Saving Max. Antoinette Heugten van
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