Chapter Seven

Never before had Max ever felt so awkward... and that was saying something considering his social ineptness. He was with his parents – seated across from them in a chair while they shared the love seat, sitting close to one another as if they needed the physical contact to help strengthen their resolve. And it was silent. While his dad kept opening his mouth to say something and then, apparently, changing his mind and closing it once more, his mother was wringing her hands so tightly he could watch them go pale and then, upon release, almost purple as the blood desperately rushed back to her fingers. It was a good distraction – watching her hands, because he was in no shape for a deep, meaningful heart to heart.

He was stone cold sober, his parents having dragged him out of bed first thing that morning before they had to leave for work. So much for enjoying at least one aspect of his suspension from school. Add to that the fact that, whenever he allowed his mind to actually work, it would immediately assault him with images of a broken Liz, soundbites of their conversation the night before, and his fears of never spending another meaningful moment in her presence. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep; all he needed was a quick shot of something, anything alcoholic to dim the morning sun shining in through the open living room windows, the annoyingly persistent and shockingly loud ticking of the foyer's grand father clock.

Hell, at that point, Max was pretty sure a drink would have done not only him well but his mom and dad, too. They were just as tense, just as unsure as he was. Maybe even more so.

Somewhere between deciding his mother would be a sherry drinker and contemplating if an attempt to persuade his parents into having their extremely serious and somber discussion over breakfast so he would alter his milk and orange juice as was now his morning habit could actually succeed, Max's thoughts were interrupted by his mom fairly exploding with self-accusation. "This... you... it's all our fault, isn't it?"

Her question completely caught him off guard. Stuttering, he replied, "wha... what?"

"I think what your mother is trying to say, Max," his mother picked up the reins of their conversation, "is that, when it comes to being your parents, we've made mistakes. There were things that we could have... handled better, and we didn't, and, for that, we are to blame."

Putting aside the fact that he still believed that everyone in his life was making a mountain out of a mole hill – after all, he had everything under control; it was the people around him spiraling and overreacting, but, even if Max did have a problem – which he didn't, his parents would certainly not be to blame for anything he had or ever could have done wrong. Yes, theirs wasn't the healthiest of relationships, but that wasn't because he didn't love and appreciate them or recognize just how lucky he was that Phillip and Diane Evans had found him that night so long ago in the desert. Rather, their relationship was hindered by the very same issue which hindered every aspect of Max's life: his alienness. It was hard to get close to someone if you feared doing so could result in both their death and yours.

To that effect, he tried to argue with his parents. "No, you guys have been amazing. When I think of everything that you've done for me..."

"Oh, sweetie," his mom cut him off. "It was out pleasure. But we should have done more."

But they had always given him everything and anything that he needed orwanted. "What else could you have possibly given me?"

"Counseling, son."

"Excuse me," he questioned his father, his back already stiffening, his shoulders squaring, his flight instinct just barely simmering under the surface of his unreadable expression.

"From the beginning, we knew that you were special, that raising you would be different than anything any child rearing book could tell us," his mother explained. "Given the way we found you and all the evidence which led us to believe that you had been traumatized in some way, as soon as you could talk, you should have gone to therapy. But you were so shy and so scared of anyone but your father and I. So, when you begged us not to make you go, we relented. We promised ourselves that we'd be there for you to talk to and that, if ever a situation came up which we felt incapable of handling, then we'd reexamine the issue."

"And let me guess: that situation is this, is now?"

"Yes, your mother and I have decided that you are going to start seeing a therapist. You'll start out going three times a week and, in a few months' time, we'll reevaluate."

"Yeah, because going to a shrink is really going to help me fit in and seem more normal," Max scoffed. "If you think that I'll voluntarily go to a..."

His father cut him off. "If you think that you'll be driving yourself anywhere, young man, then you have another thing coming. Even if the law doesn't take your license from you, your mother and I are taking the jeep away."

"You're selling my jeep," he exploded.

"Honey, no," his mom was quick to reassure him. "The jeep's yours. It's just... until we feel as though we can trust you to make responsible decisions again, you won't be given access to it. Your dad already confiscated your keys last night while you were... indisposed."

"So, you're grounding me?" Max laughed, rolling his eyes, but there was no humor in either gesture. "I'm eighteen years old, a senior in high school, and you're grounding me? Do you realize how ridiculous you are?"

"And do you realize that you're lucky we're giving you this opportunity at a second chance," his father countered. "Most parents would just ship their delinquent son off to military school, but we believe that you're better than this."

"So, what do you propose?"

"We're not proposing anything, son," his dad once more answered him. "It's either do this our way or don't and go to military school." Continuing, he listed off the hoops Max would have to jump through in order to just remain in his own home. "First, as you know, there will be no more basketball. Period. Even if the school reinstates your eligibility, your mother and I decided that you need to focus on your grades. In the past couple of months or so, they've just bottomed out. You're in serious jeopardy of ruining your chances of going to even a decent college. Secondly, you'll be going to therapy. Either your mother or I will pick you up, wait for you, and then drive you home. You will not leave this house unless one of us is with you. And, finally, while you're home from school during these next two weeks, you won't be sitting idly. Your mom has a whole laundry list of things she wanted me to get to around the house, but those will be your responsibility now, and I've added a few chores of my own as well for good measure."

"Is that it? Are we through here?"

"Well, I guess that's everything we needed to tell you," his mother spoke slowly, exchanging a reassuring glance with his father. "Would you like some breakfast, honey?"

Max stood. "You know, for some reason, I'm not hungry. Maybe it's the house arrest. Just leave your damn list on the kitchen table."

And, with that, he stalked off.

