Unquiet by Melanie Hansen Page A

room—thank goodness he hadn’t locked it—I saw that he was lying on the floor and that he had slashed one arm open to the bone. He’d transected his artery, and there was—oh Jesus, there was so much blood spraying everywhere. It was on the walls, on his face—”
    She shuddered, gripping his fingers tighter. “His father called an ambulance while I desperately tried to stop the bleeding. He went into shock, and it was touch and go that first night. When we knew he was going to make it, and he was stable enough, we had him transferred to the psychiatric unit at OHSU in Portland. He was there for two months.”
    Loren had seen the scar on Eliot’s forearm, and knew what a close thing it had been. He swallowed hard, then asked, “How did you end up here, in Arizona?”
    “His psychiatrist at OHSU said that a large number of people suffering from bipolar disorder also suffer from something called seasonal affective disorder, and that Eliot might make more progress in a climate that was more warm and sunny than Oregon is. We uprooted ourselves and moved down here, thinking that because we had a diagnosis and were being proactive with his treatment that everything would be okay.”
    “And it wasn’t?” Loren kept his grip on Rebecca’s hands tight, soothing.
    “The next three years were hell, Loren,” she said simply. “He wouldn’t take his meds. He drank all the time. His moods fluctuated almost daily. He lied, he stole, he sexually acted out. He got into fights, got arrested, was in and out of the psychiatric hospital. One year he was hospitalized five times.”
    Loren closed his eyes. “Jesus.”
    “His father couldn’t take it, left us,” she said with bitterness. “I tried everything I could think of. Doctor after doctor, medication after medication. Then we found Dr. Babcock. She’s a miracle worker, a chemist with the medications. We got him stabilized at last and things got better. He was able to hold down a part-time job, and he had one or two semiserious relationships.”
    “What happened?” Loren asked, and he let go of Rebecca’s hands, pushing to his feet and heading back to his chair.
    “He decided to stop taking his meds one day,” Rebecca whispered.
    “Jesus, Rebecca. Why?”
    She shook her head, the picture of weariness. “He didn’t say anything to me or his doctor, he just—quit. And after a while I could see that he was heading up toward mania again. The rapid speech, not sleeping, hardly eating. He’d disappear for days at a time, off doing God only knows what. He was fired from his job, and when he came to me one day and said that he wanted to move out, I—I let him.”
    Loren’s gaze flew to hers in shock. He knew Eliot had a different home address than this one, but Loren wouldn’t have dreamed in a million years he was truly out on his own.
    As if sensing his disbelief, Rebecca looked away. “I couldn’t take it anymore, Loren,” she whispered. “He’d been stable; he’d been productive. And he threw it all away. I couldn’t start over from the beginning, not with my husband gone, my practice struggling—”
    “Rebecca, I’m no expert, but even I know that a mental illness like bipolar disorder is an ongoing fight for stability. You can’t have thought that just letting him go out on his own would solve anything. He needs support.”
    “All the support in the world won’t do squat if he doesn’t want to help himself. He has to want to help himself, Loren, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t.” Her voice was harsh. “He has a monthly allowance and I pay for his medical insurance. Everything else is up to him now. I’ve given all I have to give.”
    Rebecca fell silent, and Loren took a few deep calming breaths, memories washing over him with all their accompanying joy and pain. Eliot.
    “Rebecca,” he began, then broke off. She waited expectantly. “I’d resigned myself to never seeing him again.” His voice was ragged. “I—I don’t know how