Chapter Text
“Hello, this is Maura Sargent. How may I help you?” Maura already knows what’s about to happen. Persephone and Calla have their coats on, Calla with Maura’s in her own hands. They’ve prepared for this.
“Hello, this is Mollie Richards, from Social Services. You’re listed as an available foster parent, and we have a child whose needs an emergency placement,” she starts. “Are you still available?”
“Of course. Where should we go, to finalize things?” Maura asks, already knows the answer.
Adam Parrish is at Mountain View General.
:: ::
Mollie is standing in the hallway, trying to not look through the observation window into Adam’s room. She doesn’t know exactly what went down at his parent’s trailer, but he has four cracked ribs, a grade two concussion, and he’s completely lost hearing in his left ear. His face is beat to hell. This boy isn’t even sixteen years old.
He hasn’t slept.
With a concussion like that, he should have fallen asleep hours ago. He looks exhausted. Sometimes, his eyes will close just a little bit, but he’ll pinch his arm or wrap his arms tighter around his chest and they’ll shoot open again, search the room with terror-filled eyes.
The doctors think it’s something psychological. They don’t know if it’s anxiety or just remaining fear or what, but it’s enough that she can’t support Adam’s wish for emancipation. He’s going to need care, and there’s only one available set of foster parents that look like they can adequately support that.
Three women, none of them married, in a house full of only women and girls.
Mollie looks at Adam Parrish again, hopes he’ll have fallen asleep when she gets back, and goes to meet these women to discuss the situation.
They are nothing like she expected. She thinks that this will work out okay.
“Hello, I’m Maura, we spoke on the phone,” Maura says, worry lines etched into her forehead. “These are Calla and Persephone.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Mollie says. “They likely won’t release Adam until the morning, but there’s paperwork and things to go over.”
“Yes, of course,” Persephone says. “Is Adam okay?”
There’s a long pause.
“It’s likely that the investigation might take some time,” is what she goes with. “But there has been permanent damage. He’s lost his hearing in his left ear, and apart from bruises there’s a concussion and a few cracked ribs.”
“Oh, no. They’ve arrested his father, right?” Maura asks. “I’m assuming he’s sleeping?” Maura knows for a fact that Adam Parrish is not sleeping.
Adam Parrish is a dreamer. And he’s clever as hell.
Even concussed, Maura is willing to bet that he’s doing everything he can to stay awake. That’s what put up the red flags, that and the truancy. The psychic urge that lead them to register as foster parents last year has finally come to fruition.
“He’s not sleeping. They don’t know why, but they think he’s going through something psychologically. Beyond just the trauma,” Mollie admits.
That’s all it takes. Fox Way has its first male resident.
:: ::
“I really don’t get more warning about this?” Blue asks. “I’m not mad. But, like, is he?”
“He’s too concussed for emotion,” Calla says. “But, yeah, you really do get a twelve-hour warning that we’re fostering one of your friends.”
“Am I allowed to ask why he’s not just being emancipated?” Blue’s voice is muffled, her mouth around the spoon using to eat yoghurt.
“Missed too much school because of Robert’s Dream Factory,” Calla says. “Also the whole refusing to sleep while concussed thing.”
“Ah,” Blue says. “Just so you know, you’re basically inviting Ronan into the house with him.”
“Yeah, we know,” Calla says. “Persephone and Maura are going to be back with him soon. I know that you already know each other, but don’t be weird or loud. He’s more skittish than a feral cat right now.”
“Is he not just… mad?” Blue asks. “Like, is he even cooperating?”
“Weirdly enough, he’s not mad and he’s cooperative,” Calla says, but that’s when the door opens. Calla is immediately on her feet, and Blue closely follows.
“Sup, Parrish,” Blue says. “I’m gonna go to my room, but let me know if you need something.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
Calla takes a good look at Adam Parrish. His hair is short, uneven, and he’s thin. Bones are poking out sharply, his elbows and cheekbones too prominent to be beautiful.
“Hi,” Adam says, face muscles pulled taught. He’s got deep circles under his eyes, distinguishable from the bruises on on his face, and it looks like every ounce of his energy is being used to hold himself together.
“Hey, Adam. Are you hungry?” Calla asks. They need to take him to a pediatrician in a few days, but it can wait until the concussion lessens.
“No,” Adam says, winces at the sound of his own voice in his skull. “Can I… can I just go sleep?” Adam needs to catch some sleep, now that he’s somewhere where they know about dreaming. Make no mistake, he does not want to Dream, but if he does there are no explanations necessary.
“Yeah, of course,” Maura says. “Calla set up a room for you. I’ll show you where it and everything else is.”
“Thanks,” Adam says, trudges slowly up the stairs. Maura is close behind.
Adam feels like he can finally breathe when he’s alone in what’s now his room. It’s more space than he’s ever had in his life, a nice bed with clean sheets and a warm duvet and a whole desk and closet just for him, but it’s not that; he can breathe because there’s no one else. It’s quiet and it’s dark and his head doesn’t feel like it’s about to implode.
The ribs, the bruises, those are things he can deal with. He can’t deal with people coming up on his left, can’t deal with thinking.
