Saving Max. Antoinette Heugten van
says. “Is he all right?”
Fastow regards her calmly. “Of course.”
Reyes-Moreno takes Danielle’s trembling hands into her firm ones. “Max is resting comfortably in his room. He’ll weather the overdose and be back to normal very soon.”
Danielle yanks her arm free. “Normal? You think overdosing him is normal? I want to see him.”
“There’s nothing to see right now, Danielle.” Reyes-Moreno’s voice is salve on a burn. “He’s asleep. I assure you that we’ll call you the moment he wakes up.”
Danielle stands rooted to the floor. It is all suddenly unbearable—her relinquishment of Max to this place; his terrifying displays of violence; the unspoken presumption that her insistence that she remain here with her own child is injurious to his treatment; and the even stronger undercurrent that somehow her son’s very presence here must be her fault. The implication is that she, as his mother, should have seen the “signs” of the severity of Max’s problems long before he wound up at Maitland. Her fear galvanizes into anger. “I’ve had about all of this I can stand. Why don’t you tell me how such a thing could happen? You people are supposed to be running the foremost psychiatric hospital in the country—according to the pundits of your profession—and the minute I’m gone, you overdose my child!” She jerks her head toward Fastow. “And now we have his medicating physician, the famous psychopharmacologist, who has screwed up in colossal fashion—”
“Ms. Parkman, I must object to your accusations.” Fastow’s flat, liverish eyes fasten on hers. He leans forward in his chair, head and arms in praying-mantis pose. “This is very disturbing for you, I’m sure, but this was a staff error, not a prescribing error.”
All of her pent-up frustration, fear and anger burst to the surface. “I don’t care who fucked up—and that’s the only word for it—but it’s my boy in there. Who knows what an overdose like that will do to him?” She shakes her head when Fastow tries to respond. “Look—both of you—I’ve been more than patient and cooperative since we got here. When I tell you I want to stay here with my son, you tell me to go home. Then you put me on supervised visitation like I’m some kind of axe murderer. And now you tell me that Max has attacked a patient. It’s absurd!”
Fastow folds his arms across his chest and stares at her, unperturbed. Reyes-Moreno’s emerald eyes are kind. There is that pat on the arm again. Danielle fights the urge to shake it off. “Danielle,” she says softly, “you have to keep in mind that we are dealing with a young man with serious issues—one who is obviously suicidal; who now appears to be having psychotic episodes; and who is becoming alarmingly violent. These things take time, which is why we don’t like to meet with parents before we can give a true assessment.”
Danielle feels the fury in her subside. Now she’s just worried out of her mind. What is really wrong with Max? Is it possible that because he’s been stripped of the old medications, this “psychotic” behavior—whatever it is—is the true Max coming out? She sighs. But this isn’t a courtroom where she can use righteous indignation, however justified, to her advantage. She reminds herself that Maitland—and its doctors—are the very best in the country. It doesn’t matter if she chafes at Fastow’s arrogance. It’s Max that matters. And if Max is exhibiting violent, psychotic behavior, he desperately needs their help, and she has to let them do their job. She turns to Fastow, her voice quivering as it always does when her anger gives way to fear. “I want a list of every medication Max is on—the milligrams, dose frequency and any known side effects.”
Fastow gives her a bland look. “Of course. I’m sure most of the medications are known to you, although the combinations may be different.”
An idea forms in her mind. She stares at him. “You don’t have him on any experimental drugs, do you?”
Fastow’s eyebrows—fat, ugly caterpillars—form upside-down U’s and stay there. “Absolutely not. Surely you do not question my ethics—”
Reyes-Moreno steps between them, her voice poured oil. “When we have a collective diagnosis, I will schedule a meeting immediately.”
“I’ll be there.” Danielle turns to Fastow. “Will you?”
He and Reyes-Moreno look at each other. Fastow uncoils his lean frame from the chair, a supercilious smile on his face. “I’m sure we’ll have an opportunity to converse should Dr. Reyes-Moreno’s explanation prove inadequate to address your concerns.” He extends a bony hand to her, snake dry to the touch.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Fastow gives her his hubristic stare and stalks out. Danielle wants to yank him back into the room and tell him what an arrogant son of a bitch he is, but doesn’t. He isn’t the first egomaniac in the medical profession who believes—no, knows—that he is God. Telling a deity that he is mortal is pointless. She starts to stand, when she has a revelation. Maybe she detests Fastow because she wants him to be the enemy. If he’s giving Max some crazy medication—or overdosing him—then Reyes-Moreno’s claim that Max is having psychotic episodes simply isn’t true. Danielle knows enough about psychotropic medications to know that the risk of drug-drug interactions can be devastating. But if Fastow is on the up-and-up …
Danielle fights the black ice that grips her heart. Max can’t be crazy. A slim hope surges in her. Maybe the hospital doesn’t know all it should about Fastow, even if they think they did a good job screening him. She’ll ask Georgia to run a background check on him. What could it hurt? She turns to Reyes-Moreno. “May I see Max?”
She shrugs. “I told you—he’s fast asleep. But if you insist, please keep your visit brief. We don’t want to upset him.”
Danielle bites her tongue as Reyes-Moreno disappears down the hallway. “No,” she mutters, “we certainly don’t. A visit from his mother—now, that would upset anyone. But overdosing him is fine, just fine.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Today is the day.
Apparently the collective has finally arrived at a diagnosis. The last week has passed without incident—at least nothing that anyone saw fit to tell her. Max seems so much better. In so many ways, his sweet nature has returned. There have been no incidents of violence and he has shown no resistance to the completion of the assessment. His behavior has so improved that Reyes-Moreno has been able to complete her testing and conclude the evaluation. Even though he seems, at times, terribly sedated and somewhat disoriented, Danielle’s guess is that Fastow has finally gotten his act together and fine-tuned Max’s medication protocol. Georgia’s background check on him turned up nothing at all. In fact, all she found was further evidence of his excellence and creativity in his field. Although Danielle’s personal dislike of him has not abated, Fastow seems to have done a laudable job of straightening out Max’s medications.
Danielle follows a path through the maze of white sidewalks to the administrative building. She looks up. The sky is a cobalt paint stroke, a piercing, hypnotic blue. The clear crispness of it slices straight through her. Her heart lifts.
“Ms. Parkman, will you come with me?” Reyes-Moreno’s secretary, Celia, greets her with a brief handshake. She safeguards her boss like a trained Doberman, never saying whether Reyes-Moreno is there or not when Danielle calls—making it sound like she’s always in the restroom or in session. Psychiatrists must have copyrighted employee-training software. They’re all the same.
Danielle follows her down the hall that houses the psychiatrists’ offices. Celia looks happy. She wouldn’t be smiling if Danielle were about to get bad news, would she? She leads her into Reyes-Moreno’s sanctum sanctorum. It is smaller than Danielle had imagined, especially with the obligatory couch and swivel chair. Toys are lined up on a series of shelves. Danielle turns one of them over gently in her hands, wondering if each represents something incredibly psychiatrically telling. She wonders what Max has said and done in this room.
Reyes-Moreno’s diplomas and medical certifications