by M. Billiter
“They’re very violent, and it happens at least twice a day, at any time.” The fear came back that I'd be judged, locked up even. That I'd be alone.
“The Paxil will help with the depression, but sometimes once that's treated, the other symptoms become more pronounced.”
Fucking awesome.
“So if that happens, if you start to hear more voices or have more intrusive thoughts, come see me.”
I nodded.
“Dr. Cordova will be overseeing your psychiatric care, but it’s a dual-prong approach with medication and counseling.”
I stared at him.
“It can be tricky, especially in the beginning when they’re trying to figure out the best dosage and medication, but we’ll work together with Dr. Cordova to determine a course of treatment that works for you. How does that sound?”
Like I wish I hadn’t said anything. If there’s not a pill to shut off the static, then why the fuck am I here? “Sure. Thanks.”
“All right then. This was a good start. Is there anything else I should know?” He glanced at the wall clock, and I knew our time was up.
“It was nice to meet you.” I stood and so did he. At 6’1’’, I was taller than him by maybe an inch, but he easily outweighed me. “Thanks for your help and walking me through this.” I actually meant what I said, and I think he saw it in my eyes.
“You’re very welcome.” He firmly shook my hand. “I’ll see you very soon. If you ever need anything, just come to my office.”
I opened the door and was thrust into the hallway of my high school, surrounded by the chaos of people running around, trying to get to their next class.
The noise was a welcome relief, because for a minute, it shut out the static.
3
Tara
“It’s Wyoming. It’s not like there're a plethora of choices for child psychiatry.”
“Tara, he’s not a child. Branson’s seventeen.”
I looked at the ceiling of my car and wanted to punch through it. Instead, I gripped my cell phone until it felt like my knuckles would bleed. “Ed, I know how old our son is. My point is that there aren’t a lot of psychiatrists who treat adolescents, especially in Wyoming.”
“In Sheridan there are. We could have Branson in with the best shrink in town.”
My jaw tightened. “Well, the children and I live in Casper. Sheridan’s a bit too far to travel.”
I was pretty sure he grunted over the phone. Asshole.
“Well, in Casper, Dr. Cordova’s supposed to be the best,” he said.
I blew out a mouthful of hot air. “And he normally has a two-month wait list. I only got in with him because the school called after Branson blacked out and he was hurt when they found him in the boys’ restroom.” I closed my eyes, but my son’s mangled, bloodied and bruised fist remained. I had held his hand up to my lips and kissed it, something I had done so many times when Branson was a toddler and hurt himself. But he wasn’t little anymore, and there was no salve to take away the pain in his eyes.
“Yeah, Branson told me he was sticking up for someone?”
I opened my eyes. The parking lot to Wyoming State University was empty and the sky was beginning to darken. The aspens had lost their leaves, and their naked branches looked like spindly fingers poking through the starless night. The clock on the dashboard read five, but it was getting darker earlier and it felt later. Carson and Jack, my younger children, were home alone.
What the hell am I doing here?
“Tara? Who was Branson sticking up for?”
And then I remembered. I was alone in the car in the college parking lot at work because I didn’t want Carson to hear me on the phone with her father, and then for Jack to miss his, who never called. What a train wreck.
Four children from two different fathers. How did I end up with this life?
“Tara? Hello?”
“Uh, Branson thought a foreign-exchange student was being ridiculed, so he spoke up and then….” I shrugged because I didn’t really know the end of the story. I only knew Branson left the classroom, and then the vice principal found him in the bathroom. “Branson thinks he punched the bathroom wall. I guess there was blood….” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Nor could I break down to the one man who was the least safe for me to be vulnerable around.
Oh my God. Tears poured out of me like rain. I couldn’t stop or predict when it would happen; I only knew that since my son told me he was hearing voices, I hadn’t been able to get a handle on my emotions. I couldn’t control my feelings, and my son feared he didn’t have any. Though when he told me about the static, his face grew ashen and his broad shoulders seemed to fold in on him like the weight of the world was bearing down. He looked like a wounded bird, and the pain on his face was something I would never forget.
“He looked so haunted.” The thought escaped my lips before I could stop it.
