Tabula

Chapter 1: The Glitch

The notification appeared twice on Judith Carmichael's phone, identical timestamps glowing in the morning light.

TABULA REMINDER: Your annual wellness appointment is confirmed for March 15th. Thank you for seven years of continued trust.

She stared at the screen while her coffee grew cold. Seven years. That couldn't be right. She remembered three visits—her first after the Henderson project fell through and she couldn't stop replaying her presentation failures, then two more for smaller things. Work stress. A colleague's betrayal. Nothing major. Mental hygiene, she called it. Everyone who could afford Tabula used it eventually.

But seven years?

She deleted both notifications and told herself it was a database error. Tabula was a massive operation now, FDA-approved and publicly traded. Glitches happened.

David was already dressed when she came downstairs, adjusting his cuffs in the hallway mirror. At fifty-two, he'd grown into the kind of distinguished that photographed well at charity events. Silver at the temples, strong jaw, the perpetual tan of someone who golfed year-round.

"You're up early," he said without turning.

"Couldn't sleep."

"The Morrison project?"

She nodded, though the Morrison project hadn't crossed her mind in days. Her firm had won the bid three weeks ago—a performing arts center that would anchor the city's new cultural district. It was the kind of commission that defined careers.

"Don't forget we have the Hendersons tonight," David said, finally meeting her eyes in the mirror. "Dinner at Aurelio's. Eight o'clock."

"I remember."

He paused, something flickering across his face. "I laid out the blue dress. The one you wore to the symphony gala."

"I can pick my own clothes, David."

"Of course." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I just thought—you looked beautiful in it."

He kissed her cheek and was gone before she could respond. Judith stood in the empty foyer, surrounded by the house they'd designed together fifteen years ago. Clean lines, abundant light, every element intentional. She knew this house better than she knew herself.

Which was, she was beginning to realize, not very well at all.

---

The Tabula building rose seventeen stories above downtown, its facade a seamless curve of glass and steel that Judith had always admired from a professional standpoint. She'd even submitted a proposal when they'd announced the design competition eight years ago. Lost to a firm from Copenhagen.

She sat in the waiting room now, surrounded by soft neutrals and the gentle burble of a water feature. The aesthetic was deliberately forgettable—ironic, given the company's purpose.

"Mrs. Carmichael?" A young woman in medical scrubs appeared. "Dr. Osman will see you now."

Dr. Layla Osman had been Judith's assigned physician since her first visit. She was small and precise, with dark hair pulled back severely and glasses that magnified her eyes into something almost owlish. According to her file—which Judith had looked up that morning—she'd trained at Johns Hopkins and published extensively on targeted memory modification.

"Judith." Dr. Osman rose from behind her desk, gesturing to a leather chair. "This is unexpected. Your appointment isn't until next week."

"I received a notification this morning. Two, actually. Identical."

"A technical issue. I apologize for any confusion."

"The notification said seven years."

Dr. Osman's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes. A subtle tensing. "Did it?"

"I've only been here three times. I remember three times."

"Memory is subjective, Judith. That's rather the point of what we do."

"Are you telling me I've been here seven times?"

Dr. Osman folded her hands on the desk. Her nails were unpainted, clipped short. "I'm telling you that I can't discuss the specifics of your treatment history without proper authorization. You signed consent forms that include—"

"I signed forms for three procedures."

"You signed forms for each procedure you underwent. The forms themselves are part of the suppression protocol." Dr. Osman's voice was patient, almost kind. "This is by design, Judith. Clients who remember the administrative details of their visits are more likely to experience intrusive thoughts about what they've chosen to forget. We remove the scaffolding along with the structure."

Judith felt something cold settle in her chest. "So I could have been here a hundred times and I wouldn't know."

"There are legal limits. One procedure per calendar year, per client. Federal regulation."

"Seven years, then. Seven procedures."

Dr. Osman said nothing.

"What did I forget?"

The doctor's hands remained folded, her face professionally neutral. "I can't tell you that."

"It's my own memory."

"It was your memory. You chose to release it. Voluntarily, with full informed consent." She paused. "Judith, I understand this is disorienting. But please remember—you came to us. Each time, you made a deliberate choice to let something go. We don't take that lightly, and neither should you."

"I want to see my file."

"That would require a court order."

"Then I'll get one."

Dr. Osman studied her for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice had softened. "I've seen this before. Clients who stumble across evidence of their visits and become consumed with recovering what they've lost. It rarely ends well. The memories were removed for a reason. Trust your past self's judgment."

"My past self didn't know she'd forget making the decision."

"That's the point." Dr. Osman stood, signaling the end of their meeting. "Clean breaks. No residue. That's what you paid for."

Judith didn't move. "Seven years. Every single year for seven years. What could possibly be worth erasing that many times?"

The doctor's composure cracked, just slightly. A flicker of something that might have been pity. "The things we can't live with," she said quietly. "The things that would destroy us if we had to carry them."

---

David was home when she returned, which was unusual. He typically worked until seven, sometimes later. But there he was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove.

"You're cooking," she said.

"Pasta primavera. Your favorite."

Was it? She searched her memory and found only vague associations—yes, she liked pasta, she supposed. But her favorite?

"How was your day?" he asked, not turning from the stove.

"Fine. Meetings."

"The Morrison project?"

"Among other things."

She watched him move through the kitchen with practiced ease, reaching for spices without looking, adjusting the heat with absent precision. He'd always been a better cook than her. That much she remembered.

"David, how long have we been married?"

He stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "Eighteen years in June. You know that."

"Eighteen years." She let the number sit between them. "Do you remember our wedding?"

"Of course."

"Tell me about it."

He turned now, wooden spoon in hand, something wary in his expression. "Judith, what's this about?"

"Indulge me."

"It was at the botanical gardens. June 15th. You wore your mother's dress. We had the reception in the conservatory because you wanted to be surrounded by living things." He smiled, but it looked rehearsed. "You cried during your vows."

"Did I?"

"You don't remember?"

She didn't. She remembered being married—the fact of it, the daily reality—but the wedding itself was a blur of generic images that could have come from any ceremony. White dress. Flowers. Champagne. Nothing specific. Nothing real.

"I'm tired," she said. "Long day."

"The pasta will be ready in ten minutes."

"I'm not hungry."

She left him standing in the kitchen, spoon dripping sauce onto the floor, and climbed the stairs to their bedroom. In the walk-in closet, the blue dress hung exactly where David had said it would be. She touched the fabric—silk, expensive—and tried to remember buying it.

Nothing.

She tried to remember the symphony gala where she'd apparently worn it.

Nothing.

She tried to remember anything specific from the last seven years and found only a smooth, featureless landscape. Events she knew had happened but couldn't actually recall. Dinners and trips and ordinary days that existed only as facts, not experiences.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her assistant about tomorrow's client meeting. She started to respond, then stopped.

The notification had said seven years of continued trust.

Seven years ago, her sister Rachel had still been alive.