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Her face must reflect her dismay. Now it is Marianne who reaches over to pat Danielle’s hand. “It’s not so bad. We all have our trials and joys.”
“I just want you to know how much I admire you,” says Danielle. “You seem so strong and … balanced.”
“You’re stronger than you think.” She flashes her brilliant smile. “And we’re going to be great friends—I can tell.”
Danielle smiles back. Maybe she’s right. Maybe she does need a friend.
CHAPTER FIVE
Danielle looks up. Marianne catches her eye and smiles. They sit in companionable silence in a secluded area of the Fountainview unit called the “family room”—a misnomer if Danielle’s ever heard one. It is, however, the only place where they have any privacy and can avoid the daily traffic of nurses and patients going to and from their rooms. It is the only hideaway where they can pretend that everything is normal. Danielle closes her laptop for a moment. She is seriously behind in e-mailing a draft brief to E. Bartlett Monahan, her senior partner and the bane of her existence. He is the head litigation partner and a member of the management committee—one of the firm’s five powerhouses who rule them all. “King Prick,” as he is referred to by the associates, is forty-eight, a bachelor and a not-so-secret misogynist. E. Bartlett, as he insists on being called, doesn’t believe that women have the balls to be litigators, much less partners. Women are secretaries, mothers, other men’s wives and—when the urge strikes—to be slept with and discarded.
He has not taken kindly to her absence—not that she expected a whit of understanding from him. He has no experience with kids—and he certainly has no clue about special-needs children.
She rubs her eyes and takes in the scene. Marianne sits across from her, knitting what appears to be something complicated, while Jonas holds a ball of yarn, which he bounces in his hands. He mutters and shakes his head in that odd, rhythmic way that Danielle has come to recognize as his attempt to communicate. Marianne, dressed in a perfectly creased white pantsuit and silk scarf, appears not to notice Jonas’s machinations as she calmly knits and purls. Danielle has always avoided engaging in the domestic arts. Her experience has been that professional women cannot risk being perceived as weak or too feminine in any way—at least not litigators. Danielle has always secretly looked down upon women who stayed home as inferior in both position and choice. As she watches Marianne and Jonas and sees the love and devotion that binds them, she feels herself color and repents.
She certainly can’t claim that she has been the best parent in the world if Marianne is the benchmark. Unlike her, Danielle never contemplated quitting her career to take care of Max—not that she had the choice. The money had to come from somewhere. Still. She turns and takes in the sight of Max, pale and sprawled across the sofa next to her, sound asleep. Anyone looking at the two of them would probably only see the distance between them. Seeing him this way tears at her heart and gives way to the crushing panic she has felt since they came here. What is wrong with her child?
Her cell phone vibrates. Maitland does not permit the use of cell phones—probably to keep the schizophrenics from believing they’re on the line with God, she thinks. Sighing, she takes her phone, laptop and purse and walks out of the unit. She plops down on a white cement bench far enough out of sight so that Max can’t see her through the window as she shakes a cigarette from the pack. She lights it; inhales deliciously; and touches the iPhone’s various Apple icons to access her recent calls. Shit. E. Bartlett’s secretary. Another touch of the screen. A nasal voice announces that her brief is expected no later than tomorrow morning. She groans. Another late night downing hotel-coffee dregs.
She takes in the brilliant sunshine and vibrant blue sky. She relaxes body and mind, letting the warmth spill over her in golden waves. The last puff of her cigarette is a reluctant one. She has to go back into that sterile, unnatural place. It is agony to sit and not be able to do anything. She sighs and goes back to the unit, where one of the young nurses buzzes her in. As she walks down the hallway toward the family room, she hears shouting and wailing. Her heart slams in her chest as she breaks into a run. The sight that greets her is complete bedlam.
Dwayne, the gigantic orderly, has Max in a Mandt hold. He sits on the floor behind him with his burly arms cinched tightly around Max’s chest, his tree-stump legs preventing Max from moving. “Get off me, you son of a bitch!” He writhes, kicks and screams. “Motherfucker!” Dwayne holds him easily, his face impassive, as if he cradles a wild animal every day.
Naomi, her greasy, black hair flying, faces a young orderly who is trying to capture her. She lands a flying kick at his groin. He crumples to the ground, moaning. Another orderly, this one older and bigger, comes up behind her and twists her arms behind her back. Naomi breaks free and circles around him, her hands making swift slicing motions. Her voice is a crow screech. “You want what he got? Bring it on, dickhead!” Her Goth-black nails bite into her palms. She turns around and lands a powerful high kick on the orderly’s shoulder. He, too, is implacable as he hauls her kicking and screaming down the hall.
