The Masked Truth Part 12

I sigh.

"He reminded me that all medications had to be turned in, even aspirin. I said I had some pot, but it wasn't medicinal, so that was all right."

I sigh again.

"Let this be a lesson to me about my smart mouth, right?" he says.

"I never said it."

"You're thinking it loud enough that you don't have to."

MAX: ANXIETY.

Anxiety: a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome.

The English language, one might argue, has far too many words. Sometimes, though, it simply doesn't have enough. Anxiety is what one feels when walking into a test. That is, it's what a normal boy feels walking into an academic test. Max never had that problem. A year ago, though, he discovered his own special brand of test anxiety, the one where he walked into yet another doctor's or specialist's office, searching for answers that never came.

Your son has schizophrenia, Mrs. Cross.

That can't be. He's too young.

Typical onset is young adulthood. Late teens is early, but not unduly so.

I'm precocious, Mum. Aren't you proud of me? No? Right-i-o, then. Onward and upward. Or downward, because there's really nowhere to go from here but down.

Stop saying that.

I'm being honest. You raised me to be honest, you and Dad. Face facts, son. And that fact is that all the king's horses and all the king's men ...

Stop. Just stop. We just need to get you a proper diagnosis. Max can't have schizophrenia, doctor. He's not paranoid. He doesn't suffer from delusions of persecution. He was confused with his friend, but he never thought he was in danger personally. Therefore, it can't be paranoid schizophrenia.

We don't use that term anymore. We now recognize schizophrenia as a spectrum of disorders, which often doesn't include paranoia for someone Max's age.

But he doesn't have all the other symptoms either. His speech is clear. His personal hygiene is just fine. There's no flattened affect. No social withdrawal ...

That's why it's a spectrum, Mrs. Cross. Think of it as a buffet, not a set table.

A buffet. Ah, that helps. Yes, indeed. I'll have the delusions and the visual hallucinations with a small side of audio hallucinations and disorganized thought. And hold the lack of bathing, please, because I'm not ever going to lead an ordinary life with that one. No bathing, no friends, no girlfriends.

Umm, wait. Better strike the friends and girlfriends anyway. Delusions and hallucinations really aren't conducive to a proper social life.

Another doctor. Another failed test.

Fail, fail, fail. That's all you do these days, isn't it, Maximus? Make a mockery of your name. Greatest, indeed. Greatest disappointment ever.

Then his father ...

Stop fighting the diagnosis, Alice.

But he's not Yes, he is, d.a.m.n it. Stop fighting and just get him fixed up.

Fixed up. Yes, sir, Dad. Stop messing around, Mum, and fix me up. That's your job, isn't it? Fix the mess that is your son. Get him on the proper meds, and it'll all be fine. Right as rain, old chap. You'll be right as rain. Just as soon as we get these meds sorted. Well, except for the side effects and the fact that you can never stop taking the medications and that at any point they might lose their effectiveness and you won't know it because it'll seem normal to you. Crazy is your normal, Max. Live with it. Or don't. Your choice.

Your choice.

He remembers when he agreed with his mother and fought the diagnosis and the meds, convinced they didn't understand, he was fine, better than fine, more alive than ever, everything brighter, sharper, clearer. The world had snapped into focus. It made sense in a way it rarely did to a boy still a month from his seventeenth birthday. The meds muted that world, crushed his creativity, doused his spirit. Why were they trying to control him when he was so much better now?

What saved Max, as much as he hated to think it, was attacking Justin. Once the medication stabilized him enough that he realized what he'd done, the horror of that memory kept him taking those meds, would always keep him taking them. What if that hadn't happened? If it had been a slow build to a violent break? Or no violent break at all? Would he have refused the meds once he turned eighteen? Left home if his parents tried to force them on him? Ended up like the untreated schizophrenics you see in the streets, homeless and filthy, muttering and ranting to himself? He can't think of that. It terrifies him almost as much as the memory of what he tried to do to his best friend.

Terrified: caused to feel extreme fear.

He will admit he's a little terrified right now, following Riley down the hall. He's overdue for his meds. Thirty minutes and ticking, and he's starting to sweat, catching a whiff of ...

"Just a moment," he whispers, and he slips into the room, grabs his deodorant and slathers it on.

