The Treatment (25 page)

Closing my eyes, I imagine what I’d write to him, not daring to put it on paper. I let myself think back on the good times, some of the bad. Our promises.

I love you,
I write to James in my mind.
In another life we could have stayed together, fought, gotten back together. Our existence wouldn’t have been anyone’s concern. Maybe I would have learned to swim. Maybe we would have had children.

James, we didn’t fail each other. You took The Treatment and now you’ll always remember me.
My tears drip onto the blank
paper.
But I won’t remember you. I won’t remember how you make me laugh or make me furious with your stubbornness. James, I won’t remember you.

But I’ll always love you.

I lie on my side, and the paper falls from the bed, swaying in the air until it lands somewhere on the floor. I’ll never be able to tell James how I feel—not unless I find a way out of this. But each second that ticks by reminds me how little time I have left. No one’s coming for me. Except the surgeon.

“TELL ME YOUR LAST MEMORY
of the farmhouse, before the handlers came to collect you,” Dr. Beckett says. He’s back in his leather chair, and I’m in the seat across from him, my hands no longer bound. My head is heavy as the medication the doctor gave me to calm me down winds through my body, twisting and turning and setting me at ease.

“I was with James,” I say with a smile. “I had a dream about us, and I was telling him about it before we heard Dallas scream from downstairs. Then we ran through the woods.” I close my eyes and tell him about the chase. About Arthur getting Tased, and Dallas stabbing Roger. He listens intently, never interrupting. But when I’m done, he licks his lips as if he’s been waiting with a question.

“Where was Michael Realm during this exchange? Casanova
was there, but Michael wasn’t at the farm. Do you know where he went?”

“Maybe he killed himself,” I say bitterly. As the words meet the silence of the room, I immediately regret them. I don’t want Realm dead. I want him to tell me the doctor is lying about all this. I want him to bring me to James.

“I’m fully confident that Michael is still alive,” the doctor says. “But don’t worry; you’ll get your justice once we find him. Now, when was the last time you saw him?”

“In the house. He and Cas got into an argument, and they took it outside. Then James and I went upstairs and . . .” I lift my eyes to Dr. Beckett, realizing I shouldn’t know that James is free. “How is James?” I ask, sounding concerned.

The doctor smiles. “He’s just fine, Sloane. He’s in a Program facility and being very cooperative from what I hear. You don’t have to worry about him anymore. You only have to worry about yourself.”

“Don’t hurt him.” Dr. Beckett is caught in his own lie and he doesn’t even know it. I blink rapidly as if holding back tears. “Please don’t hurt him.”

The doctor purses his lips like he’s having an attack of conscience.

“I’ll send word that you asked for him. Okay?”

I nod, pretending to be grateful. I ease back in the chair and focus on the last days at the farmhouse. My conversation with James about babies, details that can’t possibly help Beckett find anyone, let alone my boyfriend.

Beckett writes something down in his notes, and he’s visibly agitated. I’m reminded that I have only about six days until I’ll be lobotomized, unless I buy more time. That’s what Asa told me. “Maybe . . .,” I start, not sure what I’m going to say next but knowing I have to do something. “Maybe I’m forgetting a clue,” I say. “To where Realm is. He might have told me something, but I can’t remember.”

The doctor glances up, removing his glasses and setting them on the desk. “There are medications that can help make the memories more vivid,” he says. “We can try them next time.” He’s distrustful, and I guess he’s wondering the real reason to why I’m suddenly such a model patient. I’m quick to offer a cover.

“If you find him,” I say, sounding braver than I feel, “I want to talk to him before you do”—I wave my hand—“whatever it is you’re planning on doing to him. And then I want to go home.”

Dr. Beckett nods condescendingly. “Or course, sweetheart. You’ll still have to complete The Program, but after that you’ll be free to go.”

“Deal.”

The doctor doesn’t mention the lobotomy, not that I thought he would. But maybe part of me hoped he would just admit it. Then again, without the niceties, each day could dissolve into torture. I’ve seen Lacey, Arthur. I know what’s to come. Maybe it’s best to live in denial for as long as I can.