God, he is so fucking tired. Adam knows if he doesn’t do something he will pass out and maybe destroy the witches’ house. He’s never brought back a demon but it would be his luck that this would be the first. Now that he has his watch back, now that no one is watching and observing and trying to get him to sleep, he can set his alarms for every hour and hopefully it’s enough that he won’t even dream in the first place.
This wasn’t what he planned. But Adam Parrish is good at adapting; he was planted in a desert and managed to bloom.
:: ::
“I think he forgets that we’re psychic,” Maura says into the rearview mirror. They know Adam isn’t sleeping, but he will fall asleep if they drive around for long enough. Two in the front, one in the back with a baseball bat in case Adam dreams up a demon. He’s concussed, and him denying himself REM sleep to avoid dreaming isn’t going to help. It’s also classified torture, so there’s that.
They learn after the first two days that the bat isn’t necessary. Adam doesn’t bring back monsters; he brings back bruises and scratches and hurt. That’s not great—it doesn’t look good for them, because it’s still a temporary placement pending approval, and him being hurt in their care is not a positive. It means either they’re hurting him or he’s hurting himself, but something is out of control.
Everything is out of control. Calla has been trying to get him to eat with the rest of the house, but he stares at the table at doesn’t eat anything. Occasionally, he’ll sneak down to the kitchen at night and eat peanut butter out of the jar. It’s never a lot, and Maura knows that he’s borderline on a dangerous zone; the hospital had commented on his low weight, and it looks like it’s not going to fix itself.
The biggest problem is that Adam is still on high alert. They’re doing everything they can to ease the transition, to not push so that when the time comes he will listen, but so far Adam has not relaxed one iota. He is locked in his room or he is counting seconds until he can return there. His concept of time is seriously fucked, which isn’t helping: a day can last forty hours or seven.
“Definitely,” Calla says, watching Adam’s face for any sign of trouble as he sleeps. “He has an appointment with the pediatrician tomorrow.”
“Lovely,” Persephone says. “That will be difficult, I believe. At least he’s sleeping now though.”
“Hopefully this time he doesn’t bring anything back,” Calla replies. “We need to work on controlling the dreaming. He can’t keep hurting himself.”
“Let’s focus on getting through this week. It’s a rough adjustment,” Maura says. “A lot has happened to him in the last six days.”
“A lot has happened to him in the last sixteen years,” Calla says. “I’m just saying, getting ahead of the dreaming is going to be an issue. Especially considering his bastard of a father.”
Maura looks in the rearview mirror at Adam. His face isn’t relaxed, but there’s no indication that he’s about to wake up any time soon.
Adam really, really fucking hates this dream. It’s not a dream.
“That’s not what I goddamn asked for.” It always starts the same. Ever since Robert Parrish realized what his son could do, Adam hasn’t been his son. Adam is his wish-granting factory, something to be used and used over and over again until it’s done right, until it’s what he wants.
“I’m sorry.” There are pills, pills Adam had to dream himself at the age of ten. They send him crashing into a dream, but only for enough time it takes to bring something out. It’s not sleep. It’s not anything.
It’s just a cycle. Over and over and over again until Robert finally lets him sleep. It can take days, days that Adam can’t remember between the haze of work and dreaming. Those times, his entire body disintegrates; he gets tired enough that thinking is impossible, that hunger turns to nausea, and moving becomes a herculean effort. But he goes to work. Robert Parrish has to sleep off forcing his piece-of-shit, no good kid to do what he asks, but that doesn’t mean Adam gets a pass out of work.
“Again.”
It’s day four, or five, or something. There’s no school, no food. There are no walls.
When Adam was little, he would dream monster creatures, all with his father’s face. His father would kill them, with a shotgun or a knife, would force Adam to stay awake so he could get some damn shuteye without worrying about his useless kid ruining the trailer.
Adam has never had a door to his room.
The feeling of being torn from dream to awake and back again is like his heart is ripped from his chest. No matter how many times it happens, it’s always the same.
At least the one thing Robert Parrish has never had is ambition. He’ll make Adam dream beer and cash and lottery tickets but never too much, just enough so that he never has to work, not if Adam holds down a real job. A little for his wife, none for his son.
Adam takes a breath, swallows another pill. His eyes prickle with how tired he is, his stomach empty and protesting and begging him for something other than this.
There is nothing other than this.
Adam wakes up. He’s in a car, with Calla and Maura and Persephone, and he’s paralyzed. He hasn’t brought back bruises this time, but he feels like he always does after a forced dreaming bender—food is an absolute no, stomach hurting too much with hunger to consider food. He feels like he hasn’t slept in days.
Adam has absolutely no idea what day it is.
“What did you bring back?” Calla asks, as soon as Adam’s body relaxes from paralysis. “You only go still when something was brought back.”
“Nothing physical,” Adam croaks out. There’s nothing noticeable. “Nothing bad. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Maura says, when she means to say that she knows he’s lying. Nothing is so dire that they have to push; it would be great if Adam did more than stare blankly at the floor when the rest of them eat dinner, and it would be great if he could get eight hours of sleep in a row without bringing back an injury. But it’s not quite bad enough that they want to risk pushing when Adam doesn’t trust them.
You see, they’re psychic. Maura and Calla and Persephone all know that something is coming, something that’s going to require a lot of time and patience and work. Something with Adam.
All of that is going to need trust. And it’s not far off.