“Branson’s not haunted. That’s a little extreme.”
And as suddenly as my heart had opened, it closed just as quickly. I nodded and swallowed hard. “Dr. Cordova scheduled Branson to visit with the high school counselor so he has someone on campus he can talk to. And the emergency intake counselor put him on Paxil.”
“Paxil? What’s that?”
“It’s an antidepressant, and according to the doctor who was on call—Dr. Valenti? I can’t remember her name—Paxil is the only FDA-approved drug to treat post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Branson does not have PTSD.” Ed’s voice was terse.
Of course not, because that would mean you’d have to actually acknowledge the hell you put us through. “Well, it’d be a lot better of a diagnosis than….”
“Than what?”
“After we went to the counseling center, this Dr. Valenti got us in right away with Dr. Cordova. He didn’t come out and say it, but with the voices Branson is talking about, I mean isn’t that…?” I'm not going to be the one to say it. Besides, my son is fine. He’s just going through a tough time. I sat in my car, silently crying—again.
“Tara, what did Dr. Cordova say?” I understood the edge to his plea. The same fear gripped me when Branson told me about the static. I had more questions than answers, and the one person who could fill in the blanks wasn’t able to, or didn't want to. I wasn’t sure which. My son looked shell-shocked and had retreated from the conversation when I pressed him for more information, just shook his head and walked away.
“Tara?”
I swallowed hard. “Well, Dr. Cordova didn’t say anything exactly. He said he still needed to assess Branson and distinguish the voices, like if it’s one or more and what they say. I don’t know. But voices?”
“Jesus, Tara, it’s probably just his conscience freaking him out.”
I nodded. That made sense. I talk to myself. Doesn’t everybody?
“I need to speak with this Cordova guy,” Ed said.
“They squeezed us in next week. And Branson will be talking to the school counselor, some Clive Turina.”
“Talking to a high school counselor? Are you kidding me? That’s not enough.”
“I know!” I hit the steering wheel with my palm. It stung but I didn’t care. “I know it’s not enough, but I’m doing what I can. I got him into the emergency intake, and because of that, they got us in with Dr. Cordova. I don’t know what else to do.”
“What time is the appointment?”
My mind blanked. I didn’t even know what day it was anymore. “Uh.”
“Tara.”
“It’s next week. It’s written on a card. I’ll text it to you when I get home.”
“Yeah, do that.”
“Ed, I think we need to discuss the Navy.”
“What about the Navy?” His tone had enough of a bite that I flinched.
“I just don’t think Branson should continue his application with the naval academy.”
“He’s worked too damn hard to just give up, Tara.”
“I know that, but wi
th everything going on—”
“Tara, it’s final. Branson is going into the naval academy.”
“They think he has PTSD. The Navy isn’t going to accept someone with PTSD.”
“He doesn’t have any reason to have PTSD, Tara.”
No matter how often it happened, it still leveled me. His denial was mind-blowing. Ed refused to acknowledge the abuse, and therefore it didn’t exist. While it aligned with what my domestic violence counselor told me, that an abuser only accepts their reality, it never made his blatant denial easier to grasp. In Ed’s twisted version of our life together, my career broke up our family, not his fits of fury. In Ed’s world, there was no reason why our son wouldn’t be navy-bound.
“What if they don’t accept him?” I knew I was pushing the limits with my ex, but I was 150 miles away and didn’t have to face the negative consequences of his disapproval.
“Then he doesn’t get accepted. I’ve got to go.” The call disconnected.
A thirteen-minute call that seemed like thirty, and I still wasn’t any closer to knowing how to help my son. I stared at my phone until the slideshow with individual pictures of my four children surfaced. Branson’s picture was the first that popped up.
Branson's head was shorn courtesy of the Navy’s summer institute, but even the barber’s shears couldn’t cut away the hint of golden blond that shone in the sun. Branson always looked like the California-born boy he was, beautiful and strong with a noble look that reminded me of the Bible stories I grew up hearing of King David, the young warrior who battled the giant. Branson was made for greatness, and this picture proved it.