Jonas lies unconscious on the floor. Blood gushes from his forehead. Marianne is on the floor as she cradles his head and wails. Nurse Kreng towers over her. “Stand back, Mrs. Morrison! I cannot ascertain the extent of his injuries unless you desist.” Sobbing, Marianne pulls back and covers her mouth.
Danielle rushes over to Max as Dwayne rises to his feet, Max still chained in his arms. “Mrs. Parkman,” he says calmly, “I’m taking Max back to his room.”
“Let me go, you bastard!” Max bends over and kicks him with his heel. Dwayne merely shifts position, disabling Max once again.
Danielle grabs Max’s arm and crab walks with the pair as they make their way down the hallway. She hears her own voice—high-pitched, desperate. “Max! What in the world happened?”
Max twists his face toward her. “That freak Jonas came at me—that’s what happened!”
“What do you mean?”
“I was sleeping on the couch, and the next thing I know the creep’s got his arms around me! He got what he deserved!”
Terror strikes black into Danielle’s heart. “You hit him? Max—”
“Let go now, Ms. Parkman,” says Dwayne, puffing slightly with the effort of dragging Max down the hall. “I’ve got to get him out of here.”
Danielle watches helplessly as he hauls Max into his room. She rushes back to Marianne and, for the first time, notices spatters of bright red blood on Marianne’s white pantsuit. Jonas lies prostrate on the floor, partially hidden by the couch and coffee table. Nurse Kreng helps a groggy Jonas up and lays him on the couch. His eyes open briefly, register fear, and then close again.
“Jonas.” Nurse Kreng’s voice is loud and firm. “Open your eyes.” Jonas’s eyes open immediately. “Now, look at my fingers. How many do you see?” Jonas’s terrified eyes scan her hand. He shakes his head, moans and buries his face into Nurse Kreng’s ample bosom. Kreng looks up accusingly at Danielle. “Do you see what your son has done? He has mauled this poor boy!”
Danielle kneels before Jonas. Tears well in her eyes. “Oh, Jonas, I’m so sorry! I—” Her hand is slapped away.
“Sit down, Ms. Parkman!” Nurse Kreng’s eyes fire the command with such urgency that Danielle recoils and almost falls onto the couch. Three clucking nurses help Kreng take Jonas to his room.
Marianne wails and clutches her throat. She is so white that Danielle is afraid she may faint. Danielle rushes to her. “Marianne, oh, God—what can I say?” Marianne falls into Danielle’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
Nurse Kreng returns, casts a scathing glance at Danielle, and places a firm hand on Marianne’s arm. Marianne looks up, dazed and confused. Kreng pulls her free from Danielle’s embrace and gives her shoulders a slight shake. “He’ll have to be taken to the emergency room, Mrs. Morrison.” Marianne looks at her blankly. Kreng raises her voice, as if Marianne is deaf or dying. “He needs stitches. Don’t worry. The ambulance is on its way.”
Marianne seems clearer. “Are you sure? Can I go with him?”
Kreng shakes her head. “It’s best that you wait here. You need to collect yourself so you can comfort him when he returns.” She whips her head around and glares at Danielle. “Perhaps you can speak to Mrs. Morrison about who is going to cover the emergency room costs.”
Danielle takes a frightened breath. “But, Nurse, what about Max? Is he all right?”
Kreng turns so quickly on her eraser heel that it emits a loud squeal. She shoots Danielle a malevolent look. “Of course. He’s the attacker—not the victim.” She walks over to a white cabinet and unlocks it with one of perhaps twenty keys that dangle from a metal ring fastened to her belt.
Danielle takes a frightened breath. “But can’t I—”
“No, you can’t.” Kreng swiftly removes a small brown bottle filled with some kind of liquid. She then yanks out a plastic bag and rips it open. Danielle watches with horrified eyes as Kreng removes a menacing-looking syringe and holds it up, as if she wants to make sure that the needle is long enough.
Danielle’s eyes widen. “What are you doing?”
Kreng ignores her as she plunges the needle into the rubber top of the bottle. When she is finished, she holds the syringe; flicks it with a fingernail; and inspects it. Only then does she turn to Danielle. Her words are clipped. “I am sedating your son, Mrs. Parkman. He is completely out of control, and I must ensure that he will not endanger another patient on this unit. He will be restricted to his room until he can prove to my satisfaction that he is capable of civilized behavior. In any event, he will no longer be permitted to venture into the common areas without staff supervision.” Her eyes are as mean as a vulture’s before it plunges down for the kill. Her white heel squeaks violently as she turns to march down the hallway.