:: ::
There’s a taste of what’s to come the next day, the day before it happens. It’s the day they have to take Adam to the pediatrician. It’s objective one of the long list of getting Adam up to date; he’s never had a PCP and his record of vaccinations is just barely what the state requires for school. He’s been to the dentist exactly once, also because it was required, and there’s still a whole host of things the hospital thinks they’ve unearthed that need to be followed-up on.
“I don’t believe this thing actually exists,” Adam says, not for the first time that day. “Seems like a plot to get more of rich people’s money.”
“We’re rich now, did you hear?” Calla says to Maura. She refuses to engage in this exact conversation again.
“Having a pediatrician is important,” Maura says, voice deliberately calm and slow. “It’s important to make sure your body is healthy, and have someone who can recommend treatment when you’re not.”
“I mean, should be fairly obvious if something is wrong, and then you go to the doctor.” Adam has crossed his arms over himself in the back seat. They’ve also been avoiding clothes shopping, because they’re certain no parties involved will know what they’re doing, but it doesn’t matter because Adam seems content to wear the same ratty pair of sweats and sweatshirt.
He won’t say that he’s cold, but Maura wouldn’t be surprised if he was. They keep their house warm, even warmer than usual because they are guessing that he’s cold, but there’s only so much they can do to replace the function of body fat.
“Well, the state is requiring and paying for this, so it’s happening,” Maura says. She’s watching Adam’s hands fiddle with his sweatshirt strings; he’s clearly nervous about the visit, body pressed as far away from everyone else as possible and shoulders curled tightly. “And it’s a good check to make sure your concussion and ribs are healing well.”
“Seems unnecessary,” Adam says, and then turns his face out the window. They don’t say anything as he slowly but surely tenses up; Adam is jumpy and twitchy and wired as they walk from the car to the elevator, thigh jiggling nervously the entire time they have to sit in the waiting room watching younger kids play. Adam feels them staring, and he tries to turn his head down, pull up his sweatshirt hood. His face still looks shitty, and he knows he’s scaring them. They all will look at him and smile and then their face goes a little bit sad before they turn around and play again. Even worse, their parents follow their children’s gazes, and if he sees one more shocked or pitied face he is going to walk out, consequences be damned.
It’s not a relief when his name is called.
Because then he has to follow the short lady down a hallway and she’s smiling and trying to talk and ask questions but Adam is too busy trying to memorize how to get out. They stop at a scale.
“I’m going to need you to take your sweatshirt off, Adam,” she says, and Adam’s eyes flash towards Maura. They’re not pleading, but it’s shock and confusion and please make it stop.
“Why?” Adam asks, curls further into the sweatshirt, hands disappearing underneath the sleeves. “I’m cold.”
“We’d like to get as accurate of a weight as possible,” she explains. “Especially because it’s your first visit.”
“Adam, it will be quick,” Persephone says, and Adam sighs and pulls off the material. He’s shivering a little bit, thin arms hugging his sides. He’s glad none of the cute waiting room kids are back there yet, because he can’t look at the nurse, not when what’s been done to him by his father and his dreams are written across his arms.
They don’t tell Adam the weight, but Adam didn’t expect them to. He’s allowed to put on the sweatshirt, is allowed to massively fuck up the hearing test and ignore confused faces as his other vitals are monitored, and then he’s told to sit up on the exam table and Adam curls as far away as he can. No one is going to touch him, not with a needle, not with a device, not with anything.
“It shouldn’t take long,” Maura says. “This doctor is great. She’s been with Blue since Blue was a baby,” Maura continues.
They were very careful in choosing a female doctor. It probably won’t matter today, because it seems unlikely that Adam will relax from the tight ball he’s curled himself into, head on knees and knees to chest. But it will probably matter in the future, the near future if Maura is being honest.
“Cool,” Adam says, voice a deadpan. “I still think this is useless. This is nothing that they didn’t do at the hospital.”
“Let’s see what the doctor has to say,” Calla says. “She may say different things.”
“It’s been a while since we were all in here,” Persephone says. “I think it was when Blue had that nasty ear infection when she was twelve?”
“Wow,” Adam says, deadpan. “Everything about this is excessive.”
“It’s really not,” Calla says. “Outnumbering you is key, considering your general attitude towards this.”
Adam wants to shoot back, but it’s at that moment the nurse reenters with the doctor, and Adam squishes himself as far into the corner as he can, knees coming up to his chest. He hooks his chin over them, briefly releases his thighs enough to hook his sweatshirt hood over his face.
It’s dumb and he knows he’s giving off all sorts of fucked up vibes, but it’s the only thing that makes it all somewhat bearable. And it very much demonstrates how much he does not want to be here.
“Hi, Adam,” the doctor says, all of 4’3, bird-thin, and kind. She doesn’t move close to Adam, stays at the complete other end of the examination table. “It’s great to meet you.”
Adam doesn’t bother replying.
“How are you?” Maura says when it’s clear that Adam isn’t going to say anything.
“I’m well,” she answers, unlocking her tablet. “How’s Blue?”
“Great,” Maura answers. They make small talk while the doctor looks at things on her iPad, and Adam lets himself believe for five seconds that maybe this is more of a social visit.
But then she turns to Adam.
