The Treatment (24 page)

“Shh . . .” she whispers. “It’s almost over, Sloane. Just a few days and this will all be over.”

The words renew my cries, and I turn to my gaze to Asa who only looks through me, his jaw set hard. I’m all alone in this. And I can finally see that I always was.

*  *  *

I’m not sure how much time has passed, but I’m in the office with Dr. Beckett, my body slung across the chair, bandages wrapped around my wrists. My clarity fades in and out. I’m destroyed, but the medication has brought me numbness. A foggy contentment I can’t fight. Dr. Beckett takes this as cooperation, and I guess it is. Except for the part where I don’t really have a choice.

“Michael Realm was sent to recover you and James,” Beckett says. “Unfortunately, he cut off contact shortly after leaving the facility. It wasn’t until Arthur Pritchard became involved that we got a lead on your whereabouts. It’s not unusual for us to
keep an eye on our employees, but I must admit that Arthur’s interest in The Treatment was an unforeseen complication. What did the doctor promise you, Sloane? Did you give him The Treatment?”

They don’t know. I smile to myself, grateful James took The Treatment before The Program got their hands on it. I know he won’t melt down—he’s too damn cocky to let The Program beat him. He’s with Realm now, but with The Program looking for my former friend, he’s not that likely to hand James over. I look at the doctor from under my wet lashes. “Arthur wanted to undo the damage done by The Program,” I say. “He was going to set us back and treat the depression the way it should have been before you corrupted the therapy.”

Dr. Beckett’s expression falters, and he leans closer. “Arthur Pritchard’s methods failed. The Program had to evolve. And there’s no guarantee The Treatment can even be reproduced. They say Evelyn Valentine used stem cells—which is illegal. Did he talk about that?”

Even through my numbness, I can feel the satisfaction. They know nothing about The Treatment, and he’s hoping I can give him details. I’ve never been so happy to not have the answers. “I guess you’ll have to ask Arthur,” I say, knowing full well Arthur won’t be able to tell them anything. Not after what they’ve done to him.

I look at a high shelf on the other side of the room, where Beckett moved his paperweight, its presence surely making him unsettled. I could have killed him. Maybe I should have.

“What do you want with Realm now?” I ask, my lips slurring my words. “You have us in custody. Even if he didn’t hand us over himself, he did his job. Why do you still want to take his memories?”

Dr. Beckett folds his hands in front of him on the desk. “He’s a liability,” he says simply. “We’re going to erase him completely.”

My affection for Realm flares, even though I hate him—hate what he’s done. I sniffle hard and wipe my cheek on my shoulder, refusing to give in to the sympathy. Realm betrayed me. I can’t forgive that.

“Good,” I say finally, even though I don’t really mean it. “Good.”

*  *  *

Asa walks me back to my room, leaving the wheelchair in the hall outside of Dr. Beckett’s office. His arm is around my waist as he supports me. Once standing, the true effect of the medication can be felt, and I’m woozy and unsteady.

“Just a little bit farther,” Asa says, taking a turn down my corridor.

“You should have used the wheelchair,” I mumble, and reach to touch the wall so I can get my bearings. “How come I’m not restrained anymore? Aren’t you afraid I’ll bludgeon you?”

“No,” he says. Asa gives nothing away, his face always stoic, his movements purposeful. When we get to my room, he pulls back my sheet with one arm, supporting me with the other. He helps me into the bed, and I feel the pain of all that’s
happened today. Asa stands for a moment, looking down at me, and I reach up my hand to him.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask. He takes my hand, and squeezes it reassuringly.

“Because Realm asked me to.”

My eyes widen, and I yank my arm away from him, but Asa grabs my hand again and holds it against his chest. “Realm cares about you,” he says forcefully. “He asked me to look out for you.”

I don’t want to listen. I use my other hand to try to strike Asa, but he blocks it easily, grabbing both of my sore wrists and making me cry out in pain. “Calm down, Sloane,” he says, pinning me to the bed.

“Michael Realm is a lie,” I growl, continuing to fight until Asa has to lock my hands at my side once again.

“We’re all lies, Sloane,” he says. “Every single one of us is hiding who we really are.”

