Czytaj książkę: «Saving Max»

About the Author

ANTOINETTE VAN HEUGTEN knows first-hand the struggles and triumphs of living with autism and has always been an advocate for her children in a world where few people understood their disorder. She is an avid follower of the Autism Society of America, Talk Autism, Autism Speaks, the National Autism Association and Moms Fighting Autism and has worked with parents who have recently received a diagnosis of autism for their children.

Antoinette received both her undergraduate degree and law degree from the University of Texas in Austin, Texas. During her fifteen-year career as a trial lawyer, she practised all over the world, in locations such as Scandinavia, Germany and the Netherlands to Houston, her home town.

Antoinette resides in Fredericksburg, Texas, with her husband, a former prominent oil and gas lawyer.

Saving

Max

Antoinette

Van Heugten

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Bill,

who has made all of my dreams come true.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank all of my friends and family who have steadfastly supported and encouraged me. They have read my manuscript ad nauseam—and still love me. For my brilliant agent, Al Zuckerman, for taking a chance on a new writer and for his insistence on excellence; for Linda McFall, for loving the book and making this happen. For Glenn Cambor, who first told me to write and then kept my head on straight while I did. For Beverly Swerling, my reader, without whom this novel would still be in a box under my desk. My heartfelt thanks to Jim and Jeanine Barr, who provided their criminal law expertise; Wayman Allen, for his police and private investigator savvy; Dawn Weightman, for her steadfast devotion and love; for Lane, Tom, Kelly and Cynthia—who made me laugh every day. A special thanks to my three sons—Brendan, Sam and Jack—who have inspired me and given me the privilege of being their mother. And for Bill—my editor, my love, my life.

The precursor of the mirror is the mother’s face.

D.W. WINNICOTT, PLAYING AND REALITY, 1971

Anything that is deliberate, twisted, created as a trap and as a mystery must be discovered at last; everything that is done naturally remains mysterious.

G.K.CHESTERTON, ROBERT BROWNING, 1903

PART ONE

PROLOGUE

She walks down a deserted hallway of the psychiatric hospital, her heels tapping a short staccato on the disinfected floor. She pauses; pushes open a door; and steps inside. The room is red, all red, with dark, sick spatters of blood. They stab and soar at the ceiling and walls, pool on the floor. She claps both hands to her mouth, trying to stifle the scream that tears at her throat. Her eyes are pulled to the body on the bed. The boy lies gaping at the ceiling, his eyes blue ice. Her fingers, slick with his blood, find no pulse. She scrambles for the nurse’s button—and freezes.

There, on the floor next to the bed, lies a huddled form—a boy not so different from the corpse above him. His face and hands are smeared with blackened blood, but this time her frantic search for a pulse is rewarded with a faint throb. It is then that she sees it.

Clutched in his hand is a long, spiked object, covered in the slime and blood that lacerates the room. Grasped in that hand, as tightly as a noose, is the murder weapon.

CHAPTER ONE

Danielle falls gratefully into the leather chair in Dr. Leonard’s waiting room. She has just raced from her law firm’s conference room, where she spent the entire morning with a priggish Brit who couldn’t imagine that his business dealings across the pond could possibly have subjected him to the indignities of a New York lawsuit. Max, her son, sits in his customary place in the corner of the psychiatrist’s waiting room—as far away from her as possible. He is hunched over his new iPhone, thumbs punching furiously. It’s as if he’s grown a new appendage, so rarely does she see him without it. At his insistence, Danielle also has an identical one in her purse. The faintest shadow of a moustache stains his upper lip, his handsome face marred by a cruel, silver piercing on his eyebrow. His scowl is that of an adult, not a child. He seems to feel her stare. He looks up and then averts his lovely, tenebrous eyes.

She thinks of all the doctors, the myriad of medications, the countless dead ends, and the dark, seemingly irreversible changes in Max. Yet somehow the ghost of her boy wraps his thin, tanned arms around her neck—his mouth cinnamon-sweet with Red Hots—and plants a sticky kiss on her cheek. He rests there a moment, his small body breathing rapidly, his heart her metronome. She shakes her head. To her, there is still only one Max. And in the center of this boy lies the tenderest, sweetest middle—her baby, the part she can never give up.