“So, Adam, there aren’t a lot of records of your health. It would be helpful to get some sort of history, so I’m going to ask some questions. It’s okay if you don’t know the answer, but try your best.” Okay, she’s clearly going with the kid-gloves approach. It makes Adam hate her just a little bit more.
Adam doesn’t answer any of the questions she asks. Most of the time, he doesn’t know the answer, anyways, and ones he does know Maura answers when it’s clear that Adam won’t. It makes him feel just a little bit childish, because he knows he’s being difficult, but the thought of anyone coming near him, much less touching or observing or analyzing him, makes him want to bury himself so no one will ever see his body again.
“Okay. That gives some more background,” the doctor says. “Well, a few things have jumped out as points of concern.” Adam just bows his head, tries as hard as he can not to listen. He’s pretty sure everything that’s about to be said is something that’s liveable and that fixing requires more effort than it’s worth. “The most obvious is your weight.”
Adam looks up, narrows his eyes.
“Take a look at our best guess for Adam’s height and weight curves, from the sporadic data we’ve found from previous clinic visits,” the doctor says, offering the iPad to Adam. Adam’s arms curl around his knees, and so the iPad goes to the witches. “As we can see, his height didn’t really level off until last year, but his weight flattened out at the age of twelve.”
“That’s not good,” Calla says, frowning at the screen. “He’s not even in the colored curve anymore.”
“Yes. His weight, given his height, can be classified as severely underweight. I’m going to make a referral to a dietician, because he needs to gain a significant amount of weight,” the doctor says.
“Don’t need a dietician,” Adam says, voice cracking through the otherwise silent room. In an instant, all eyes are on him. “I’m tall enough, aren’t I? Aren’t malnourished people short?”
“I hope you realize being tall isn’t helping,” Calla says, voice careful in a way that sounds wrong to Adam. “Like, it means you’re even more underweight.”
“I’m not underweight. I’m overtall.” Adam lets out a deep sigh. “Look, I don’t need a dietician. I don’t even need to be here. All of this shit will iron itself out.”
“With all due respect, Adam,” the doctor starts, as Adam engages with picking his cuticles beneath sweatshirt sleeves instead of the four adults talking to him. “This is a serious health concern.”
“I’m not dead yet,” Adam mumbles. “By this math, I should have died last year. I have access to food now, or whatever. It’ll be fine.” Adam looks at Calla, almost dares her to snitch.
It’s too easy to give in the urge to tell the truth, not only because Adam is a disaster of a human who has no concept of healthiness or self-care, but because he dared her to do it.
“He definitely has access to food, but he hasn’t been eating a lot,” Calla says. “A referral would be great.”
“I won’t go. You can’t make me,” Adam says. Calla is staring at him, daring him to say more, and Adam is staring right back. “I’m sixteen. I get my own medical decisions.”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Maura says. She won’t burst his bubble about how much legal shit he would have to go through to enforce it, and how it’s more of a vote than a veto. “What else do we need to know?”
“I would like to check his ribs today to see if they’re healing. It seems like his head is coming back online after the concussion, but how’s his balance been?” the doctor asks.
“Bad. It’s hard to tell if it’s the deaf ear or the concussion, though,” Calla answers immediately.
“That’s to be expected. If the left ear is causing balance problems, OT is always a future option,” the doctor says. “They also had some odd blood work at the hospital, and I’d like to see if it’s resolved itself or not. He’s mostly up to date on vaccines, but he needs HPV and two of the meningitis strains. I can order those for today.”
“Sorry, no. You gotta pick; I can’t do blood and shots today,” Adam says. Persephone sends him a look, and Adam hates the disappointment. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. It’s just… too much.”
“That’s completely understandable,” Maura says. “We can split it up. Which one is more pressing?”
“The bloodwork,” the doctor answers honestly. “Will you be okay if I examine your ribs? It would involve removing your sweatshirt, but your shirt can stay on.”
“No,” Adam says, looks down at his knees. He can’t do it. He almost can’t cooperate with the bloodwork. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but even the thought of moving one sweatshirt sleeve arm up enough for a nurse to find a vein makes his skin crawl and his stomach acid curdle inside of him.
“Okay. You need to tell someone if the pain suddenly increases, or if it doesn’t go away within the week,” the doctor says. “I’ll send a nurse in to take some blood.”
By the time Adam is in the car again, something is settling deep in his gut. Dread, thick and dark and viscous. The thought of being exposed to the public, of being somewhere open and where anything can happen is daunting. It’s dumb and stupid and Adam has no idea what’s happening, but it’s like every part of him is drifting apart from the others.
Even though it’s not the concussion, he can feel his thoughts slipping from his grasp. He doesn’t feel like a person, can’t handle the possibility of anything. He’s tired, exhausted, completely wrecked. His stomach is somewhere orbiting Venus, his arm muscles stretched tight from hugging his knees so tightly.
His room, for whatever reason, as dark and unfamiliar as it is, is easier. Just enough to keep breathing.
:: ::
“Adam hasn’t come downstairs yet today, has he?” Maura asks Blue as she puts away groceries. It’s the next evening; they’re trying to give Adam space, especially because yesterday was difficult, but Maura has been in the house most of the day and she hasn’t seen him once.