*  *  *

Dr. Beckett has me swallow a shiny red pill before leaving his office. I’m surprised when Asa isn’t waiting for me, but I’m already getting sleepy so I try to hurry down the hall. I pause on my way past the waiting room.

Lacey’s there, rocking gently as she stares out the window. She seems better—at least a little more with it—than she did the other times I saw her. Before walking in, I cast a glance around the hallway, and when the coast is Kell-free, I walk in.

“I like your hair,” I say as my lamest and most nonthreatening opening statement ever. Lacey looks up and flashes her teeth.

“Thanks.” She doesn’t ask me to sit, but her posture tells me she isn’t opposed to the idea. I don’t remember what Lacey was like before The Program, but I have to believe she was always a badass. I wonder if that side of her will eventually come out again.

I sit on the stiff couch cushion, facing her chair, and she turns slightly as if curious about what I’ll say next. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. “I’m Sloane,” I say.

She smiles softly, her eyes wide as they glance over at me. In them I find no recognition, but they’re not dead. Not completely. I lean closer, checking again to make sure we’re not being watched.

“Your name is Lacey,” I whisper. “You’re Lacey Klamath and you’re from Oregon.”

Her smile fades, her brows pulling together as she fights to understand what I mean. She doesn’t know who she is—at all—but her personality is set. It’s not solely based on her
memories. She’ll still be Lacey. Despite the panic that’s bubbling up at the thought of her never coming back, I’m trying to convince myself that she’s still Lacey.

“If I could get us out of here,” I say weakly, “would you come with me?”

Lacey’s eyes drift past me, and a hand grips my shoulder, nearly making me leap out of my skin. I turn and see Asa standing over me, his jaw set in anger.

“You must be tired, Miss Barstow,” he says coldly. “Let’s get you back to your room to rest.” He’s right; underneath this burst of adrenaline, my body is heavily medicated, ready to crash.

I glance at Lacey once more, but she’s turned away, back to rocking as she stares out the window.

I murmur a good-bye and then follow Asa. He escorts me out more like a punished child than a rebel trying to break out of a brainwashing facility. When we get into the hallway, Asa spins and I take a startled step back.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demands in a hushed voice. He still smells of cigarettes, and his eyes have taken on dark circles. He’s worried about something.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I say, and his glare chills me.

“Do you want to be lobotomized? I’m trying to save your life, Sloane. Asking Lacey questions about escape . . . God!” He balls his hand in a fist like he wants to punch something. He takes a step away and then comes back, clearly frustrated.
“Look,” he says, “I need you to be smart. Dallas won’t listen and now she’s scheduled for surgery.”

“What? When?” They’re going to turn her into one of those people. They’re going to switch her off. “You have to stop them!”

“I can’t,” he says, coming close to my face. “She’s being taken to the surgeon tomorrow. I can’t compromise myself or I’ll end up just like her and Arthur Pritchard.”

“Then what do we do? I can’t let that happen. I have to save her.”

“Sloane,” he says, sounding desperate. “You have to save yourself. I can’t help her now, and neither can you. Just play the game. Realm is doing everything he can to get to you, I promise.”

Again Realm’s name gives me an odd mix of feelings that is quickly covered up by the medication. It washes over me, and in just a few seconds my mind is going fuzzy. Asa curses and then takes my elbow to lead me toward my room.

“It’s the red pill. It has a sedative that works while it erases your memories,” he says, continuingly checking behind us.

“What are they erasing?” I ask, although I can hear the slurring at the end of my sentence.

“I’m not sure. It depends what you told them.”

“They want to find Realm,” I say, just as Asa gets me into the room. “They want to know why he wasn’t at the farmhouse when they came to take us.”

Asa helps me into bed and then stares down. “And what did you tell them?”

“The truth.” My blinking slows, making Asa appear and disappear in longer intervals. “I told him I didn’t know.”

Asa smiles and then my eyes stay shut. “Good girl.”

*  *  *

I’m sitting in Dr. Beckett’s office, feeling more alone than ever. I can’t believe I actually agreed to take this pill—a pill that will attach to my memories, clarify them, and then target them for erasure. I never thought I could voluntarily do something like this, but right now it’s my only chance to buy more time. I have five days left, maybe four. Without another thought, I swallow the yellow pill and then close my eyes, waiting for the first wave.