Her eyes return to the present Max. He’s a teenager, she tells herself. Even as the hopeful thought flits across her mind, she knows she is lying to herself. Max has Asperger’s Syndrome, high-functioning autism. Although very bright, he is clueless about getting along with people. This has caused him anguish and heartache all his life.

When he was very young, Max discovered computers. His teachers were stunned at his aptitude. Now sixteen, Danielle still has no idea of the extent of Max’s abilities, but she knows that he is a virtual genius—a true savant. While this initially made him fascinating to his peers, none of them could possibly maintain interest in the minutiae Max droned on about. People with Asperger’s often wax rhapsodic about their specific obsessions—whether or not the listener is even vaguely interested in the topic. Max’s quirky behavior and learning disabilities have made him the object of further ridicule. His response has been to act out or retaliate, although lately it seems that he has just withdrawn further into himself, cinching thicker and tighter coils around his heart.

Sonya, his first real girlfriend, broke up with him a few months ago. Max was devastated. He finally had a relationship—like everybody else—and she dumped him in front of all his classmates. Max became so depressed that he refused to go to school; cut off contact with the few friends he had; and started using drugs. The latter she discovered when she walked into his room unannounced to find Max staring at her coolly—a joint in his hand; a blue, redolent cloud over his head; and a rainbow assortment of pills scattered carelessly on his desk. She didn’t say a word, but waited until he took a shower a few hours later and then confiscated the bag of dope and every pill she could find. That afternoon she dragged him—cursing and screaming—to Dr. Leonard’s office. The visits seemed to help. At least he had gone back to school and, in an odd way, seemed happier. He was tender and loving toward Danielle—a young Max, eager to please. As far as the drugs went, her secret forays into his room turned up nothing. That wasn’t to say, of course, that he hadn’t simply moved them to school or a friend’s house.

But, she thinks ruefully, recent events pale in comparison to what brings them here today. Yesterday after Max left for school and she performed her daily search-and-seizure reconnaissance, she discovered a soft, leather-bound journal stuffed under his bed. Guiltily, she pried open the metal clasp with a paring knife. The first page so frightened her that she fell into a chair, hands shaking. Twenty pages of his boyish scrawl detailed a plan so intricate, so terrifying, that she only noticed her ragged breathing and stifled sobs when she looked around the room and wondered where the sounds were coming from. Did the blame lie with her? Could she have done something differently? Better? The old shame and humiliation filled her.

The door opens and Georgia walks in. A tiny blonde, she sits next to Danielle and gives her a brief, strong hug. Danielle smiles. Georgia is not only her best friend—she is family. As an only child with both parents gone, Danielle has come to rely upon Georgia’s unflagging loyalty and support, not to mention her deep love for Max. Despite her sweet expression, Georgia has the quick mind of a tough lawyer. Their law firm is Blackwood & Price, a multinational firm with four hundred lawyers and offices in New York, Oslo and London. She is typically in her office by now—seated behind a perfectly ordered desk, a pile of finished work at her elbow. Danielle can’t remember when she has been so glad to see someone. Georgia gives Max a wave and a smile. “Hi, you.”

“Hey.” The monosyllabic task accomplished, he closes his eyes and slouches lower into his chair.

“How is he?” asks Georgia.

“Either glued to his laptop or on that damned phone of his,” she whispers. “He doesn’t know I found his … journal. I’d never have gotten him here otherwise.”

Georgia squeezes her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. We’ll get through this somehow.”

“You’re so wonderful to come. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” She forces normality into her voice. “So, how did it go this morning?”

“I barely got to court in time, but I think I did okay.”

“What happened?”

She shrugs. “Jonathan.”

Danielle squeezes her hand. Her husband, Jonathan, although a brilliant plastic surgeon, has an unquenchable thirst that threatens to ruin not only his marriage, but his career. Georgia suspects that he is also addicted to cocaine, but has voiced that fear only to Danielle. No one at their law firm seems to know, despite his boorish behavior at the last Christmas party. The firm, an old-line Manhattan institution, does not look kindly upon spousal comportment that smacks of anything other than the rarified, blue-blooded professionals they believe themselves to be. With a two-year-old daughter, Georgia is reluctant to even consider divorce.

“What was it this time?” asks Danielle.

Her azure eyes are nubilous. “Came in at four; passed out in the bathtub; pissed all over himself.”

“Oh, God.”