She and Calla and Persephone had a long talk, yesterday. They think Adam is starting to trust them, and that means they have to start working on some of this. It has been obvious that Adam is thin, but he is thin, and they’re all waiting for the let down. The doctor had stalled Calla, after, had warned them about it. When Adam finally allows himself to relax, even just a little bit, all of the exhaustion and pain and emotional sink of what he’s gone through is going to hit him at once. It’s common, in cases like his.
“No. Haven’t heard anything from his room, either,” Blue says. “Wait, is that junk food? Did someone steal your body while you went shopping?” Immediately, she’s rummaging through the bags.
“Don’t you dare,” Maura says, slaps her daughter’s hands away. “We don’t know what Adam will eat, yet.”
“Has he even eaten anything?” Blue asks. “I’ve never seen him do anything but drink water at dinner. Also, there’s no way he will eat all of this so I will be snacking.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. He has, like, taken apples or peanut butter or bread here and there, but never a lot and not often,” Maura says. “He needs to start eating.”
“Doctor visit went well then? Did he ever come around from the ‘I don’t believe PCPs exist’ argument?” Blue has her hand in a bag of Doritos. Maura sends her a dirty look, moves to take the bag back. “Don’t even be mad. He called Doritos shit-flavored the other week.”
“No, but he did allow a stranger to touch his arm long enough to draw blood,” Maura says. “I’m going to go check on him. Put the rest of this away, and so help me if I catch you eating all of it I will be mad.”
Blue just laughs. Maura is slow walking up the stairs, is sure to knock and wait before entering Adam’s room. But when there’s no response, she just calmly states that she’s entering and opens the door.
She can’t see Adam.
The window is closed and the bed is messy; she’s certain that he’s here. She takes a step forward, quietly closing the door behind her, and that’s when Maura hears it.
It’s soft, almost inaudible. A whimper.
“Adam?” Maura asks again, and again there’s a delay, and then another harsh sound. It sounds like it’s coming from the bed. But he’s not there. There’s only one place he can be, but it seems impossible that Adam could wedge his body that far under the bed.
She crouches down slowly, laying flat on her stomach. There, in the darkness, curled up in the corner where the bed meets two walls, is Adam. How long has he been there?
“Adam,” Maura says, voice as soft and calm and steady as she can make it. She adjusts herself slightly, and Adam seems to scoot even farther back, contorting his body more. “I’m just moving my arms. I won’t come near you unless you tell me it’s okay.”
So many thoughts are racing through Maura’s head. How long has he been there? What’s happening? What is he scared of? How can they fix this? Is he hurting his ribs? Is he hurting anywhere else?
But Maura has to start at the first step.
“Is it okay if I turn the light on, so I can see you better? I promise I will keep the door closed,” Maura asks, and she thinks she’s not going to get a response, until Adam shakes his head so slightly that it’s almost imperceptible. “Okay. That’s okay. I’ll stay right here.”
She waits, watches a little while longer and tries to come up with a plan. This is nothing like the doctor warned about. Something, possibly everything, is seriously scaring Adam to the point of this; she can see it in his eyes and how tightly he has balled himself up. Words are too much. Light is too much.
She needs to do something.
“Hey,” Maura starts, voice low and soft and quiet. “I know this is all terrifying right now, but it can’t be comfortable back there. I promise nothing will happen if you come out from under there—we can deal with everything later.”
Adam just shakes his head, takes in a particularly shaky breath.
“Okay. Maybe later,” Maura says, doesn’t move. “I’m gonna be right here the whole time.”
And she is, until it’s hour three of being on the hard floor. She has no idea how Adam’s bony and bruised body can handle the position it’s locked into, but she swaps for Persephone.
Three hours later, it’s Calla’s turn.
When Maura comes back, Persephone goes in briefly and Calla shuts the door and just sighs.
“He has to pee eventually,” she says. “See if you can get him out. I think he’s tiring out—he’s going to sleep or need to move soon. I’ll go grab some water and Gatorade, make sure Blue’s okay.”
Maura enters, Persephone leaves. Persephone just squeezes Maura’s shoulder, presses a gentle kiss to her cheek on her way out.
Ignoring the lingering ache in her muscles, Maura sinks back down. “Hey. I’m back.” She sees how his limbs are all trembling, and she sees what Calla means. “Please. I promise, if you come out, we won’t do anything. Everything we can deal with later. I know it hurts staying like that.”
Somehow, with ask number eighty-two, Adam nods.
Maura, trying hard to not let her surprise show, slowly backs to the other side of the room. The only sound is Adam’s joints and muscles clicking and a soft sliding as he moves out from under the bed to on top of it, crawling into the same corner that he was in underneath the bed.
He looks like hell. The dark circles under his eyes are deep and dark and violent, thin limbs trembling beneath his clothing. Maura doesn’t know if it’s from panic or pain or cold, but she knows she can’t approach him.
It’s an improvement. It’s the only improvement.
It takes two hours for him to unfurl from the tight ball, but he does not move from where he is. He does not sleep. He does not get up.
Their plan is to give him the night. He only sleeps for a few hours total, never more than an hour at a time. He wakes in a panic every time.
At 8 a.m. the next day, Maura places a water bottle and a bottle of Gatorade on the opposite end of the bed, close enough that Adam can grab it if he moves a little bit, far enough away that Maura placing it there doesn’t scare him. He does not take either.
