

I’m worried, but I agree, letting him take the investigative lead. This was a fluke—I’m not breaking down. There’s nothing wrong with a few memories, so long as I don’t let them control me. I can handle this. I’m strong enough.

*  *  *

Dallas is in the kitchen, pouring water into the back of the coffeemaker while Cas sits at the table, looking exhausted. When we come down, he presses his lips into a smile, seeming
relieved that we’re joining them. Dallas tosses a curious glance over her shoulder but doesn’t say anything as James and I each take a seat.

“So what happened to my file?” I ask as the coffee begins to percolate.

Cas shrugs, answering only after Dallas stays silent. “I’ve called every contact I have,” he says, “but your file is gone, or at least, not accessible. They tried to pull James’s, too—probably after you ran—but I got to it in time. I think they’re trying to cover their asses in case you turn up dead or on an
Oprah
special.”

“That’s the next stop on our publicity tour,” James says with a grin. Dallas turns, flashing him a smile before grabbing two coffee mugs and setting one in front of James. He thanks her, then starts going through his file again. I can’t look at Dallas. She read the notes from James’s session, and whatever doubts I had are probably magnified by a thousand in her mind. Luckily, I don’t have to dwell on her possible thoughts before James holds up another paper.

“Look at this,” he announces. “Says here I assaulted a handler.” The paper is an incident report and apparently, after his blackout session, James attacked a handler in the hallway. It reminds me of when Realm took down Roger, and I turn to James, thinking for the first time that he and Realm have a lot in common—more than just me.

Dallas tops off James’s coffee, her hand shaking. She asks Cas if he wants a cup, but he passes. She never offers one to
me. She clinks the pot back in place just as James calls my name.

“Here it is,” he says. He looks to me immediately and then points to a page clipped to the file. It’s an entrance form, and in the bottom box is a handwritten note in blue ink. The first word I recognize is my brother’s name, and I prepare myself for what comes next.

Patient 486 was first infected after the self-termination of Brady Barstow (drowning), and was later triggered by the self-termination of Miller Andrews (QuikDeath). Under the influence of his medication, Patient 486 admitted to witnessing Brady Barstow’s death at the river, where his attempts to rescue him failed. He has since been struggling with depression, kept hidden with the help of Sloane Barstow, the deceased’s sister.