“Melissa found him and came crying into the bedroom.” Georgia shakes her head. “She thought he was dead.”

This time it is Danielle who does the hugging.

Georgia forces a smile and turns her gaze upon Max, who has sunk even lower into his leather chair and appears to be asleep. “Has the doctor read his journal?”

“I’m sure he has,” she says wearily. “I messengered it to him yesterday.”

“Have you heard from the school?”

“He’s out.” Max’s principal had politely suggested to Danielle that another “environment” might be more “successful” in meeting Max’s “challenges.” In other words, they want him the hell out of there.

Max’s Asperger’s has magnified tenfold since he became a teenager. As his peers have graduated to sophisticated social interaction, Max has struggled at a middle-school level. Saddled with severe learning disabilities, he stands out even more. Danielle understands it. If you are incessantly derided, you cannot risk further social laceration. Isolation at least staunches the pain. And it isn’t as if Danielle hasn’t tried like hell. Max had cut a swath through countless schools in Manhattan. Even the special schools that cater to students with disabilities had kicked him out. For years she had beaten paths to every doctor who might have something new to offer. A different medication. A different dream.

“Georgia,” she whispers. “Why is this happening? What am I supposed to do?” She looks at her friend. Sadness is one emotion they mirror perfectly in one another’s eyes. Danielle feels the inevitable pressure at the back of her eyes and fiddles with the hem of her skirt. There’s a thread that won’t stay put.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Georgia’s voice is a gentle spring rain. “There has to be a solution.”

Danielle clenches her hands as the tears come hard and fast. She glances at Max, but he is still asleep. Georgia pulls a handkerchief from her purse. Danielle wipes her eyes and returns it. Without warning, Georgia reaches over and pushes up the sleeve of Danielle’s blouse—all the way to the elbow. Danielle jerks her arm back, but Georgia grabs her wrist and pulls her arm toward her. Long, red slashes stretch from pulse to elbow.

“Don’t!” Danielle yanks her sleeve down, her voice a fierce whisper. “He didn’t mean it. It was just that one time—when I found his drugs.”

Georgia’s face is full of alarm. “This can’t go on—not for him and not for you.”

Danielle jerks back her arm and fumbles furiously with her cuff. The scarlet wounds are covered, but her secret is no longer safe. It is hers to know; hers to bear.

“Ms. Parkman?” The bland, smooth voice is straight from central casting. The short haircut and black glasses that frame Dr. Leonard’s boyish face are cookie-cutter perfect—a walking advertisement for the American Psychiatric Association.

Still panicked by Georgia’s discovery, she wills herself to appear normal. “Good morning, Doctor.”

He regards her carefully. “Would you like to come in?”

Danielle nods, hastily gathering her things. She feels hot crimson flush her face.

“Max?” asks Dr. Leonard.

Barely awake, Max shrugs. “Whatever.” He struggles to his feet and reluctantly follows Dr. Leonard down the hall.

Danielle flings a terrified glance at Georgia. She feels like a deer trapped in a barbed-wire fence, its slender leg about to snap.

“Don’t worry.” Georgia’s gaze is blue and true. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

She takes a deep breath and straightens. It is time to walk into the lion’s den.

Danielle files into the room after Max and Dr. Leonard. She takes in the sleek leather couch with a kilim pillow clipped to it and the obligatory box of tissues prominent on the stainless steel table. She walks to a chair and sits. She is dressed in one of her lawyer outfits. This is not where she wants to wear it.

Max sits in front of Dr. Leonard’s desk, his chair angled away from them. Danielle turns to Dr. Leonard and gives him a practiced smile. He smiles back and inclines his head. “Shall we begin?”

Danielle nods. Max is silent.

Dr. Leonard adjusts his glasses and glances at Max’s journal. Dense notes cover his yellow pad. He looks up and speaks in a soft voice. “Max?”

“Yeah?” His scowl speaks volumes.

“We need to discuss something very serious.”

Dr. Leonard takes a deep breath and fixes Max with his gaze. “Have you been having thoughts of suicide?”

Max starts and looks accusingly at Danielle. “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”

“Are you sure?” Leonard’s voice is gentle. “It’s safe here, Max. You can talk about it.”

“No way. I’m gone.” Just as he starts for the door, he catches a glimpse of the leather journal on the corner of Leonard’s desk. He freezes. His face a boiling claret, he whips around and shoots Danielle a look of pure hatred. “Goddammit! That’s none of your fucking business!”

