The Program Page 0,82
again, and I take a deep breath. The fear is gone, and instead I just close my eyes and lean my head back against the couch cushion.
Something about sitting here in my familiar living room is comforting, and yet I can’t help but think I should be doing something different. As if this is real, and at the same time . . . not. I’m relieved when my mom gets home with groceries, and I help her unpack them, thankful for the distraction.
• • •
“So how was the first day back?” my father asks from across the dinner table. His eyes are bright, and he’s smiling as he takes a bite of steak. The way my parents watch me is like I’m a miracle returned from the grave. They hang on my every word.
“It was good,” I tell him. “A little scary at first, but I made a friend.”
My mother beams, and she sets down her silverware. “You made a friend already?” She and my father exchange an eager glance. It makes me feel like a huge loser that my parents could be so happy about me making one friend.
“Her name is Lacey,” I say. “She sat with me at lunch.”
My mother pauses, then puts a large cut of steak into her mouth. I wait for her to ask questions, but she doesn’t. I stare down at my plate, and near my glass is another white pill. I decide that I don’t like this fog anymore. I decide I’m not going to take it.
“I’m meeting Lacey tonight at the Wellness Center,” I add quietly, taking a sip from my water. “The handler said it was healthy for me to socialize.”
“I agree,” my father says, sounding a little too upbeat. I’m struck with a sensation, an . . . outsideness. My parents are acting weird. Or maybe I’m the one who’s weird now.
I want to excuse myself to my room, but my mother starts talking about The Program again. She tells me that in the UK, they had their first class of patients released. She seems so proud of that fact—as if returners are elite somehow. I nod along, my mind racing. I try to remember my life just before The Program, but all I get are repeats of old memories: my father taking me and Brady for ice cream. My mother sewing a Halloween costume. The repeating starts to make my temples pulse, and I stop trying to think back, worried I might be doing damage.
Dr. Warren had been adamant about maintaining. She warned me that too much stimulus could affect the reconstruction they’d done on my mind. She said it could result in a break in reality, cause permanent psychosis.
But what if she was lying.
“Sloane.” My mother interrupts my train of thought. “You haven’t touched your food.”
I meet her concerned stare and then apologize, cutting a piece of meat. I can barely choke it down, especially when I notice a chalky aftertaste. Something Lacey said pops in my head—I think they put sedatives in the food.
When my mother starts talking again, I wipe my mouth with my napkin, careful to spit out the food. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe I’m losing it altogether. But instead of mentioning it, I ask if I can be excused to get ready for tonight.
My parents look disappointed, but then my mother reminds me to clear my place. “And don’t forget your pill,” she adds when I start toward the kitchen. I grab it quickly and toss it into my mouth.
But the minute I get into the kitchen, I spit it in the sink and scrape my food into the disposal. And then I grind it all to bits.
• • •
I pose in front of the mirror, turning from side to side to evaluate myself. My closet had been emptied and replaced with new clothing, the tags still on them. It seems strange to me that they’d get rid of all of my things, my entire wardrobe. Did they think an old T-shirt could send me into an emotional tailspin? Did I dress in all black and overline my eyes? I don’t remember. So right now I’m wearing a pink button down shirt that feels too stiff, paired with a khaki skirt. I look . . . painfully average.
Taking the brush from my dresser, I run it through my hair, sliding one side behind my ears when I’m done. It’s nearly six thirty, and Kevin will be here soon to take me to the