“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I know how much you hate hospitals.” I smile then, trying to make her feel better. Or maybe I’m putting up the facade again: I’m healthy, Mom. See? The guilt from my outburst at dinner nags at me, the promise of James coming back strengthens me. I can make it through six weeks. James will be here and we’ll be together. We’ll beat The Program.
My mother hugs me again, and I wince at the pressure on my aching arm. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just so happy you’re okay. I can’t . . . I can’t lose you, too.”
Her words strike my heart and remind me of Brady, how she cried for weeks after he died. How my father would drink too much, and then they’d scream at each other. I’d tried to comfort my mother, until my own grief got the best of me. And then James became the only person I could trust to see that side of me.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I say, sounding light, surprised how easily the lie comes out. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
She nods, clearly relieved, and I walk around the car as my father gets in the driver’s seat. I raise my good arm and wave good-bye. Then I climb in and pull my seat belt tight. My father starts the car and backs us out of the driveway, smiling at my mother reassuringly as we pass her. But once we’re in the street, he looks sideways at me.
“Sloane,” he says, his voice low, “I know you weren’t trying to swim. But what I need to know right now is if you’re going to do it. If I have to call The Program to make sure your mother’s last living child doesn’t die.”
“Dad—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, not angry. Just tired. “I just need the truth now. I don’t think I can bear anything else.”
“I won’t hurt myself, Dad. I . . . couldn’t.”
He stares out at the road as we head toward the hospital. “Thank you.”
And I watch my father, remembering how funny he used to be when Brady and I were kids. How he’d take my brother to R-rated films when he was in middle school, and me out for ice cream when I felt excluded. Now he looks older, wilted. The loss of my brother was too much for him, and sometimes I feel like he barely notices me at all anymore—except to make sure I’m still breathing.
When we get to the emergency room, I tell them the trying-to-swim story, staying mostly believable. I have a small, clean break, and they tell me I’m lucky. Lucky.
Once my cast is set, we leave the hospital to go back home, and my father is silent the entire way. I worry that he’ll never speak to me again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I WAIT. THE DAYS TICK BY AND I SIT ALONE AT LUNCH, watching the door, avoiding the gaze of the dark-haired handler. My arm is still in a cast, and I tell everyone it was an accident. They accept it with suspicious looks, but nothing more. After all, I’m smiling and looking pulled together. If I were sick, I couldn’t do that. I’m fooling them.
I spend more time with my parents, nodding numbly when they talk about The Program or comment on the latest news story. Suicide has had a surge in London, and they’ve implemented their own version of The Program. So far it’s been wildly successful, proving that America seems to have developed a treatment.
It makes me wonder about the future—the sort of people who will be walking around in twenty years. People who never experienced their teens because those memories were erased. Will they be naive? Empty?
I remind myself that James will be okay. He’ll come back and be the same. I have to believe that.
After school, I decide to go to the Wellness Center to gain credits, prove a point. Being seen there will show how healthy I am. How involved I am in my own stability. But really, I’ll be waiting for James, knowing he’ll show up sooner or later.
The building is located within the middle of the city, a former YMCA. It’s brick and old-looking, but the welcome sign is brightly colored, hinting at what’s inside. The Program is proud of their returners, of their system that is starting to see increases in voluntary admittance. The Wellness Center is the perfect front.
Come see the results, come see how shiny and new you can become.
I stand out front, reluctant to go in. I’m afraid all these healthy people will see right through me, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I have to be strong.
“You need to sign in,” the woman behind the desk tells me as I pause in the entry. Around her, the large open room is buzzing with activity, as if there’s nothing outside these walls that could harm us. And the walls themselves are bright blue and green—loud and full of energy. I almost smile for real.
“Miss?” the lady asks, motioning toward the clipboard and the pen attached with yarn. “Sign in for credit.”
I sign my name and address on the paper and then scan the room. I recognize several faces—both returners and normal people. I don’t know any of them that well, or at least, I don’t until I see Lacey. She’s on the couch playing video games with Evan Freeman. There is a handler in the corner, but he’s not the dark-haired one I’m afraid of. He’s blond, just standing there and watching Lacey silently.
I think about going over there, introducing myself, but something holds me back. In my head, I know that Lacey doesn’t remember me, and yet, I hope that James will. So if I confirm that Lacey doesn’t know me . . . what does that mean? I’m clinging to an unlikely expectation, but it’s the only thing keeping me going. Every day I feel myself slip more and more, but I’m holding on. I’m holding on for James.
I wonder if Lacey even knows Miller is dead, if somewhere inside she misses him. Misses all of us. Can The Program take away our emotions, or do they always remain—only without a source?
On the other side of the room, a group of girls—including Kendra Phillips—are giggling and drinking Diet Cokes while sitting at a round table. I make my way over, casting another glance at the handler who seems to have noticed me, before sitting down with the girls.
They smile kindly, none of them remembering me as they keep talking, gossiping about boys, clothes, stuff that I can’t even fathom caring about. But I’ve become a pretty good actress, so I laugh at the right moments, roll my eyes when it’s needed. Inside, my heart hurts, but I cry only when I’m alone, on a long drive out in the country after leaving the center. No one is there to wipe my tears and tell me it’ll be okay.
For three weeks I follow this pattern: Laugh, cry, laugh, cry. I’ve become numb, uncomfortably so. But it’s the only way I can survive the time. When I finally get my cast off, I’m relieved as I stare down at my pale arm. James would have been so concerned if he’d seen me bandaged up the minute he got back. I hope he hurries.