Saving Max (3 page)

“Who are you?” A muscular girl with thick, oily hair stands before her with clenched fists.

Danielle tries to walk around her, but she blocks her path like a defensive back. “I’m a…mother.”

“I’m Naomi.” Her eyes snap like a bird whose nest has been threatened. “You that new kid’s mom?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a real brat, that one. I can tell.” She swaggers her hips back and forth and smirks. “He just better stay out of my way, that’s all. I’m dangerous.”

Danielle blinks, rooted where she stands. “What do you—”

“I cut people.”

“What?”

Naomi lifts up a greasy lock of hair and reveals a ruby keloid the size of a fat caterpillar on the side of her neck. “I practice on myself first.” Her fingers let the fatty strands fall back into place. Coal-pot smudges under her eyes look like
permanent bruises and are an odd contrast to her light eyes and gray skin. Danielle has one thought:
this ghoul is going to be with Max every day.

“Boundaries, Naomi.” It is big Dwayne. He inserts himself between Danielle and Naomi and points a large finger down the hall. “Move it.”

“Yeah, right, Duh-wayne.” Her eyes glitter like a raccoon holding a silver spoon in the dark. “Why don’t you get your sorry fucking face out of my
boundaries,
okay?”

“Get to your room. You know the drill.” Dwayne has the hardest soft voice Danielle has ever heard.

“Fuck you.”

“An hour. Solitary.”

Naomi skulks down the hall.

Dwayne turns to Danielle with a big grin. “Welcome to Fountainview, Mom.”

Danielle spends an exhausting morning at the hospital giving Reyes-Moreno Max’s life history. It so debilitates her that she goes back to the hotel, takes off all her clothes and sneaks between the cheap sheets like a downtown hooker on a lunch break. Marianne, who is staying at the same hotel, rousts her after only twenty minutes and hustles her off to the Olive Garden on Main Street.

Danielle settles into the fake leather booth, which exhales as she sits. The Olive Garden may be the only restaurant in Plano that actually serves wine with names on it, not just colors. Danielle is relieved to find that they have real knives and forks—not the antisuicide plastic of Maitland. The waitress takes their drink order and disappears.

Danielle sneaks a sidelong glance at Marianne’s ensemble. She wears a crisp, navy pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse. A diaphanous scarf with paisley butterflies is wound loosely around her neck and is held in place by a simple gold pin. Her blond hair is freshly coiffed. Her short nails are painted a demure beige that matches her bag, which brims with needlepoint and vivid yarns. Marianne appears supremely calm and composed in her femininity. Danielle glances down at her own pantsuit. Is everything she owns black?

They have been discussing their sons’ disabilities and disorders, their medications and Maitland. Danielle learns that Jonas has pervasive developmental delay (PDD), oppositional
defiance disorder (ODD), and is profoundly autistic. The prospect of a premature exchange of private information about her son—anathema to any New Yorker—keeps Danielle closemouthed. She does disclose that Max has Asperger’s, but does not reveal that Dr. Reyes-Moreno did her level best to persuade Danielle to go back to New York until the assessment is concluded. She cited the needs of the “process”—observation, transference, medication, testing—all of which apparently cannot take place effectively with her in the wings. Danielle had smiled politely, but has no intention of leaving.

As Marianne goes on with the litany of medical minutiae only mothers of these children find remotely interesting, Danielle hears something that catches her attention. “What did you say?”

Marianne snaps open a starched red napkin and fans it on her lap. “I was talking about a new drug Dr. Fastow, the über-psychopharmacologist, has prescribed for Jonas. I’m very excited about it, even though the potential side effects are disturbing.”

“What are they?”

Marianne shrugs. “Liver damage, heart problems, tardive dyskinesia.”

Danielle is alarmed. Long-term use of some antipsychotics—even the newer atypicals—can result in permanent physical problems, like irreversible rigidity of the extremities. Danielle imagines Max with his tongue stuck out in a frozen sneer or his arm jutted at a permanent right angle to his body. “Aren’t you scared?”

Marianne runs her finger down to a menu selection and holds it there. “Not really. It’s more important to be willing to take risks when you’re at this level.”

Danielle isn’t sure what she means. Maybe Max isn’t at the same level—whatever that is.

“So, tell me,” says Marianne. “Has Max ever been violent? I know that’s an issue for so many special-needs boys.”

Danielle feels her face flush. “No, not really. A few incidents at school.” And tearing at her arms.

Marianne squeezes her hand. “It’s okay. Jonas has been violent, too, but more in the nature of self-infliction. You know. Clawing at his arms, biting his knuckles—all perseverative behaviors.” She shrugs. “Besides, Jonas has had such severe problems since the time he was born that it’s a miracle we’ve made it this far. He was cyanotic as an infant—turned blue, you know. I had to sleep next to him night and day. One minute he’d be fine, and the next he’d be purple and cold as ice. I can’t tell you how many nights we spent in the emergency room.” She looks up. “Not exactly lunch conversation—sorry.”

“Not at all. How often do you see him? I get short visits in the morning and afternoon.”

Marianne’s eyes widen. “You’re joking, right?”

Danielle frowns. “No, Max’s psychiatrist says that anything more will interfere with his assessment.”

“Well, Dr. Hauptmann gives me unlimited access.”

“Dr. Hauptmann?”

“You saw him with me the other day.” Marianne gives her a surprised look. “He’s the foremost child psychiatrist in the country. I’m sure you researched all the doctors here, as I have.” Marianne accepts a white wine from the waitress with a big smile. “Dr. Hauptmann and I have been in contact for some time, and he agrees on the nature of my involvement in the assessment.” She shrugs. “I think it’s because I’m a doctor. We talk about things he can’t discuss with just any parent. If it were up to the staff—especially that Nurse Kreng—I’d never see Jonas.”

Danielle feels the effects of the wine. She sits back, finally unwinding. “Where are you from, Marianne?”

“I was born in a little Texas town called Harper—way up in the hill country. My daddy was a rancher.” Marianne laughs at Danielle’s raised eyebrows. “He said I was just like his cattle. I matured early, with a high carcass yield and nicely marbled meat. So I wouldn’t end up in a hayloft with one of those Harper boys, he shipped me off to the University of Texas.” She shrugs. “When I graduated, I applied to medical school and got in.”

“Where?” Danielle can’t help it. Pedigree means a lot to her.

“Johns Hopkins.”

“That’s very impressive.”

Marianne gives her an amused look. “Southern girls do have brains, you know.”

Danielle blushes. “What happened to your plans to practice medicine?”

“A month before I had Jonas, my husband, Raymond, had a massive coronary and passed away.”

Danielle grasps her hand. “How awful for you.”

Marianne gives Danielle’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you. It was difficult, but I have Jonas. He’s such a blessing.” Danielle nods, but can’t help thinking how blessed she would feel if her husband had died right before she gave birth to such a damaged, fractured child.

“So,” she says, “once I began to appreciate the extent of Jonas’s challenges, it became clear that I had to give up my dream of becoming a doctor. I couldn’t justify that path if it meant turning over my son’s care to a stranger, no matter how qualified.” She smiles at the waitress as she serves the entrées. After she leaves, she looks at Danielle with her beautiful blue
eyes. “So I took on part-time jobs as a pediatric nurse. It hasn’t been easy, but it gives me the flexibility I need.”

Danielle tries to think of something meaningful to say. Her respect for Marianne has grown commensurate with her quiet, dignified tale of self-sacrifice and love. She feels a stab of guilt. Would Max have had all these problems if she had stayed home? She looks at Marianne. No matter what her difficulties with Max, they are child’s play compared to this poor woman’s lot.

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.

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?