Danielle’s heart falls. What has happened to Max? Has he really become so violent that he would do such a thing? She can’t believe it, but there is apparently no denying that he viciously attacked poor Jonas. Marianne is now crying quietly, gelid tears streaming down her face. She raises her head and gives Danielle an imploring look. “Oh, God, Danielle, you’ve got to help me. Promise me that you’ll keep your boy away from Jonas.” She stares down at the blood on her shaking hands. “This is a nightmare.”
Danielle pulls Marianne gently down on the couch next to her, far away from the place where Jonas fell and where his precious blood has formed a dark pool on the white, cold floor. She tries to keep the fear and horror out of her voice. “Marianne, tell me what happened.”
Marianne nods and takes a deep breath. “We were just sitting here. I was distracted by my knitting, I suppose, and didn’t notice when Jonas went over to Max. All he did was try to hug him, Danielle—I saw it with my own eyes!”
“What did Max do?”
Marianne twists her hands in her lap. She raises miserable eyes to Danielle. “He beat him. First he threw him against the coffee table, and then he beat him.” She points to the low coffee table that is now at a crazy angle to the sofa. Marianne points. “See that? See Jonas’s blood? He hit his head on the corner and split it wide open.”
Danielle recoils. She still can’t believe it. She knows Max. He has never harmed another human being. Her heart sinks. Well, there were a few altercations at school, but those were just hormonal clashes. As Danielle moves forward once again to comfort the shaking Marianne, a thought sears through her brain. Her boy has truly spiraled out of control. She doesn’t know him—this violent stranger. A wild, primitive terror grips her. Where is Max? Her heart whispers the truth. He is in a place she can’t reach him. Will she ever get him back?
CHAPTER SIX
Danielle and Max sit on a bench in the hospital courtyard the next morning. He seems groggy from whatever monster sedative Kreng injected into him. Danielle puts an arm around his shoulders and gives him a squeeze. As she looks at him, so subdued and sweet, she believes that he must be terribly remorseful about his behavior yesterday. After considerable thought, she has dismissed the horrible incident as a fluke. She knows that Max is terrified that he may be like the other patients in the unit, and Jonas is, sad to say, the very worst example for him to see every day. Danielle is certain that when Jonas surprised him, Max’s retaliation was merely a knee-jerk response. That must be what happened.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?”
Max moves out of her embrace and turns to her, his face pale and anxious. “I feel—weird. Like things in my head are sort of scrambled.”
“What do you mean?” She keeps her voice nonchalant.
His face closes. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“Max, we need to talk about what happened yesterday.”
He glares at her. “What about it?”
“Why did you attack Jonas?”
Max’s face flares red. “It wasn’t my fault! The guy came at me while I was asleep. I just pushed him off of me and he fell. He’s a freak—always mooning around and driving everyone nuts.”
“But Marianne says you hit him.”
Max jumps up from the bench and points an angry finger at her. “Then she’s a goddamned liar!”
Danielle decides to switch the subject. They won’t get anywhere this way. “Okay, Max. Come sit down.”
He sits, but this time at the end of the bench, as far away from her as possible.
Danielle sighs. “Are you feeling okay physically?”
He shrugs. “I guess so. Kind of sick to my stomach.”
“It’s just the new meds.” She avoids mentioning the sedative. There is no need to set off another outburst. She pats his arm. “The doctor says you’ll feel better in a few days.” Max grunts, leans back, and closes his eyes. Danielle takes a deep breath and then asks the real question. “Are you feeling less … depressed?”
Max opens his eyes wide enough to glower at her. “Don’t go there, Mom.”
Danielle nods and tries to look as if everything is all right. She turns her face up to the warm sunlight, and they sit like that in companionable silence. Then Max moves closer and lays his hand on her arm. “Mom?”
“What is it, honey?”
His eyes are wide with a fear he can’t hide from her, although he’s trying to do exactly that. The piercing on his eyebrow looks particularly cruel above the dark smudges under his eyes. “Dr. Reyes-Moreno said she has some tests for me today—if I’m not too sleepy.” He is quiet a moment, hands folded on his lap. He raises sad eyes slowly to hers. “After I finish those, will they tell her if I’m nuts?”
Her spine stiffens as she fights to speak in a normal voice. “You’re not nuts.”
Max slumps down farther on the bench, refusing to meet her gaze. Danielle tries to take his hands in hers, but he pulls away. “Yeah, right,” he mutters. “That’s why I’m here. Have you noticed how sane the rest of these geeks are? Not to mention that creep yesterday.”
Danielle cannot disagree, so she does what she usually does in such situations. She bullshits. “You’re different from those kids, sweetie,” she says softly. “All they’re going to do here is fine-tune your medication and get to the bottom of your … depression.”
