Saving Max

“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.”