Broken
By Lisa

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It was 8:30 PM.

Diane Evans yawned. She placed her copy of an old Martha Stewart Living face down in her lap and imagined her living room couch transformed to a deep navy blue.

"Hmm."

Things were already a bit dark in the living area. She considered a change to coral.

Diane stretched her legs out and watched as Martha fell to the floor. Sighing, she lay back and closed her eyes. With Philip gone for three weeks, old magazines and trashy syndicated talk shows had become her life in the evenings. She missed him. She wished she could cook him breakfast in bed before the most challenging case of his career instead of thinking about him settling for room service, and falling asleep so early with no one by her side was growing old quickly.

The dull roar of the jeep's engine in the driveway caused her eyes to open. Had she slept the evening away? The back door opened and she sat up quickly enough to get a glance of Max slowly disappearing into the hallway to his room. Her eyes settled on the clock on the mantle. 8:37 PM.

"Max, honey?" She stood up and padded into the hallway. "I thought the concert wouldn't be over until later?" She paused. "Max?"

The only light in the hallway came from the slightly open bathroom door at the far end. Diane had felt no closer to Max in the recent weeks than she had to her absent husband, but she could sense her son's heartache every time he stepped into a room with her. She desperately wanted him to open up to her.

The sound of running water filled the hall. "Max?" Mrs. Evans called again. Her pulse quickened as she heard the sounds of Max being sick, and she jogged the last few steps to the door.

She heard him gag again. "Max?" she asked as she hesitantly opened the door. "Max what -- oh god."

The running water had been covering the sound of Max's sobbing. Her son was on his knees bent over the toilet gagging, tears running down his face, trying desperately to hold himself up on trembling arms. At her entrance, Max looked up and fell back onto the floor. He cried harder.

"Max, are you sick? What is going on?" Diane dropped to her knees and reached out to him.

"No!" He scrambled backward, sobbing. "Go," he held his arm up to shield himself from her.

Diane's mind was reeling. "God, Max, what happened? Please I can't even…" She reached for his arm as he hovered near the corner. Max was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and emitting heartache like bullets. His face was twisted; something absolutely unthinkable had to have put in him this state of unbearable pain.

"Honey, what happened? Is someone hurt? I don't -- "

Max's foot caught on the rug and he stumbled, his backward motion knocking over the small shelf holding Diane's carefully arranged collection of miniature glass seashells. She watched as they fell, shattering against the inside of the porcelain tub. Max's chin trembled harder.

He gagged again and lunged forward. Diane caught him and smoothed back his hair as he was sick again and again until his body grew limp and he collapsed backward into her lap.

"Please go. Mom," he continued crying but didn't move. "Please, leave me."

The sight of her son lying in her arms on the floor of their family bathroom, completely disheveled and helpless, brought tears to Diane's eyes. Never in his seventeen years had Max broken this way in front of any of them.

She cradled his head to her chest and slowly rocked back and forth as he continued sobbing.

"Whatever it is Max, I'm right here." It was the only thing she knew to say.

Max balled his hands into fists and choked out another loud cry. "I love her," he whispered.

And Diane understood.

She thought her own relationship with Philip was strong but looking at Max, watching him utterly lose himself in her arms, she realized that, with Liz Parker, he was experiencing feelings beyond love.

She looked down at his crumpled face. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by his situation. She could do nothing but hold him.

"It's okay, Max. I'm here. It's okay."