“Not like that.” I start to cry again, and behind it is anger. I turn my body from side to side in the bed, fighting—against what I’m not sure. I thought Realm loved me. I was so wrong about everything. “I hate him,” I say with a sob, the grief finally too overwhelming. I turn my face into the pillow. “I hate him.”

I feel Asa’s hand touch my head, a gentle brush through my hair. He does this until I start to drift toward sleep, a release from pain the medication can’t give me. And just before I slip away, I hear Asa whisper, “Michael will be very sad to hear that.”

WHEN I WAKE UP THE
next morning, there’s a sharp pain in my head like I’ve been smacked with a hammer. My hands fly up to feel for any incision, as if the doctors had given me a lobotomy while I slept. There’s nothing but the knots of my hair.

My hands. I look down, surprised to see I’m no longer fastened to the bed. I hold up my arms, seeing the red marks and bruises on my wrists still there, but I’m grateful to be free. There’s an ache in my chest, a deep dread. I have to tell Dallas about Realm, everything about him. From their past together to the part where he’s a handler, a filthy liar. The part where I hate him.

I glance around the room, remembering how Asa took me to that awful place with the lobotomized patients to see Arthur Pritchard drooling on himself. What exactly does the
handler think I can do about it? If it was that easy to escape, others would have gotten out. I’m trapped, and I’m not sure if the knowledge Asa gave me is hurting or helping me.

To keep my sanity, I run through the chronology of my life—or, at least, my life after The Program. James and I met at the Wellness Center the day after I returned. He was mean to me on and off until he became more on. He stuck up for me, including a few times when Realm crossed a line. Realm . . .

I swallow hard and shake my head to keep from screaming. I’m burning up with fury, but that kind of emotion isn’t going to help. I need to think clearly. I have to figure a way out. But no sooner does the rage come that it’s replaced with a shock of warmth spreading over my chest. The medication must contain an inhibitor that settles my frazzled nerves. I remember it from my first days after The Program.

Without supervision I climb down from the bed, moving slowly to test my limbs, afraid to make any sudden movements. When I’m steady, I change into the fresh set of scrubs that were laid out on my bed. I leave my room, tentative and anxious, looking over my shoulder. There are voices down the hall, and I head in that direction.

There’s a waiting room, a smaller version of the leisure room. There are four other patients in there, watching the television mounted on the wall—an infomercial on The Program, it looks like—and two others sitting by the window and staring. I see that one of them is Lacey.

I smile reflexively but then temper my expression down as
I approach her. I don’t want to scare her. I pause.
Can
I scare her? Will she even know what’s going on? I crush the heartache that comes along with that thought.

“Hi,” I say in a scratchy voice when I’m standing next to her. Lacey continues to stare out the window without any noticeable reaction to my words. I check for a scar, but I don’t see one. I’m not sure how they perform lobotomies; I’ve never really thought to research it.

Suddenly Lacey turns to me. She drifts her gaze over my features, and her lips part slowly. “Is it time for breakfast?” she asks in a too-soft voice. Deep sadness burrows through my chest, but I try my best to smile.

“Not yet,” I tell her kindly.

“Oh.” She turns back to the window, her thoughts seemingly a gentle breeze in her mind, no urgency, no fear, no anxiety. I try to think of what I can say, what I can tell her to let her know that I care about her. I’m so sorry I didn’t save her from The Program. I’m so sorry this happened to her.

“Sloane?” The sound of Nurse Kell’s voice startles me, and I glance over my shoulder to where she stands in the doorway. Her expression is steeped in suspicion, and when she calls my name again, scolding me like a child, I know my time with Lacey is up.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” I say to my friend, trying to communicate in my tone that I hope to see her again. She offers one more uninterested look and then goes back to enjoying the view of the courtyard instead.

My heart is heavy as I approach Nurse Kell. I wilt under the accusation in her expression and quickly try to explain. “I didn’t know where to go when I woke up,” I tell her as soon as I’m close enough. “You weren’t there.”

She takes my arm to lead me from the room. “Asa should have left you restrained, then. Sloane, you aren’t ready to interact with the other patients yet. You’re a threat to them.”

I turn to Nurse Kell as we walk back toward the prison of my room. “Are you going to tie me down?” I ask, finding it impossible to control the rage bubbling up. “Because I thought I was being pretty cooperative so far.”

