The Epidemic (36 page)

The grief department no longer exists. Now it’s known as The Program. My father isn’t part of what happens there. Instead he’s in the home I grew up in, gardening and putting little ships inside bottles. It makes me think he would have been an excellent grandpa. But I’ll never know.

“Yeah, Tom,” Deacon says when I don’t—
can’t
—speak. “We worked together at the grief department, before your uh . . .”

“Breakdown,” my father says for him. “It’s okay, son. I’m not embarrassed. It happens to the best of us, right?”

“Yes,” I say, earning his gaze. “We just . . . we wanted to make sure you were okay. We heard about it, and . . .” My words continue to fail me. I want to say,
Do you remember, Dad? Please tell me you remember. Please tell me you still love me. Please tell me I’m real.
But when my eyes begin to well up, Deacon clears his throat loudly and signals for the server.

My father grabs a menu from between the condiment bottles and starts to peruse the selections. “What’d you say your name was again?” he asks, looking over the top of his glasses at me.

“Nicole,” I tell him. “Nicole Alessandro.” It’s still weird to use my real name. But in the end it doesn’t matter what it is. I haven’t called myself Quinlan McKee in a long while. She’s finally at rest.

The corner of my father’s mouth lifts slightly, and then he goes back to the menu, giving his order to the server when she
arrives at our table. Together the three of us share a meal, letting my dad do most of the talking. It’s all good-natured and upbeat, but I don’t say much. I’m afraid of exposing us. I’m afraid of hurting my father. The latest word on The Program is that patients shouldn’t be messed with; it could lead to a meltdown. And after what happened to Virginia Pritchard, we know all too well how dangerous the consequences can be.

I finish picking at my fries, barely touching the burger on my plate. My father and Deacon are laughing about an old football rivalry when Deacon’s phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up and checks the message.

“Nic, we should go,” he says, putting his phone away. It’s Aaron, I’m sure. He told us not to spend too much time with my dad, just in case people were watching him. He was checking on us.

I shoot Deacon a pained look, not ready to say good-bye to my father. But my dad wipes his hand on his napkin and lifts one side of his hip to work his wallet out of his back pocket.

“I should probably head out too,” he says. “I have a date tonight.” He laughs, his cheeks growing red from the admission. In all the time I knew him, my father was never in a relationship—other than his highly dysfunctional friendship with Marie. It bothers me that I’m missing this new woman. What if he marries her? Would she be my mom?

“It was nice seeing you, Tom,” Deacon says as my father gets out of the booth and tosses two twenties on the lunch ticket. Deacon tells him he doesn’t have to do that, but my dad waves off the sentiment.

I get to my feet, watching him; my lips are unwilling to say the words. Just then my father turns to me and smiles warmly. It makes my heart swell in my chest, and I have to take a steadying breath.

“I’m glad you called,” he tells me.

“Thank you for lunch,” I return, because it seems like a normal thing to say in this very abnormal moment. I hold out my hand awkwardly, and he reaches to take it.

“Can I . . . ?” He stops, dropping his arm and laughing like he’s embarrassed. “Never mind.”

“What?” I ask. “What were you going to say?”

He scrunches up his nose. “I was going to ask if I could give you a hug,” he says. “I don’t know . . . you just look like you really need one.”

Without hesitation I step in and hug him, my cheek against the soft cotton of his polo shirt. I squeeze my eyes shut; his clothing smells like my childhood. It doesn’t make me think of lies or grief. It smells like home.

I straighten out of his arms and step back, quickly wiping the tears from my cheeks. I smile self-consciously. “You take care of yourself,” I tell him.

“You too, Nicole,” he says simply. And for a moment I’m sure I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. But then it’s gone. He touches my arm in good-bye and walks out of the diner.

The second the door closes behind him, I turn and grab my jacket off the seat, biting back the rest of my tears. Deacon watches me carefully as he grabs his coat, and then together we walk outside.

My father is gone.

The icy wind blows against my jacket, and I pinch the zipper closed with my fingers, standing and facing the snowcapped mountains with Deacon beside me.

“I’ll never see him again,” I say quietly. I sniffle, tears fighting to get out once again.

“The Program can’t last forever,” Deacon tells me.

“I hope you’re right,” I say. “But either way, the department took my father from me. They erased me. I’m forgotten.”

Deacon turns, and his eyes are wounded at my sadness. “I’ll never forget you,” he says. “I love you like crazy. I love you to eternity.”