; : ;

Max stretched, his hips thrusting upwards when his legs were prevented from extending past their cramped position. Slitting a single eye, he glanced at his surroundings, feeling momentarily displaced until he realized where he was. Just like on Monday morning and on Wednesday morning, he was at his shrink's office, passed out uncomfortably on the proverbial couch... only he didn't use it to be psycho-analyzed; he used it for a nap. Considering how stiff his neck was and what his parents were paying hourly for his so-called sessions with the good doctor, Max had a pretty good feeling they were getting jipped.

He yawned then, wincing at how disgusting the inside of his mouth tasted and felt. He'd give just about anything in that moment for a toothbrush or a little mouthwash, but he definitely wasn't at the dentist. No, he was at his therapist's, and he was supposed to be confessing all his deep, dark secrets, but Max had a sneaking suspicion that 'hey, doc, I'm an alien who needs to connect with someone so badly that my senses are extremely acute because I suppress my instincts and hide who I really am from the rest of the world out of fear of being locked up, experimented on, and tortured to death, but you won't tell anyone right?' wouldn't go over so well. In that light, he prepared to roll over onto his side, giving the psychologist and his intrusive questions the old 'screw you' through his body language, but, when he finally paid attention to his surroundings, he realized that Dr. Isaac's voice was not coming from inside of the older man's office but from the reception area.

"This is the third time this week, Mrs. Evans, that your son has shown up drunk to his appointment and then proceeded to pass out on my couch. Obviously, our arrangement is not working."

"I can assure you that neither my husband nor myself know where he is getting all this alcohol. We cleaned out our liquor cabinet. I threw away my cooking wine. I even checked all our medicine cabinets to make sure that there wasn't any cough syrup after I read that there are teenagers who will drink it to get a buzz."

"Well, then," the shrink suggested, "Max must have a secret, hidden stash."

"Dr. Isaac, while I'm not naïve enough to think that there aren't people in this world who will sell booze to underage kids, Max has no means to go and purchase anything. He doesn't have a job, so he's dependent upon his father and I to give him money... which we've stopped doing, and we took his jeep away from him."

"And you're gone all day at work, Mrs. Evans. Roswell, while not the largest city, still possesses its fair share of bars and liquor stores, and your son is in excellent physical shape. It would be quite easy for him to walk to wherever it is he gets his alcohol while you and your husband are at work. You'd never be the wiser unless you actually caught him. As for how he's paying for it, addicts are quite resourceful when it comes to getting a fix."

He could hear the affront in his mom's voice when she sputtered, "Max is not an addict, Dr. Isaac! Granted, he's going through a rough time right now, and he has some problems, but this has only been going on for a couple of months."

"If he had been snorting cocaine for three months straight, would you be arguing with my diagnosis then," the psychologist challenged her. "What if he had been shooting heroin up his veins? Just because it's more typical and less frightening to see your teenager drinking, that does not mean that Max doesn't have a very serious issue with substance abuse."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," his mother confessed, her voice dull and dismayed with horrified realization.

But Max was furious. For that smug bastard to judge him after what were essentially three non-sessions, for him to act as if he knew what made Max tick, and what motivated him, and why he behaved the way he did made Max see red. The shrink had no right to make such a call, not to mention upsetting his mother for no good reason. Now, on top of dealing with her disappointment and guilt, he'd also have to deal with her paranoia, her suspicion, and her overprotective fear. But then Dr. Isaac was talking again, and Max could no longer focus on his rage; he had to pay attention.

"Obviously, this is not working. I'm not sure if it's therapy in general, or if Max is just failing to respond positively to me, but you and your husband, Mrs. Evans, should start considering some alternative treatment options for your son. While I'd be happy to keep Max as a patient – after all, it's frustrating yet still easy money for me, it's certainly not benefiting Max at this point."

"Yes, I can see that we have some very important decisions to make before us," his mom agreed, making his animosity shift focus and settle on her instead.

The fact that his mother would believe some stranger, some quack over him made Max tremble with barely restrained anger. Plus, he felt abandoned by the very last person whom he had believed to still be on his side. Suddenly, everything was just too much. Like always, his senses flared, and, under the strain, Max's head started to pound. With quivering fingers and muscles which felt like jelly, he pushed himself into a sitting position and then swayed to his feet. Quietly, so as not to make a sound that would alert his mom and Dr. Isaac to the fact that he was awake, he made his way out of the shrink's office, down the hall, and into the little kitchenette. Locating a clean, plastic cup, Max filled it with water from the faucet and then quickly transformed the unoffending liquid into vodka – odorless and clear-colored, high-proof vodka.

Downing the entire cup, Max did not receive the immediate numbing that he was used to. His eyes still stung, his nose still burned, his ears still rang, his skin still felt to tight, and he could still taste the staleness that was the doctor office's air. His migraine still raged, and, even with the aid of the alcohol, he couldn't get control of his body. With shaking hands he filled a second glass, altered the water's molecules, and then downed it as well. After the second glass, some abatement was achieved, but it wasn't enough.

It was never enough anymore.

With that thought, Max repeated his process a third time, finally feeling as though he was ready to face his mother. Just as quietly, he walked back down the hall, but, instead of returning to Dr. Isaac's office, he slipped into the reception area unannounced. Without acknowledging either his shrink or his mom, he simply left the building. After all, really, what was there to say? No matter what he said, his mother was determined to believe an unknown and unproven psychologist over her own son, and, if that's the way she wanted to play the game, Max would let her. He didn't need her. He didn't need anyone, not if they weren't going to trust him, and his mother clearly didn't.

While his life had always been lonely, now he knew what it was like to be completely alone in the world. And it wasn't a good feeling.