"You had a panic attack."
Max startled at the sound of Elliot's voice. He lifted his head from the sumptuous pillow and, through tired eyes, searched the room for him. Elliot was sitting in one of the fancy, high-backed chairs on the far side of the room, right leg crossed over left, watching him carefully.
"I gave you a shot of midazolam, which made you sleep." He waved a hand, gesturing to the bed. "I thought you'd be more comfortable in here, rather than the sofa in my office."
Max rubbed his face, a dull ache tapping at his forehead. "Great." He sat up gradually, his surroundings swimming. "I forgot how fun they could be."
Elliot didn't miss a beat. "You've had panic attacks before?"
Not like that.
Elliot nodded into the ensuing silence, his jaw twitching. "It can be caused by any number of things. In your case I think a combination of your low blood sugar and the topic of conversation contributed to an attack of considerable severity." He sat forward. "You need to make sure your hypoglycemia is under control, Max."
"I know." Max's appetite had been through the damned roof thanks to his coke withdrawals and his meds and, despite the clucking of the kitchen staff, he'd been eating all the wrong shit and not testing his bloods regularly. He just ate. And ate. Dammit, he'd be going back to New York looking like the fucking Pillsbury Doughboy. Hoo-hoo!
"Check bloods. Eat better," he muttered. "Got it. Anything else?"
"Yes," Elliot replied sharply. He stood quickly from his seat and approached the bed.
Unused to hearing Elliot so annoyed, and feeling less than golden, Max snapped, "What's your problem, Doc?" Elliot was usually so calm, so passive.
"I don't have a problem, Max," he replied quietly. "You do."
Max snorted. "I only have one? You need to get with the program, man."
Elliot ignored his attempts at levity. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Max in a way that made him want to hide under the covers of his bed. "Do you realize that today was the first time since you were admitted that you spoke at length about your past, about Lizzie?"
Max swallowed the bile that crept up his throat.
"Max, brief comments about your father aside, today you unleashed a decade of grief in fifteen minutes. Grief that's been sitting inside of you, festering, buried under a quick wit, a ton of coke, and emotionless fucking."
Despite the truth in Elliot's words, Max blanched. "Jeez, Doc, say it how it is, why dontcha?"
"Like a broken levee, your emotions came out too quickly for your mind to cope. It overwhelmed you and your body panicked. Max, you were barely coherent." Elliot exhaled, never taking his stern stare from his patient. "You can't continue to do this, Max. You must start opening up, talking, expressing yourself in some way."
Max huffed and dropped his head back against the wall, wishing he could have another shot of whatever funky juice Elliot had given him, just so he could lose himself once more to oblivion. He'd rather that, he'd rather anything than having to talk about . . . well, everything.
"What if I'm not built that way?" Max was surprised at how quiet his voice was, as he asked the question that had been plaguing him since his first therapy session. He looked up at Elliot. "What if I can't?"
Elliot shook his head slowly. "You can. Together we can. I'll help you every step of the way, Max, we all will, but you have to start meeting us halfway. Lyle is concerned about your insistence to pass on speaking in group-"
"And what if I just don't want to, huh, Doc? What if I just don't want to fucking speak to any of you?"
Elliot stayed silent for an immeasurable amount of time, causing Max to twitch. "But you do want to, Max," he murmured finally. "You're here. You're here because you want to get better. You haven't left because Carter would be devastated and you don't want to disappoint anyone, least of all him. You're here because deep down you know that this is your last chance, your last hope to be clean, happy, and free of all that weighs you down every damn day."
Well, shit. Max's chin hit his chest and a long, slow breath shuddered from him. He rubbed his face, hiding the tears that suddenly welled in his eyes. "Don't pretend like you know me," he muttered, making Elliot chuckle and sigh.
"Tomorrow you have an appointment with Tate Moore."
Max lifted his head, the name ringing some far-off bell of familiarity. "Tate Moore?"
Elliot nodded. "He's one of our part-time resident physicians; he's excellent. He also runs the art classes three days a week."
Max rolled his eyes. "Art classes."