I still enjoy it every time he tells me. I gaze at him for a long moment, thankful for what I do have. Thankful of what we can still be. It’s nice to have possibilities.

“I’m ready,” I tell him. “I’m ready to start living.” Seeing my father one last time was the final piece. And now my old life is over.

I reach for Deacon’s hand, slide my fingers between his. He smiles and pulls me closer. He leans in and kisses me, whispering again how much he loves me.

After that I lead him to the car. We’re free to go where we want, but we don’t have to find a place right away. Home is with the person you love, the person who loves you back stupidly and completely. Home is the space of peace in your heart.

And I’m finally home.

THOMAS MCKEE WIPES THE TEARS
from his cheeks as he drives through the mountains toward the Oregon border. The radio plays loudly in an attempt to drown out his thoughts. His regrets.

“Nicole,” he repeats aloud, as if he enjoys the sound of it. She looked well, and for that he was relieved. His daughter is finally safe. Deacon was annoying as ever, but of course in a way Tom could understand.

The music cuts out as a call comes through on his cell, and Tom sighs when he looks at the caller ID. He presses the hands-free option and answers.

“Hello, Marie,” he says dryly. “I would have called when I got closer to home.”

“How is she?” Marie asks instantly. “How does she look?”

Tom smiles, knowing that his affection for Quinn—Nicole—is matched by Marie’s. “She’s going by Nicole now,” he says. “It really suits her. She was nervous.” His lips start to shake, and he presses them together. “But I got to hug her.” His voice breaks, and the tears flow anyway.

The road grows blurry, so Tom pulls to the side and parks his sedan. He hears Marie sniffle on the other end of the line. Together they cry for the girl they raised as Quinlan. They cry that they’ll never know her as Nicole.

After a moment Marie clears her throat. Her voice is a stern echo in the empty car. “You know it was for the best,” Marie says. “If she knew you remembered her, she’d come back here. She’d never leave. And you see what Arthur has been doing to those who reject therapy. There’s no telling what he’d do to keep her quiet. We can’t let that happen to her.”

“I know,” he says miserably. “I know.”

“We’ll protect our girl, Tom. We’ll always protect her.”

Tom puts his hand over his eyes, trying to pull himself together. His daughter can never know how much he misses her. She’s too kind—she’ll come for him. This really was the only way.

A year ago the grief department gave him a choice—they give everyone a terrible choice. But he asked to be erased, refusing to tell them anything about Quinlan. Marie arranged for Evelyn Valentine to do his procedure. And instead Tom began working with her and Marie. He’s had to fake memory loss since, and it grows tiring at times.

“There is something else,” Marie says, a new urgency in her
voice. “I just got off the phone with Evelyn. She’s testing her theory. She thinks she has the right boy.”

Tom straightens, slipping back into work mode. “And?” he asks, checking his mirrors before swerving back out into the road.

“She’s given him The Treatment. Now she’s waiting to see how it takes. She thinks it’s the only way to counteract The Program.”

“Good,” he says with a small measure of hope. “Now what’s the bad news?” Because of course he can hear that in her voice too.

“She thinks Arthur and the board are onto her. She’s going to run.”

“Damn it,” Tom curses. After a few measured breaths he adds, “Then she should. The last thing we need is for her memories to compromise us.”

“I agree,” Marie says.

Tom continues driving toward home, thinking that every step they’ve taken toward ending The Program has been thwarted in some way. “Well then, let’s hope this boy is the cure for The Program.”

Marie laughs softly, almost desperately. “Yes, let’s,” she responds. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

Tom says good-bye and hangs up, watching the road that winds higher and higher. He thinks about Nicole again, hating how sad she looked, but happy that she was okay. But of course she would be okay—she’s strong. She’s brave and wonderful.

And he dares to let himself hope that one day, when this is all over, he’ll get a chance to see her again. So that they can be a family.

ALSO BY SUZANNE YOUNG

The Program

The Treatment

The Recovery

The Remedy

Hotel Ruby

Just Like Fate

with Cat Patrick

COMING SOON

All in Pieces

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SIMON PULSE

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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition April 2016

Text copyright © 2016 by Suzanne Young

Jacket photograph of couple copyright © 2016 by Michael Frost

Jacket background photograph copyright © 2016 by Shutterstock

Author photograph by Dawn Goei

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