“No,” Dr. McKee says with a wince. “You don’t know, Tatum. Your mother took off with you when you were about five. She left the state.”
“Five?” I say, letting go of his jacket. “No, my mother left when I was a baby.”
Dr. McKee watches me carefully, and then continues his story despite the discrepancy. “Your grandparents didn’t think your mother was well, and they wanted her to get help. But she refused, and she ran off with you. I’d sit with your grandmother at work as she called around to hospitals, searching for unidentified bodies of a mother and her child. There was a stretch—nearly three months—when she was convinced you were both dead.”
He looks at the floor, his expression weighted with compassion. His mouth sagging. I don’t want to believe this. I have to trust some of my memories, and my childhood is beyond reproach. The manipulation can’t go that far back.
“Your grandmother asked me to help her... help her cope,” Dr. McKee says. “I was going to send in a closer to end the loop of grief—someone to pretend to be you so your grandmother could say how much she loved you. How she’d always protect you. And just before the closer was due to arrive,” Dr. McKee continues, “we got a call. Police had found your mother, safe—but malnourished and filthy.”
“And me?” I interrupt, growing invested in the story despite my doubts.
Dr. McKee’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at me when he talks. “You were there,” he says. “Same condition. Your mother was set to face charges of neglect, but she agreed to sign over custody of you to your grandparents and be on her way. However,” he says, looking at me finally. “You were having trouble with the new arrangement. You wanted to stay with your mother. Your grandmother asked what I could do to help you cope. And I...”
Dr. McKee flinches and clears his throat, looking perturbed.
“I brought you to Dr. Arthur Pritchard,” he says. “He was renowned for his work with children. He met with you, and through a combination of therapies, you forgot aboutbefore. Those memories were rewritten—happy ones with your grandparents placed instead. We gave you the gift of contentment.” He loosens his tie. “If you saw what you were like when you arrived, you would agree that it was a gift.”
“I wasfive.You stole my memories,” I say, offended. Horrified. “You and that prick thought that you knew what was best. You decided. At least my grandparents loved me; their complicity in this is somewhat understandable. But you...,” I sneer, unable to even find the right word to describe a man who manipulates grief, abuses broken hearts.
I’m about to shout, scream, when Dr. McKee sucks in a wispy breath of air, seeming to choke on it, before taking another. His eyes widen, and he quickly bangs once on his chest, hard enough to make it echo in the room. I take a startled step back, knocking into the chair and sending it to the floor with a loud thud.
He gasps again. “Marie,” he chokes out.
I look around the room and remember that she left. The doctor’s face is growing red on his cheeks, blue near his lips.
“Marie!” I scream, and it’s only a second before she rushes into the room.
I turn back to Dr. McKee, and his expression is twisted in pain. He reaches his arm out to Marie. Before she gets to him, he falls forward, and I do my best to catch him, stumbling back. Marie grabs on to him and carefully lowers him to the floor.
“Call 911,” Marie says to me calmly as she brushes the doctor’s hair off his forehead.
I take out my phone and dial, holding it to my ear as I watch them. Marie looks down at Dr. McKee.
“Stay calm,” she tells him soothingly.
Dr. McKee wraps his hands in her coat, his face pleading. “You have to call my daughter,” he begs. “You have to call Nicole.”
Marie stares at him, her dark eyes filling with tears. “You know I can’t do that, Tom,” she whispers back miserably. They hold each other’s gaze—a million words passing between them without a single one being uttered.
Dr. McKee’s hands slip from Marie’s coat, but she quickly catches his grip, her hand tightly around his. A tear drips onto her cheek and runs through her makeup.
Doctor McKee’s face has gone ashen, his glasses askew. His lips are bluish as he winces in pain again, his other fist clutching his chest. The 911 operator comes on, and I tell her we need an ambulance. She gets the address and tells me one is on the way. I put my phone away just as the door opens, and Nathan and Melody come rushing in.
Melody gasps and watches in horror, and Nathan comes to stand next to me, wrapping his arm over my shoulders—holding me steady.
Marie doesn’t let go of Dr. McKee’s hand; they watch each other. It’s a moment so full of secrets that I feel like I’m intruding. I open my mouth to ask if he’ll be all right, when Dr. McKee’s eyes roll back, his face scrunches up, and he chokes out a gurgling sound.
“Hold on, Tom,” Marie murmurs, although she doesn’t seem to believe it will do any good. She brings his knuckles to her mouth and presses them against her lips, her eyes squeezed shut as the tears flow freely now.
Dr. McKee fights to look at her, his eyelids fluttering. His face clears for a moment, and he smiles sadly at her.
“Tell her that I loved her more than anything,” he whispers, his face wet with tears. “Tell her that I’m sorry.”
Marie moans out what sounds like “I can’t,” and I don’t understand why she won’t just placate him. Lie to him to give him peace. But that must not be the sort of relationship they have. Painfully honest even until the last second. Even as they lie to everyone around them. I don’t know what it would be like to have someone be so truthful with me. Does anyone know that kind of loyalty?
Dr. McKee blinks slowly, his body relaxing back. “We could have done anything, Dr. Devoroux,” he murmurs. “Together, we could have saved the whole damn world.”
She laughs and uses her free hand to wipe the tears off his cheek. “I still will,” she says. “I’ll do it for her.”