Across from me, Dr. Beckett’s chair groans as he adjusts his position, settling in for a long session. There is a quick panic that my subconscious may really know where Realm is, but I push past the worry. I’ve already taken the pill—there’s no more hiding inside my head. Maybe part of me thinks he deserves to be caught.

Five minutes later my eyelids flutter open. I feel calm, but unlike the sedative, it’s not groggy. It’s alert, clear, and peaceful. I stare at Dr. Beckett for a minute before he notices I’m looking at him. He’s writing down notes in a pad, flipping between pages. He doesn’t have a wedding ring; he’s wearing a soft brown blazer with a T-shirt underneath—like something a hip TV star would wear to an awards show. Is he really that casual? Is this part of the image he wants to portray? He’s shaved today, and it makes him look younger. He must be in his forties, but he
could pass for twenties without his beard. I think he’s a walking lie—a false image in his entirety.

He looks up. “Ah, I see the medication has kicked in.”

I nod and settle into the chair. It’s more comfortable than I remember, or maybe I’m just feeling really cooperative. “What are you writing?” I ask.

He smiles, seeming embarrassed to know I was watching him. “Decisions need to be made,” he says. “Some patients are beyond our help, Sloane. I’m the one who has to make the tough calls. I’m sorry to tell you”—he purses his lips and looks away—“Dallas isn’t going to make it. She’s being scheduled for surgery.”

I swallow hard, a mix of anger and grief exploding inside of my chest before it’s washed away. “What will happen to her? This is cruel, even for The Program.”

“I assure you, it isn’t as terrible as you think—not for someone like her. We’ve perfected our techniques for a lobotomy. It’s not like it was back when they were first popular. Lobotomies were for the criminally insane. They were never meant to cure patients—only to make them easier to manage. Here we have a purpose. Dallas’s frontal lobe will be disconnected from the nerves that are sending her infected signals.” He folds his hands in front of him in a practiced doctorly move. “We will insert a metal rod behind her eye and sever the nerves. When it’s done, Dallas will have no physical scars, but she’ll no longer want to kill herself.”

“She won’t be able to think either,” I snap.

“Not true. We’re not cutting out pieces of her brain; we’re
rerouting the wires. The result is a calmer, less violent person. She won’t remember any of the horrible stuff she’s been through. Her long-term memory will be gone. She’ll undergo extensive physical and speech therapy, and in three to six months, Dallas will be ready to experience life again.”

“Is that what will happen to me?” I ask, my voice weak.

“It depends on if you can help us, Sloane. Tell me, where is Michael Realm?”

His mouth is lying, while his eyes give me everything I need to know. There is no other therapy in this facility. I will end up just like the others.

“I don’t know where Realm is,” I say.

“What was the last thing he said to you?” he asks. “What was your last conversation about?”

The memory is being sought out, and unable to lie with the medication slipping through my veins, I answer. “We were on a bridge the day before the handlers came. Realm said he understood about me and James—that I’d always pick James over him. He promised that no matter what . . . he’d always choose me. But I didn’t want that.”

Dr. Beckett nods. “Do you expect to see Michael again?” he asks.

I swallow hard, trying to hold the words back, but I can’t. “Yes. I expect him to rescue me.”

Beckett actually laughs. “That so? I assure you, that isn’t actually possible. But the fact that you believe it . . . That speaks volumes. Sloane, do you love Michael Realm?”

“Right now, I hate him.”

“But overall, despite how he’s lied and betrayed you . . . do you love Michael Realm?”

There’s the sting of tears in my eyes, a slight quiver to my bottom lip. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I do.”

“Then we won’t have to find him,” the doctor says, closing the file. “He’ll come for you. And we’ll be waiting.”

WHEN I WAKE UP THE
next morning, I have a medication hangover. I don’t wait for it to wear off before I’m out of bed, pulling on a pair of clean scrubs. On the side table is a breakfast tray, but there’s no time to eat. They’re lobotomizing Dallas today. I have to find her—save her—before they do. I walk quickly down the hall, the room tilting in my mind and sending me into the wall several times as I try to adjust my balance. I have to remember the way to solitary, but the world is hazy.