Yes, oh, yes, wouldn't want to smell bad around a pretty girl. Can't blow your shot, Max. Even if you don't have a chance in h.e.l.l.

That's not it.

Oh, I know. It's not about the girl. It's about the symptoms. Ignore a faint whiff of body odor during a life-threatening situation and it might be that "lack of attention to hygiene" sign you're so worried about.

Or maybe the fact he worried about it was a sign of something else. Paranoia.

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign.

He's back to Riley now, and they catch up with Brienne and Aaron, who confirm they've found nothing useful. On to the kitchen, then.

Anxiety is not what he feels, walking down that hall and then the steps, every creak and shadow making him jump, certain he's not seeing actual dangers but those that exist only in his mind. Certain the meds have worn off already.

No, "anxiety" is too weak a word.

Panic: sudden, uncontrollable fear or anxiety, often causing wildly unthinking behavior.

Also not correct, because it is, for now, controllable. He tells himself it's not possible for the meds to wear off so fast. He's asked the doctors about that, as he asks about every possible detail, trying to make sense of it, to bring order to the chaos.

Not order. Control. That's what he needed. That's what he'd always had. It's why he'd never felt those so-called b.u.t.terflies before an exam. Because he knew he had studied to the best of his ability, and he'd considered and managed all variables and therefore he would get the top mark in the cla.s.s, because he always did. It was simply a matter of control.

Likewise, schizophrenia could be controlled. Or that was the theory. After months of changing medications, they finally seemed to find a c.o.c.ktail that worked.

c.o.c.ktail: an alcoholic drink consisting of a spirit or several spirits mixed with other ingredients, such as fruit juice, lemonade or cream.

Mmm, not quite right, old chap, though it'd be lovely, really. But no. Sadly, no.

c.o.c.ktail: a mixture of substances or factors, especially when dangerous or unpleasant in its effects.

Now that, that, was the proper definition. Terrifyingly accurate, though Max suspected his doctor's vocabulary was not quite as advanced as his own, and when he called it a c.o.c.ktail, the man simply meant a mixture, not realizing his word choice had an added nuance.

One thing about attempting to find orderno, controlwas that Max had asked how long he could go without the pills before he risked ill effects. The first doctor, back in Jolly Old England, had refused to answer, apparently suspecting Max was trying to stave off side effects by stretching his meds as far as possible. Which was not the case at all, so when he'd come overcrossed the pond, as they say ... does anyone actually say that?he'd been much more specific in his questions and backed them up with explanations. Which had still not worked with Yankee doctor number one, but his mother had recognized the problem and found him another psychiatrist, one more capable of treating her preciousand precociousson with the respect he deserved.

The answer ... ah, yes, there was a point here, wasn't there? The answer was that while he should endeavor to always take his pills on time, if some emergency prevented him from doing so, it would be hours before they began to lose effectiveness, and even then it was only thata loss of effectiveness, not a complete and sudden crash into the depths of schizophrenia.

Which meant he was not panicked. Yet he was beyond anxious.

More than anxious. Less than panicked. Is there a word for that?

There didn't seem to be. They ran on a scale. Apprehensive, nervous, dismayed, frightened, anxious, panicked. There was a step missing there, the stage past stomach-clenching anxiety and before full-blown panic.

Alarm, perhaps?

Alarm: an anxious awareness of danger.

Yes, perhaps that was it.

"Is everything okay?" Riley whispers.

"Right as rain."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a small smile there too. Yes, right as rain. Just playing with words. Keeps my mind occupied. One has to find the proper term. Exactly the proper one.

She leans toward him, voice lowering more, and he knows she wants to say more, just for him, unheard by the others. He tries not to smile at that. It pleases him more than it ought to, because if he's being honestyes, by all means, be honest, Max, G.o.d knows you have little enough practice at it these dayshe will admit that he was not entirely happy to b.u.mp into Brienne and Aaron. Of course, he was relieved to know they were alive, but he'd have been quite happy if they'd made contact and then gone their separate ways again. He even thought of suggesting it.

He might still, once they find the kitchen and if he's sure, quite sure, that Riley won't say: All right. Why don't I go with Brienne and you with Aaron?

Riley and Max sitting in a tree ...

That was not the case at all.