Max lowers his head like a veal calf that’s been lied to about its imminent slaughter. “Sure.”
All Danielle can think about is how awful it must be for him to watch these terribly disturbed children and to worry if—or when—someone is going to tell him how screwed up he is. She holds out her hand, palm up, their secret sign of solidarity. He places his on top, and they link fingers. His hand is almost bigger than hers now.
“Mom?”
She takes a deep breath. “Yes, baby?”
His green eyes stare directly into hers. “What do we do if they say I’m really crazy?” He turns away quickly, as if he can’t bear hearing the question out loud, much less the answer. Danielle takes him in her arms and holds him to her. His thin body quivers like a mouse caught in a trap. She squeezes him tighter.
She doesn’t have any answers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Danielle manages to slip a twenty-dollar bill to the bartender and grasp the icy double vodka he offers. Anything more than this is beyond her physical or emotional capabilities. Witnessing Max’s fear and pain this afternoon proved more than she could bear. After they went back to the unit, Danielle deposited Max into the care of a chipper Reyes-Moreno, who bustled him off for testing. The backward glance Max gave her tore a fresh slash in her heart.
She takes a healthy sip of her drink. The cold and wet of it jump-starts her, the alcohol producing a welcome effulgence that shimmers down her body. She relaxes enough to take in her surroundings. Plano is a one-horse town, and the hotel is modest, but the bar is a thing of beauty. Soft chandeliers bathe the room in forgiving pools of light as soft music slips through hidden speakers. The carpet, thick and luscious, mutes the murmur of guests who sit around low, glass tables, conversing in small tribes. Danielle drinks steadily until the glass is empty and then holds it up, ice cubes tinkling. The bartender catches her eye and nods. Just as he slides the next glass of elixir across the slick wood of the bar, someone touches her elbow.
“Excuse me.”
Danielle turns. A man stands before her. She puts him at about six foot three and fiftysomething. He has white hair at the properly distinguished places around his temples. All-starched white shirt, designer tie and custom suit, he is the epitome of a successful businessman. It is only the kind, brown eyes that prevent Danielle from giving him her customary terse dismissal. “Yes?”
“This is a bad cliché, but may I buy you a drink?” His voice is deep, mellifluous. “I promise—if you don’t want company, just say so, and I’ll go sit in a corner and drown my proverbial sorrows.”
Danielle regards him for a long moment. Her choice is the same as his. Either she can sit here and run the miserable reel of her life over and over, or she can talk to someone else and try to forget about Max for a few minutes. She is suddenly aware that the black dress she slipped on after her shower clings closely to her body. She forces a small smile. “One drink—and then back to your corner.”
The smile he flashes back seems genuine. He takes the seat next to her and raises his index finger at the bartender. “One of what she’s having. When hers is empty, bring another.”
“This is already my second.”
He turns and fastens mesmerizing brown eyes upon her. “Then I’ll have to catch up.”
She holds out her hand and makes a split decision. “Lauren.”
“Tony. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There is an awkward silence as they wait for his drink to arrive. When it does, he raises his glass to hers. “To a better evening than the day before it.”
“I’ll certainly drink to that.” They clink.
“So,” he says, “what possible reason could you have to be in Plano, Iowa? You’ve got big-city girl written all over you.”
She smiles. “Good guess. Manhattan.”
“Aha.” He reaches over the bar and relieves a plastic container of its olives. He lays a few on her cocktail napkin. “The question still stands.”
Danielle dodges his glance. “You first.”
“It’s too clichéd,” he says. “I’m going through a divorce. My wife prefers that I live elsewhere until it’s final.”
Danielle raises an eyebrow. He laughs. “No, really—it’s the truth. I have family and friends here.”
“So, what are you doing at a hotel?”
He gives her a wry glance. “Would you stay with family when you’re the one who wants the divorce?”
“Point taken.” Danielle takes a sip of water, flaming the small hope that it will cut the vodka already swimming around in her head. “Do you have children?”
“No.” His voice has something bitter and raw about it.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”
“Not at all. And you?” He takes off his jacket and folds it crisply over the back of his chair. Danielle catches a waft of something—Old Spice mixed with man, perhaps. It creates an urgent longing in her, one she immediately dismisses. She can’t afford these selfish thoughts, not while Max is in that terrible place. As if he reads her thoughts, he touches her hand. “Listen, if the subject makes you uncomfortable, let’s talk about something else.”
She looks at him gratefully. “Thank you.”
“Are you married?”
She laughs. “I thought you were going to change the subject.”