Her heart feels as if it will burst. “Sweetheart, please let us help you! Killing yourself is not the answer, I promise you.” Danielle rises and tries to embrace him.

Max shoves her so hard that she slams her head against the wall and slides to the floor. “Max—no!” she cries. His eyes widen in alarm, and for a moment, he reaches out to her, but then lurches back; grabs the journal; and bolts out of the room. The slamming of the door splits the air.

Dr. Leonard rushes over to Danielle; helps her to her feet; and guides her gently to a chair. She shakes all over. Leonard then takes a seat and looks gravely at her over his glasses. “Danielle, has Max been violent at home?”

Danielle shakes her head too quickly. The scars on her arm seem to burn. “No.”

He sits quietly and then puts his notes into a blue folder. “Given Max’s clinical depression, suicidal ideations and volatility, we have to be realistic about his needs. He requires intensive treatment by the best the profession has to offer. My recommendation is that we act immediately.”

She tries not to let him see that her breathing has become irregular. Like an animal trapped in another’s lair, she has to be extremely careful about her reaction. “I’m not certain what that means.”

“I mentioned this option earlier, and now I’m afraid we have no choice.” His usually kind eyes are obsidian. “Max needs a complete psychiatric assessment—including his medication protocol.”

Danielle stares at the floor, a prism of tears clouding her eyes. “You mean …”

His voice floats up to her very softly, very slowly. “Maitland.”

Danielle feels her stomach free-fall. There is that word.

It is as final as the closing of a coffin.

CHAPTER TWO

During the trip from Des Moines to Plano, Iowa, she drives as Max sleeps. Despite the chaos of suitcases, cabs, traffic and nightmarish arguments, they somehow caught the flight from New York. She had tried every form of plea and coercion to get Max’s agreement to go to Maitland. It was only after she broke down completely that Max relented—just barely. She didn’t wait for him to change his mind. She stayed up all night, constantly peeking into his bedroom to make sure he was … alive. The next day they were on that plane.

Her anxiety lessens as she settles into the thrum of the road. She lights a cigarette and lowers her window, hoping that Max won’t wake up. He hates it when she smokes. The landscape is a flat, weary brown. It is only after they reach Plano and turn off the highway that all around them explodes. Every broad leaf is a stroke of green, bursting with liquid sun. She smells the aftermath of swollen showers and imagines a flood of expiation that wipes the world clean, leaving one incorruptible—the black, secret earth. It is a sign of hope, she decides, a presentiment that all will be well.

As she drives on, she turns her face to the sun, relaxes in its warmth, and thinks of Max as a small boy. One afternoon in particular flashes in her mind. At her father’s farm in Wisconsin, shortly before he died, Danielle rocked gently in the porch swing and watched as the afternoon sun burnished gold into the summer air and turned her bones to butter.

As she sank deeper into the worn cushion, Max clambered up and sprawled across her lap. They had been swimming all morning and, exhausted, Max wrapped his arms tightly around her neck and fell into that syncopated stupor unique to young boys. She breathed deeply of the heady scent of magnolias that hung over them—voluptuous, cream-colored blossoms so heavy and full that their tenuous grip upon stem and branch threatened to drop them softly onto the lush green below. Their scent was interlaced with her son’s essence—a mixture of boy sweat, sunburned skin and dark spice. As she held him closer, she felt his heart echo the strong beat of her own. Eyes closed, she gave herself up to the languid moment of mother and child, perfect in its communion and im-permanence—so intense as to be indistinguishable from piercing sadness or exquisite joy. They would always be like this, she had thought. Nothing, she vowed, would ever tear them apart.

It is then that she looks up at the white, arched gate. It is then that she reads the weathered sign. Faded words hang in black, metal letters, pierced against the sky.

Maitland, it says, swinging in the breeze.

Maitland Psychiatric Asylum.

CHAPTER THREE

Danielle and Max sit in a bright orange room and watch the group leader arrange a circle of blue plastic chairs. The linoleum is a dizzying pattern of white-and-black squares and smells of disinfectant. Parents and awkward adolescents file reluctantly into the room. Danielle’s heart twists in her chest. How can she possibly be in this place with Max? The faces of the parents all reveal the same ugly mixture of hope and fear, resignation and denial—each with an unholy, tragic story to tell. They look like burn victims steeling themselves before another layer of skin is stripped away.