Well, perhaps "at all" was a slight exaggeration.

Just a slight one, Maximus?

Yes, he mightjust mighthave a bit of a crush on Riley Vasquez.

Crush: deform, pulverize or force inward by compressing forcefully.

A horrible word. Terribly inappropriate, because he had no desire to crush her, to smother her. In fact, he was most comfortable as things were, being this close to her and no closer, because he couldn't be closer, all things considered.

Yes, all things considered.

Yet it was closer than he had been before tonight. And, yes, he would admit it now, he'd already had a crush on Riley Vasquez then, listening to her in therapy sessionsah, how romantic. Listening to her, watching her, but not watching in a creepy way. Well, he supposed all watching was creepy, to some degree, but it was simply enjoying seeing her, paying extra attention when she spoke. It wasn't as if he followed her into the toilet or anything. No, sir. He had only followed her to it earlier, not inside. He'd made his excuse to use the toilet in hopes of meeting up and talking to her, which was not creepy.

Nor was it entirely the action of an infatuated boy. No, Maximus. Honesty here, total honesty.

He was lonely.

There, he'd said it, somehow more shameful than admitting to a crush.

He'd never been a particularly convivial person. Gregarious but not too convivial. Yes, there was a difference.

Gregarious: fond of company.

Convivial: cheerful and friendly; jovial.

He could play at being convivial, of course, but there was an edge to it, a note that might just be a little condescending.

Might, Max?

In school, he'd been popular if not particularly well liked. Again, there is a difference. He could be difficult and sarcastic and argumentative, and he kept his circle of friends small, his circle of acquaintances much larger. But he was smartif a bit of a know-it-all. Athletic, though not unduly so. Decent-looking, though only in that rather average way that both s.e.xes seemed to find pleasant and nonthreatening. And he was a bit of a joker, a prankster, the boy most likely to both issue and accept a dare. He was bold as bra.s.s, and it seemed less that others liked him than that they liked to be around him. He'd been chosen as head boy in school, and he suspected it was not so much that his fellow students wished to honor him as that they'd grudgingly agreed he was best for the position.

At home, his calendar was always full, with other engagements waiting, should a date or a night with his mates fall through. Since he'd come to America, his social circle had shrunk to fourhis mother, his father, his doctor and his therapist, and only the first was there consistently, should he want to take in a film or go to the park, which he did not because he was eighteen and his mother was a fine person, but he was eighteen.

And so, he was lonely. Which meant that when Riley stuck close to him, even after rejoining the others, when she whispered only to him, it made him flush with pleasure, as if she'd whispered some much more naughty suggestion in his ear. More even, because, well, it was hardly the time for naughty. Although, if she did ...

"Max?" she whispers. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He nods. "A little distracted. Sorry. You said ..."

"I was just saying I'm sure it won't be long now. I thought I heard a siren when we were upstairs, but I didn't want to mention it to the others and get their hopes up."

Her hopes are already up. He can see that in the way her eyes glow. His, sadly, are not. He suspects no one heard his SOS or there would have been some reaction by now. Whoever is covering the rear of the building had been too far away to overhear it. But he won't tell her that. Instead, he nods and smiles, and she leans in again, whispering, "You just need to hold on a little longer. We'll get you your meds."

Ah, Riley. Sweet, sweet Riley. Always thinking of others even when you're convinced you're only thinking of yourself. You save a little girl's life and what matters is that you didn't save more. How can I not have a crush on you?

"I'll be fine," he says, and he will be. For her, he will be.

Speaking of sweet ...

Shut the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l up. For once, please. Just shut up.

It does. The voice that he won't tell the doctors about, because it's a sign. A bad, bad sign. And yet he's always had the voice, and he suspects it's not a voice at all, just his busy brain arguing with itself, seeing all the angles, needling him when needling is required. Except he knows, too, that it might still be a sign, one that says he's always had this, lurking below the surface, biding its time. The schizophrenia monster, disguised as eccentricity and audacity, until it finally erupts in madness.

Riley holds out the blueprint, offering him the chance to lead the way. When he shakes his head, she keeps it, and he's relieved, because he will hold it togetherfor her, he'll hold it togetherbut it's best not to rely on him. Just to be safe.

CHAPTER 15.