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Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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WHEN I AGREED to stay with Elliot and his family, I didn't imagine I would end up sitting in a desolate hospital hallway. At least not like this.
We've been here for hours; apparently Elliot woke up two hours ago, but I haven't been allowed to see him yet. First his parents and a doctor were in there for over an hour, and now Charlotte and Ollie. I shred a piece of paper I stole from the reception desk into a pile on my knee and try to think of how I can face him, what I will say.
Did he react that way solely because I didn't tell him I loved him back?
It wasn't like one of Colt's rage-outs; it was something else entirely. Something I've never seen before. It was like Elliot had transformed into another person, someone desperate and erratic. My eyes burn, but I'll never shed a tear in public. I just need to know he's okay.
Across the hall, Adam and Elizabeth are in a room with a door open just a crack. I tune my ears to their muffled conversation. The psychiatrist—her name is Dr. Balewa—says, "Adam, listen to me, Elliot is not well."
"Damn it, I know he's not well!" Something slams. Maybe Adam's fist on the desk.
"Adam, calm down," Elizabeth commands.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But Dr. Balewa, listen to me—Elliot can't quit hockey. It's all he's got going for him. He's worked his whole life for it. This is his legacy; we can't just let him give it up."
"Adam, I'm sorry," the doctor says, "but if Elliot's choice is to quit playing, then that's his choice. He can still look into playing next season, but for now, I really would recommend that he take some time off to recover. This is serious, Adam. Elliot is very sick."
"Then just give him those damn pills again, those ones that got him playing before."
"They got him playing, but they also made him incredibly depressed. Elliot is refusing medication. Once again, this is his choice, not yours... whether you like it or not, your son is eighteen now."
"Damn it. Damn it."
The door flies open, and Adam bursts out threading his fingers through his hair. Elizabeth is right after him, touching his arm to calm him down, but he's still huffing. I keep my eyes focused on my paper, just as Ollie and Charlotte exit Elliot's room. Ollie joins his parents, but Charlotte towers over me with a deep scowl on her face. I blink at her, because I don't know what else to do.
"You did this to him," she says. "El was getting better, but ever since you came out of nowhere, he's been getting worse again. You should just get out of our lives before you get him killed."
Her words are a punch, straight to my heart. The rest of the Wexler family huddles in a crowd, so I take a deep breath and face Elliot's room. I slowly open the door, and the white light from inside is almost ethereal.