8:30 a.m. Calla asks him to drink the water. Adam doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t give an answer, but he doesn’t move.
He doesn’t drink until 10 a.m. It’s a few sips of water, barely a quarter of the bottle, and the Gatorade remains untouched.
At 10:30, Maura brings a sleeve of saltines, a box of graham crackers, and a packet of oyster crackers. She asks Adam to eat, just a few, just so he can get some calories. She gets no response.
Calla joins Maura at 12:00, everything still untouched. She offers him everything in the cupboard, everything within a thirty-minute drive. Adam drinks more of the water. Now there’s only a quarter of it left. Maura retrieves another water bottle.
At 1:00, Calla offers to leave so Adam can change clothing. He shakes his head. She asks, instead, if he will brush his teeth, if he needs to use the bathroom.
It isn’t until 3:30 that Adam leaves the room on shaking limbs to pee, immediately returns and closes the door behind him again.
He still hasn’t said a word.
Maura loses track of the cycle after that, the only victories the single bottle of water he drinks in the next twenty-four hours.
“Mom, what the fuck is going on?” It’s 4:00 pm, it’s a Tuesday, and it’s going on hour eighty of this complete breakdown. Like she’s done the last two days at 4:00 pm, Maura is about to call Adam’s doctor.
“I don’t know,” Maura admits. “But I need a few minutes before we can talk.” She gives Blue a look that clearly asks her to leave the room, but Blue just sits down at the kitchen counter.
So Blue hears what Maura says, as she describes the last twenty-four hours. If he doesn’t eat or drink something with calories in the next twelve hours, they have to bring him in.
“Mom,” Blue says, voice shaking. Maura has just hung up the phone. “What is going on? I haven’t seen Adam in days.”
“He’s… struggling,” Maura summarizes. “Something flipped a switch and he’s just in complete shutdown.”
“Everyone is freaking out. Ronan is like two minutes away from marching over here himself,” Blue says. “And what about school? His jobs? He’ll freak out if he loses them.”
“Ronan shouldn’t come over here,” Maura says. “Not right now.” There’s a pause as she allows herself one tired sigh. “I don’t think he’ll be going to school for a while. I’ll call his jobs later, when we have a better handle on what’s happening.”
“It’s that bad?” Blue asks.
“We can’t get him to eat, we can’t get him to turn on a light, we can’t get him to brush his teeth or shower or move.” Maura’s tone is honest. “We still don’t know how we’re going to handle it if we have to go to the doctor’s tomorrow.”
“Can I help?” Blue asks.
“No. It’s not your job,” Maura says, ruffles her hair. “We’re good at this parenting thing now. We can do it.”
It’s so much effort to give a reassuring smile.
:: ::
“So here’s the deal. We need you to eat or drink something,” Calla says, sitting on the edge of Adam’s bed. “Or we have to go to the doctor.” She’s expecting the same response as always, which is perhaps a blink but nothing more. It’s not what she gets.
“I can’t.” Adam’s voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. It sounds like he swallowed rusted nails and is trying to speak around them. “It’s too much.”
Those are the first words Adam has said in over three days.
“Okay. Then we have to go to the doctor,” Calla says. “Please, please, please change your clothes. I don’t care if it’s another pair of pajamas but you need to switch everything.”
“No,” Adam says.
“It’s happening.” Maura’s voice is firm. She knows choice is too much for Adam right now, so she just lays out a new set and says that he has five minutes.
Adam changes. He’s apathetic, even as he tightens the hood of a clean sweatshirt over his greasy hair and hides his hands in the huge sleeves. He doesn’t fight when Maura and Calla walk one in front and one behind him on the stairs, mostly so that if Adam faints someone can catch him on either side, but they’re at the door and it all changes suddenly.
Every single one of Adam’s muscles goes taut. He stops, hands wrapping around his stomach, face pale but chest heaving.
He’s panicking. Bad.
Maura and Calla and Persephone make an executive decision, in that moment. They guide him to the car, Persephone in the backseat with him, because this needs to happen and if it happens quicker then the quicker they can get him back home.
Persephone keeps up a stream of words, promising that they will be home within three hours and that they will be there the whole time and that it is okay, he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe.
Nothing works.
Getting Adam out of the car is a herculean effort. It takes ten minutes of coaxing and promises that it won’t be long, that he won’t be alone, that they won’t let anything happen, until someone finally undoes Adam’s seatbelt and he slides out of the car.
He’s blinking tears from his eyes, bony hands clutching tightly to his own sides. Even underneath the layers, they can see how much his chest is moving with each forced breath, and if Maura could just take him back home and let him feel safe and breathe, she would. But that’s not an option.
Calla goes in first, because it will be better for everyone if there’s a quiet and dark room that’s not being used that they can get Adam into as quickly as possible. All it takes is a thirty second conversation with the receptionist, and when the elevator opens and it’s Maura ushering Adam in, it’s as short and clean of a transfer as possible.
Persephone and Calla stay with him, Maura going to fill out forms and try and describe what the hell is going on. In the dark, quiet room, it takes a few minutes before Adam’s breathing becomes less harsh, and it takes a little bit longer for his muscles to unlock a little.
