He’d been doing so well, so very well, until Riley tried to shush him. When he stumbled back, he’d seen the confusion in her eyes, followed by understanding, and he kept thinking, “What does she understand?” because it’s not the truth, can’t be the truth, that was the deal he had on coming to therapy, that his schizophrenia would remain a secret until he chose to reveal it, if he chose to reveal it.
But, Maximus, how do you expect group therapy to help if you won’t talk about your problem?
So I should tell them I’m crazy? That it’s not some temporary bump in the path like theirs? Mine’s an illness, a permanent mental illness. One that can’t be cured, only managed. That’s the term, isn’t it? Managed? Madness under glass?
Had someone broken the rules and told Riley he had schizophrenia? Not if she was sticking with him. If she knew, she’d be running before he lost it and started ranting like a madman.
Now, Maximus, don’t think that way.
What way should I think? Ah, yes. Clearly. Think clearly. If only I knew what that was …
What does Riley think? She believes she understands something, so what is it?
Does it matter? Really?
No, it does not, and herein lies the problem. The problem of clarity. That there is a corner of his mind—No, let’s be honest, Maximus, you like to play the madness card, but it’s not just a corner, there’s a whole floor of your mind that is clear. It’s the floor that understands you can’t be worrying what she thinks at a time like this. Also the floor that whispers, quietly and rather politely, that a boy worrying what a girl thinks of him isn’t really madness, or every boy is mad sometimes.
“Max?” Riley whispers, and he blinks hard.
“Are you okay?” she asks as they crouch in the dark room, lit only by the glow of his watch.
“Right as rain,” he says, smiling, and she doesn’t like the smile. It annoys her in some way, perhaps because she spots the falseness. Maybe because she thinks he’s mocking her. Right as rain. Just a temporary glitch in our evening. Haven’t you ever been taken hostage before?
“We’ll make it,” he says solemnly, and that doesn’t help, because the switch is too fast, and now she’s sure he’s mocking her. Can’t win, old boy. Can’t win at all.
“At least you’re taking the situation seriously now,” she says.
“The guns and the blood helped convince me.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. You truly are an imbecile, aren’t you, Max? She flinches, as if remembering the last time she saw blood and guns, the death of the couple she babysat for, and he hurries on, “I’m sorry if I was being an arse earlier. I just wasn’t sure it was real.”
Her brow furrows.
Did you just say that, Max?
Of course he did, because he was slipping and sliding like a newborn calf on ice.
Because you’re scared. Shocking, really. Given the guns and the blood and the death. Yes, it’s real. Really, really real, and you aren’t going to snap out, safe and sound in a padded room.
He pushes on. “I mean that I thought perhaps it was part of your therapy. Force you to confront what happened when you were babysitting, by putting you in a similar situation, except this time you have to face the guns and the bad guys.”
She stares at him, and he feels sweat trickling down his cheek. Then she gives a slow nod. “Immersion therapy. I’ve heard of it. I certainly hope they’d never do that without permission.”
“Exactly,” he says, a little too quickly. “At first, when it started, it seemed surreal. Maybe that was shock. It took me a while to think straight and realize that they’d never trick a minor that way, and it’s likely unethical to do it at all without permission.”
She nods, still slowly. It’s not the best explanation, but she’ll take it. Confusion and shock, yes, ma’am, that’s all it was. Not that I meant I thought it wasn’t real because I’ve had hallucinations before.
“So you’re okay now?” she asks.
There’s a split second where reality and his inner monologue merge, and he almost says yes, he’s fine, or so they say, with the new meds, and he hasn’t hallucinated in months. Which is not, of course, what she’s asking at all, and he catches himself and smiles. “Right as—”
“Right as rain,” she says. “Got it.” And she shakes her head, but she smiles too, that slightly exasperated smile, like he’s a bit daft but not really, you know, crazy.
He hears something in the hall, and he looks that way, sharply, then at her, seeing if she noticed it too, because that’s the barometer these days: If I see or hear something, is it just me?
Except that isn’t what’s happening here, and he’s certain of it, because the scenario has gone on too long, become too involved and too logical—as logical as a hostage situation can be. The meds have been working, and he has to trust that—trust, trust, trust—because while they have their side effects—tremors, difficulty sleeping, dry mouth—the alternative is worse. He can live like this, or so they say, though he hasn’t yet decided what kind of life this is, always worrying, always wondering. But for now, the meds … the meds …
He swears under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Riley whispers.
“Do you know where they put our belongings? The things they confiscated?”