Max is by her side, angry and embarrassed because he’s old enough to know exactly where he is. He has not spoken since they arrived. He looks so—boy. An oversize polo shirt finishes off rumpled chinos and Top-Siders with no socks. The sports watch he wears is too big, as if he’s playing dress-up with his father’s watch. Unbidden, he shaved off the wispy moustache the night before they left New York. His mouth is a small line, the width of a piece of mechanical pencil lead. His one act of defiance remains—the cold, ugly piercing on his eyebrow.

Suddenly, the door swings open and a woman rushes in, pulling a teenaged boy by the hand. She stops and surveys the circle. Her blue eyes make direct contact with Danielle. She smiles. Danielle glances left and right, but no one looks up. The woman makes a beeline in her direction. She sits next to Danielle and pulls the boy down onto the chair next to her. “Marianne,” she whispers.

“Danielle.”

“Good morning!” A young woman with wild red hair and a name tag that says Just Joan! stands in the middle of the circle. Her voice batters the ear like hail on a tin roof. “This is our group session to welcome new patients and parents to Maitland and, well, to just share our feelings and concerns.”

Danielle hates group therapy. Anything she’s ever “shared” has come around to bite her on the ass. She casts about desperately for an exit sign. She needs a cigarette—badly. Just Joan! claps her hands. Too late.

“Let’s pick someone and go around the circle,” she says. “Introduce yourself and tell us why you’re here. Remember, all conversations are strictly confidential.”

The tales of heartache are overwhelming. There is Carla, the rickets-thin waitress from Colorado who gives her son, Chris, loving glances as she tells of how he snapped her wrist and purpled her eye. After her is Estelle, an elegant black grandmother who tenderly clasps the hand of her doll-like granddaughter, whose pink taffeta Sunday dress only partially veils the crazed, ropy scars that run up and down her coffee-colored legs.

“Self-inflictive,” whispers Marianne. “The mother ran off. Couldn’t take it.”

Just Joan’s sharp eyes troll the room for a victim and then rivet upon Danielle. She stiffens.

Marianne pats Danielle’s hand and quickly raises her own. “I’ll go.” Her voice is a honey-coated drawl. “My name is Marianne Morrison.”

Danielle’s sigh echoes around the circle. She leans back and tries to put her arm around Max, who shrugs it off. She studies the woman who has saved her.

Marianne looks like the bright center of a flower. The pleats of her claret skirt are Gillette sharp, forming a perfectly pointed circle around her knees. A shimmering blouse reflects the gleam of a single strand of pearls and draws the eye to the single gold band on her left hand. Her simple, blond pageboy frames her oval face. Her flawless makeup reflects a level of detail and attention seemingly innate in Southern women. In her case, it enhances her features, particularly a wide, generous mouth and intelligent blue eyes. Next to her, Danielle is aware of her own de rigueur black-on-black pantsuit, her severe dark hair and pale skin. She wears no jewelry, no watch, no makeup. In Manhattan, she is an obvious professional. Next to Marianne, she looks like a pallbearer. Danielle glances down. A bag next to Marianne’s chair overflows with all manner of crafty-looking things. Danielle’s depression deepens—like when she sees the pre-prison Martha Stewart on TV stenciling an entire room with a toothbrush or casually butchering a young suckling pig with an old nail file. Or when one of the mothers at Max’s grade school brought a homemade quilt that had the handprints of all the kids on it for the school auction and Danielle gave money instead.

“This is my son, Jonas.” Hearing his name, the boy shakes his head and blinks rapidly. His hands never stop moving. Fingernails scrape at scarred welts on his arms. Danielle instinctively pulls her own sleeves down. Jonas rocks back and forth, testing the chair’s rubber stoppers as they squeak against the floor. All the while, he makes soft, grunting noises, a perpetual-motion-and-sound machine.

“If I have to say something about myself, I suppose it would be that I’m from Texas and was a pediatric nurse for many years.” This does not surprise Danielle. What Marianne says next, however, surprises her deeply.