Persephone is saying calming things, hand next to Adam’s own but not touching it. Calla is watching Adam watch the door, always looking for danger.
The knock on the door comes too soon, and Adam’s breathing is immediately back to panic-attack levels. The doctor and Maura and a nurse enter, and Adam draws his shaking limbs as close to him as he can. His head goes down, no inch of skin visible underneath the sweatshirt.
“Adam,” Persephone starts. “It’s okay, it’s just the doctor. Can you please open your eyes?” Her voice is patient and kind in a way only Persephone can be. Adam just shakes his head.
The doctor gives Adam a moment. Nothing changes.
“Hi, Adam,” she says. “It’s okay, you don’t have to open your eyes if you don’t want to.” She’s staying as close to the door as possible, as far away from Adam as possible. But she shares an important look with Maura, and then Calla, and then Persephone. “Here is what’s going to happen. I’m going to talk to Maura and Calla, and a nurse is going to come in here and take a few vitals. Nothing with needles—just weight and pulse and blood pressure. You can keep your sweatshirt on. And then we’ll go from there.”
When Maura and Calla leave the room, they hear the rest of the plan. They can’t let Adam leave until he eats and drinks something, and the doctor says it will be important to get in a consultation with a psychologist today. Psychiatry is further down the line, she says, because SSRI’s won’t work when his weight is this low, but she has a friend that she thinks will work well with Adam, and who regularly agrees to skype sessions instead of in person. She’s going to call her, see if she can come here to avoid more moving and anxiety than necessary. The pediatrician doesn’t want to speculate, but she says the the important thing, moving forward, is going to be therapy and time.
Time, therapy, and a whole lot of patience and work. Maura is going to call Adam’s jobs, call the school, once they have the professional backing of the psychologist. School isn’t going to be possible, not when the priorities are ‘please eat, please brush your teeth, please leave your room’.
Knowing that they have a plan doesn’t make any part of it easier. While Maura and Calla are getting a rundown of the importance making him eat despite whatever is happening in his brain, it takes Persephone five minutes to convince Adam to stand up and get on the scale, to let the nurse near him, much less take his temperature and blood pressure and pulse.
The only thing normal is his temperature.
Adam isn’t listening, but his weight with his sweatshirt is the same as the weight taken a few days before, which is a cause for major concern. Adam can only hear snippets of what’s going on beyond the ringing and pounding of his own blood in his hearing ear, but he thinks the nurse is gone and then she brings back Gatorade and graham crackers.
“You need to eat and drink most of these before we can let you leave,” the nurse says, and it’s the first time she sees Adam’s eyes meet her own.
“Can’t. Feel sick,” Adam gets out, between harsh breaths.
“You don’t have a fever. You either need to eat or go to the emergency room,” the nurse says. “It’s just some Gatorade and crackers.”
Adam’s breath hitches in his chest.
“Adam,” Persephone starts. “It’s okay. Just start slow. Take a few sips?” She offers him the bottle. Adam’s hands shake so bad that he can’t open it. “Here.” Gently, Persephone takes the bottle back, cracks it open and hands it to Adam. His hands are still shaking.
He doesn’t drink.
“I feel sick,” he says again. “I can’t.”
“I promise it will be okay. Just a few sips,” Persephone says. “Please just give it a try.”
Adam takes one sip, grimaces. “It doesn’t feel good.” His voice sounds so strained, so defeated, so pleading. He is begging for this all to stop.
“I know. I know it’s hard,” Persephone says.
When Maura and Calla reappear, she’s only gotten a few teaspoons of Gatorade into Adam at most, the package of crackers unopened.
“Hi,” Maura says. “We’re waiting to meet one more person, and then we can go home.”
“We can?” Adam’s voice sounds wrecked. The bottle of Gatorade is put down, again.
“He’s taken a few sips, but he needs to eat a few crackers,” Persephone says.
“I can’t,” Adam says, again. “Can we just go home? Please.”
“Here.” Persephone has opened the package, hands Adam a single cracker. “Just one, Adam.”
He chokes it down. Persephone hands him another.
She manages to repeat the cycle six times before the water pooling in Adam’s eyes threatens to spill over.
“I can’t do anymore,” Adam says. “I can’t.”
“Okay,” Maura says. “It’s okay. It’s enough for right now.” Maura sends a look to the nurse, threatening a lot more than words can say if the nurse says anything.
“Can we go home?” Adam asks again, his head bowing to his chest. Maura can see the muscles jumping in his back at the strain.
“Not yet,” Persephone says. “Only a little while longer, I promise.”
Once the nurse ducks out, Calla and Persephone follow. They need to talk to this Dr. Sarah Friedman before they let her in with Adam, and they don’t want to leave Adam alone. Especially not with a stranger. They hope, fuck do they hope, that she’s good with skype sessions. Calla can handle a lot of things, but she thinks repeating this with Adam again is something she cannot do.
Calla thinks she likes this doctor. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t contradict when Calla explains everything she can, from the background of why Adam is staying with them to the last few days. She asks a few questions, at the end, but she looks kind and strong and Calla thinks this might turn out okay.
That doesn’t stop Adam from completely panicking.
She doesn’t think Adam answers a single question that he’s asked, listens to a single attempt to calm him down. It’s just too much.
