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.