“I actually finished medical school, but never practice.” She inclines her head toward her son. “I decided to stay home and take care of my boy. In fact, that is the most important thing about me.” She clasps her hands and then flashes what Danielle believes must be one of the most beautiful smiles she’s ever seen. Her attitude is infectious. The parents all smile and nod, like a bobble-head dog in the back of a ‘55 Chevy.

“Jonas’s diagnosis is retardation and autism, and he doesn’t speak, not really.” Marianne pats the boy’s knee. He does not acknowledge her. His eyes roam the room as he taps and scratches. The reddening on his arms deepens to a frozen cranberry. “He’s been this way since he was a little boy,” she says. “It’s hard, you know, to deal with the challenges our children have, but I do the best I can with what the good Lord gave me.” As sympathetic glances pass from the parents to her, Marianne brightens like a rainbow after rain. “His father … well, he’s gone, bless his heart.” She averts her eyes. “Recently, Jonas started getting violent and self-destructive. I want him to have the very best, and that’s why we’re here.”

After she finishes, everyone applauds, but not too much. It’s like being at the symphony. Once or twice—that’s polite. Anything more would be disrespectful. Marianne then whispers to Jonas in some kind of gibberish. In response, he whirls around and slaps her face so hard with a flat, open hand that it almost hurls her from her chair.

“Jonas!” Marianne cries. She covers her scarlet cheek as if to ward off further blows. A male attendant appears; yanks Jonas to his feet; and pins both arms behind his back.

“Nomomah! Aaahhnomomah!” The attendant pushes him roughly into his chair, gripping his hands until he quiets. Everyone sits, stunned. As soon as he is released, Jonas bites the knuckles of his right hand so hard that Danielle winces.

Marianne seems inconsolable; her veneer of optimism shattered. Danielle leans over and embraces her awkwardly as the woman sobs in her arms. Normal mothers are oblivious to their enormous, impossible blessings, she thinks. To have a child who has friends, goes to school, has a future—these are the dreams of a race of people to whom she and this woman no longer belong. They are mere truncations, sliced to so basic a level of need that their earlier expectations for their children seem greedy to them now—small, mercenary—almost evil. Their one hope is sanity. Some dare dream of peace. As Danielle tightens her arm around this destroyed woman, she knows that the communion between her and this stranger is deeper than sacrament. She feels the holiness of the exchange, however alienated and bereft it leaves them. It is all they have.

Danielle stares up at the forbidding sign posted on the thick glass doors. Secure unit. No unauthorized persons. No exit without pass. The black, merciless eyes of one of the 24-hour security cameras glare down at her from a corner of the room. They learned at orientation that they are installed in each patient’s room and in the common areas. This is supposed to make them feel safe.

It is late afternoon. Danielle stands at the reception desk, but Max hangs back. He is terrified. Danielle can tell. The more afraid a teenager is, the more he acts like he doesn’t care. Max looks bored shitless.

Danielle doesn’t blame him. By the time the group session was over, she was ready to slit her throat.

“Ms. Parkman?” The nurse waves her over with a big smile. “Ready?”

Oh, sure. Like mothers in the Holocaust about to separate from their newborns. She squares her shoulders. “I’m at the hotel across the street—Room 630. Can you tell me when visiting hours are?”

The nurse’s smile fades. “You’re not leaving tomorrow?”

“No, I’m staying until I can take my son home.”

The smile dies. “Parents are not encouraged to visit during assessment. Most go home and leave us to our work.”

“Well,” says Danielle, “I suppose I’ll be the exception.”

The nurse shrugs. “We have all the pertinent data, so you can go back with Dwayne to the Fountainview unit.” The enormous attendant who came to Marianne’s aid with Jonas appears. Dressed in blinding white, his chest is so big that it strains against the unforgiving fabric of his shirt. As he comes toward them, Danielle thinks of football players, heavyweight wrestlers—men with abnormal levels of testosterone. She looks at her pale boy, who weighs no more than two damp beach towels, and imagines this man pinning him to the ground. If Max bolts, this guy will snap him up in his jowls like a newborn puppy and carry him down the hall by the scruff of his neck.

“Hi, I’m Dwayne.” The wingspan of his outstretched hand is larger than Danielle’s thigh.

“Hello.” She manages the smallest of smiles. Dwayne grasps her hand, and she watches it disappear. In a moment, he returns it.

He turns to Max. “Let’s do it, buddy.”