Something has changed. Calla thinks of the angry, hungry, scared kid from the hospital, and it’s definitely the same kid, but she thinks this break is years overdue. He’s just had to hang on for too long, and everything has given out at once.
The good news is Dr. Friedman agrees to take Adam as a patient. She wants daily Skype sessions until they can get him functioning, is willing to move around times based on what is happening with him.
They take Adam home.
Maura tries, she tries to get him to drink and eat something else. That’s another thing—everything has gotten so bad, and Maura doesn’t have to be psychic to know how the next few weeks are going to go. They have explicit instructions that boil down to this: Adam has to eat. Don’t make it a production, just give him something and forty-five minutes to eat it. If it doesn’t happen, give him thirty minutes of break. Make him try again.
The whole thing hinges on Adam being willing to try. Maura wouldn’t blame him if he couldn’t. She doesn’t blame him for any of this, flat out. It’s going to be hard, and there’s still the dreaming, but Maura thinks that there will be an end to this. He’s never had the chance to break, has boxed everything up tight enough that it’s going to a take a while to sort it back out again. But it’s Adam Parrish. If it’s able to be sorted, it will be sorted.
It’s his stubbornness that will carry him through.
:: ::
“Hey.” Blue drops her bag on the floor, walks directly to the kitchen. All three of her moms are standing around the counter, which means that Adam is alone with the iPad and Sarah. It’s the only time she can find all three of them at once.
She hasn’t seen Adam once, since everything has gone to shit.
“Hi, Blue,” Maura says, pulls her daughter in for a hug. “How was school?”
“Good. Got detention,” Blue says. “Josh O’Brady was talking shit.”
“Blue, how many times are you going to punch that poor bastard?” Calla asks, but ruffles his hair. “Fifth time since kindergarten.”
“I didn’t punch him. I threw a book at him,” Blue corrects. “You don’t want to hear what he said. I can just assure you he deserves it.” Blue’s plan is to leave it at that. There’s buzz around the school, because everyone knows that Adam Parrish isn’t there. If Josh O-shit-for-brains decided to comment on things he knows jack about, Blue might have set him straight.
“Improvement,” Persephone comments. She’s currently watering down some Gatorade.
“How’s he doing?” Blue asks, sitting up on the counter with a yoghurt. “He eat today?”
“Little bit,” Maura says. “His hour is almost up, and then we’ll try again.”
“How’s the dreaming? I heard panic last night.” Blue sounds concerned.
“Brought back some nasty scratches,” Calla answers. “He’s not happy, because the therapist thinks he’s scratching himself in his sleep.”
“Honestly, the best possible explanation,” Blue says. “But it’s not completely accurate, so he can’t be happy about it.”
“No, especially because he has to talk about it,” Calla says. She switches the conversation topic, because they’re all very adamant that Blue doesn’t feel responsibility in this. They haven’t been keeping Blue away from Adam for any other reason than that they don’t want her to feel as though this is something she has to help with. Because she will.
But no one can stop Blue Sargent when she wants to do something.
She does homework for a while, stares at her Spanish work and pretends she knows what she’s conjugating, but she’s listening. Blue waits for the sounds of Maura and Calla and Persephone all leaving Adam’s room, and then she sneaks.
She knocks quietly, sneaks into the room and shuts the door.
“Sup, loser,” Blue says, lays down on the floor and stares at the sticky stars on Adam’s ceiling. He’s laying on his bed. The whole room smells stale and sweaty and gross, but it’s nothing she hasn’t smelt at Monmouth. “You’re never gonna guess the bullshit in Mr. Rodriguez’s history class today.”
“What?” Adam’s voice cracks harshly.
“I hate these stupid southern textbooks,” Blue starts. “There’s so much wrong information in them.”
“Y’all doin’ the War of Northern Aggression?” Adam’s voice is a perfect imitation of their teacher’s drawl.
“Yep. I’m going to actually commit a murder,” Blue says. She launches into the rest of her story.
“His class sucked. Every question was straight out of the textbook,” Adam says. He hasn’t moved at all, but he hasn’t run away or panicked so Blue is going to take this one as a win.
“Huh. I’ll look at those before the next test,” Blue says. “He almost gave me a detention today.”
“He’s trigger-happy with those. He gave me one for missing too much class. Makes sense, right? Miss too much class, have to miss more class.” Adam’s voice is completely even.
“Nothing about that fucking school makes sense,” Blue says. She looks over to Adam. He’s sat up, and the hood of his sweatshirt has slipped off of his hair. “Your hair is long. I can cut it soon, if you want.”
If Adam lets her cut his hair, she can wash it first. She isn’t going to ask how long it’s been since he’s washed it, isn’t going to comment on how shitty it all looks.
“Yeah, maybe,” Adam says. “Not today.”
“No. I’m too tired for that shit tonight,” Blue instantly agrees. He hasn’t said no, so she’ll take it. “How about this weekend?”
“Yeah,” Adam says, curls his arms around himself again. She thinks he’s picking at threads underneath the sleeves, and she thinks he’s starting to hit his threshold of Blue Tolerance.
It’s okay. She has time to build it up.
Blue Sargent doesn’t scare easy, and Adam Parrish is a stubborn bastard at heart. They’ll figure it out.