“Oh, honey,” she says in a patronizing voice. “You are. But it’s just not healthy for the other patients to interact with you. You’re still too sick. You could start a whole new epidemic in here. Give it another week. The time will fly.”

In a week I’ll be lobotomized. Nurse Kell must know this, and yet she’s talking to me like I should be thankful. Any camaraderie she’d tried to build evaporates right then. I gnash my teeth together, saying nothing.

“I left your breakfast in your room,” she says. “I thought you’d be more comfortable there.” She stops just outside my door and motions for me to enter ahead of her. I see the metal tray on a rolling cart next to my bed. The food is covered with tan plastic bowls to keep it warm. I think back to something Lacey once told me—that they put sedatives in the food. I’m starving right now—ravenous really. Can I handle a little bit of medication to get some nutrients? Is it worth the risk?

I step inside my room, walking toward the tray, when I hear the door shut behind me. I turn and hear the click of the lock. My heart dips, and I rush over to try the handle.

Kell just locked me in. I look around the room for something, anything, to pick the lock with. But The Program is careful. The sharpest thing in my room is the plastic spoon that came with my breakfast. Trapped, I go over to my bed and sit, lifting the lid to my food and finding happy face pancakes.

I stare at them a long moment, the irony—or cruelty—of them too much. And then I flip the tray, sending it to the floor with a loud clank, and curl up on my side, staring out the window.

*  *  *

Dr. Beckett doesn’t ask to see me, and the hours alone in my room stretch on until I feel the psychosis. Murmuring to myself, imagining shapes in the wood grain of the door, I start to doubt anyone will ever come for me again, not until they’re ready to take me to the gray room.

At lunch Nurse Kell comes to drop off my next meal. The minute I see her, I’m at her side, begging her to let me out. I think I might lose it completely if I don’t at least get out of this room. But Nurse Kell only glances at me on her way to the overturned tray of breakfast food.

“Sorry, Sloane,” she says. “You can’t come out yet. I’m sorry.”

The news is devastating, but it doesn’t seem to bother her as she sops up the spilled orange juice that’s turned sticky on the floor.

“What am I supposed to do for the rest of my time, then? Is this another version of solitary confinement?”

Nurse Kell exhales and then stands to look me over. “Dr. Beckett was called away for the afternoon. He’ll see you when he gets back. For now he wants you to stay in your room and out of trouble. There’s no sense in getting worked up. Now eat your lunch.”

I glance down at the sandwich, surprised by how appetizing it looks. I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten—maybe not since I arrived here. My stomach growls in agreement. I drop helplessly on my bed and pick up my sandwich, taking a tentative bite. I wait for a chalky or bitter taste, something to prove that I’m being drugged. But it just tastes like turkey.

“Under the plate there’s some paper,” Nurse Kell says, coming over to shake out a napkin to lay over my lap. “Dr. Beckett thought you might want to write out some of your thoughts for your next session—to help move things along. It seems like a positive way to combat the boredom.”

Bullshit. He wants information on The Treatment. On Realm. But he’ll get none of that from me. “Maybe I can write to my parents,” I suggest, just to see Kell’s reaction. She smiles warmly.

“Well, that sounds wonderful,” she says sincerely. “I’m sure The Program has already told them that you’re here, but they’ll probably appreciate an update from you. You’ve given them quite a scare.”

Has The Program told my parents that they have me?
It wouldn’t make much sense, not if they plan to lobotomize me. Looking at Nurse Kell, she seems honestly impressed that I’d want to write to my parents. I’m not sure she knows what happens to the people who leave this facility. I don’t think anyone does.

My parents. If  The Program hasn’t told them, where do they think I am now? Did my father tell my mother that James had called? Do they think he’s keeping me safe like he promised? If only they knew that The Program was planning to lobotomize me. Make me well-behaved. Is that how they want me?

I’m quiet as Nurse Kell finishes tidying up the room, saying she’ll be back in an hour for my plates. I don’t eat any more and instead find the paper and bendable pen she left for me to write with.

I move the dishes off the tray and set it up as a desk. But as I stare down at the paper, vast in white and blankness, I can think of nothing to write. Really, I think of James. And how likely it is that I’ll never see him again—at least not as myself.