Danielle moves forward to embrace him, but Max charges her—fist raised, face enraged. “I’m not going in there!”

Dwayne steps in. With one elegant motion, he yanks Max’s arms in front of him; slips behind him; and envelops Max’s entire upper body in his massive arms. The ropy muscles don’t even strain. Winded and trapped, Max flails and twists. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

“Give it up, son,” growls Dwayne.

Max shoots Danielle a look of pure hatred. “This is what you want? To have some asshole put me in a straightjacket and lock me away?”

“No, of c-course not,” she stammers. “Please, Max—”

“Fuck you!”

Danielle is rooted to the floor as Dwayne drags Max down the hall. They come to a menacing red door that buzzes them through. Her last glimpse of Max’s contorted face is seared into her mind. He stares at her with the betrayed eyes of an old horse at the glue-factory gate. He is gone before she can utter the words that strangle in her throat.

At the far end of what appears to be a TV room are four women dressed in jeans and T-shirts—undercover nurses in casual disguise. A large whiteboard hangs on the wall. It unnerves her that Max’s name is already there with ominous acronyms scribbled next to it—“AA, SIA, SA, EA, DA.” The black letters hang final, immutable. She sneaks a look at the typewritten sheet pasted on the board. “AA—Assault Awareness; SIA—Self-Infliction Awareness; SA—Suicide Awareness; EA—Escape Awareness; DA—Depression Awareness.” The words slice her heart.

Danielle glances around the room and notices Marianne chatting with an older doctor. She smiles warmly at Danielle. Jonas plucks at his clothes and twitches his feet in an odd, disturbed way, as if he’s doing the flamenco sitting down. Then she sees Carla and her son go into one of the bedrooms. Her heart sinks. She would do anything to prevent Max from being on the same unit with a boy who would break his own mother’s arm and purple her eye.

An older woman with a shock of short, white hair enters the room and walks up to Danielle. She exudes a calm authority. A conservative, navy suit matches feet shod in dark, sensible flats. Behind small, gold-rimmed glasses are very, very green eyes. Her doctor’s coat is Amway white. Red embroidery on her lapel says Associate Director—Pediatric Psychiatry, Maitland Hospital. She holds out her hand with a smile. “Ms. Parkman?”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Amelia Reyes-Moreno,” she says. “I’ll be Max’s primary doctor while he’s here.”

“Nice to meet you.” Danielle stares as she shakes the woman’s hand. Her long, fine fingers are cool to the touch. Intensity and intelligence are evident in her gaze. Danielle’s research of Maitland revealed that Reyes-Moreno is one of Maitland’s most valued psychiatrists, nationally renowned in her field. She glances at the old doctor with Marianne, his veined hands folded as he listens. Both are smiling. Danielle wants him. Someone who looks as old as Freud and who’ll take one look at Max and say, “Of course! I see what they’ve all missed. Max is fine, just fine.” Then he’ll nod his head wisely and go on to his next miraculous cure.

Dr. Reyes-Moreno catches the arm of a young, dark-eyed man who looks like a pen-and-ink rendering of Ichabod Crane. “Dr. Fastow,” she says, “would you mind my introducing you to Ms. Parkman? She is the mother of one of our new patients, Max.”

He nods curtly and fixes Danielle with a milky stare. “Ms. Parkman.”

“Dr. Fastow is our new psychopharmacologist,” says Reyes-Moreno. “He has just returned from Vienna, where he spent the last two years conducting exciting clinical trials of various psychotropic medications. We are honored to have him.”

Danielle takes the hand he offers. It is cold and dry. “Dr. Fastow, are you planning to significantly change Max’s medication protocol?”

His gray eyes are limpid. “I have reviewed Max’s chart and ordered extensive blood work. I plan to take him off of his current medications and put him on those I believe will better serve him.”

“What meds are those?”

“We will provide you with that information once we are more familiar with Max and his symptoms.” He gives her another cold stare and takes his leave.

Put off by his antiseptic manner, Danielle turns to Reyes-Moreno, who nods reassuringly. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of him.” Danielle panics as she watches Reyes-Moreno disappear through the malefic doors of Alcatraz. Only the dominating truth—that Max wants to kill himself—prevents her from breaking down those doors and fleeing with him back to New York. She takes a deep breath. There is nothing to do but go back to the hotel and work. She turns to go.

“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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

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.

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?