His hazel eyes were wide and alive, his energy palpable, his posture perfect as he stood at parade rest in a red T-shirt and navy shorts, marked with the blue-and-gold Navy insignia. He wore the colors well. A midshipman in dress whites stood between the groups of high school juniors who had been selected to attend the naval academy’s summer seminar institute.
Branson had been selected to represent Wyoming. He was one of the tallest young men and the only one smiling in the picture. He stood as proud as Bancroft Hall, which rose majestically in the foreground.
God, he looks so happy.
Pride swelled in my chest and then just as quickly made it shake. I touched the screen, traced his face from just a few months ago. What happened? Were you okay then? I don’t understand. Branson, come back to me. Please. I need you to be okay. Please.
Sorrow touched deep and spread wide. It felt like it would swallow me whole, but if it meant my son would be okay, then I didn’t care. I cried out to a God I had long questioned and wondered if He even existed in our lives.
“Take everything from me.” I tapped my chest hard with my forefinger. “Put your wrath on me.” But no matter how much I tried to physically hurt, the internal pain was greater. I placed my hand against my chest. “Don’t punish my son for the sins of his parents. Just let him be okay. I’ll do anything You want. I’ll give You anything, just don’t take my son. Do. Not. Take. Branson.”
I clasped my other hand over my chest and prayed with everything I once believed. If You are this merciful God, then show mercy on my son. Heal him. Restore him. Make him better.
Sadness engulfed me, but anger welled outside me like a tornado that touched down on the one person I knew could handle my fury. I hit the steering wheel and raised my fist to the heavens.
I will never forgive You if anything happens to my son. Never.
4
Branson
“Sonuvabitch!” I slammed my locker door shut, but my running shoes and gym clothes still fell to the floor. “Great.”
Aaron looked over at me. “What are you freaking out about?”
“My damn clothes fell out of my useless locker.” The locker room floor smelled like armpits and assholes, not something I wanted attaching itself to my clothes. I grabbed my shit off the bright blue painted cement floor that practically blinded me.
“Calm the fuck down.”
I looked at my twin, who was dressed in cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Hollister T-shirt. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Settle down, guys.” Coach Walker strutted into the locker room. “Bring that energy to the track.” He brushed past me and patted me on the back. The guy was built like a Marine, but with a haircut that contradicted his muscle tone. With long, feathery hair, he looked like a dark-haired Hulk Hogan.
“Sorry, Coach.” I stuffed my crap back into my locker, putting my workout bag in front of the clothes to create a wall so nothing would slide out. I quickly shut the door and it locked into place. Thank God.
“Come on, Aaron. It’s late. I want to go home and eat dinner.” I’m tired of waiting.
“Yeah, yeah. Just let me fix my hair.” Aaron walked past the lockers and toward the double-door exit, then turned right at the blue-and-gold arrow on the wall that led into the bathroom.
I followed behind him. “Why you fixing your hair? There're no girls to impress. Unless you consider Chelsea a girl.”
“She's my girl. And I’m gonna keep this one around.”
Aaron stepped in front of the mirror, tilted his head sideways and combed his fingers through his hair. I didn't know how it worked, but it magically fell into place every time. Lucky bastard.
“Dude, are you ready yet?”
“If you cared more about your appearance, you’d get girls.”
I glanced at myself. I had acne on my chin and forehead, bags under my eyes, and my hair was no longer high and tight like the military preferred. It was shaggy and unwashed, and I sort of looked like I'd been doing drugs. Combined with my turquoise and black striped hoodie that everyone called a “stoner rug” and low-riding jeans, I looked more like a dealer than a decent athlete who'd made the top ten in the state last year.
I shrugged. “Why do I need to worry about how I look when I’ve already got a girlfriend?”
“My point exactly,” Aaron said. “Have you seen Dakota?”
I punched him square in the arm.
He rubbed the spot tenderly. “I’m just stating the truth.”
“Wow. You’re a dick.” I shook my head. “I’m going home. I have way too much homework to wait around for your shit.” I turned to grab my backpack when my cell phone vibrated in my jeans. What now? I grabbed it and saw “Ed Kovac” flash on the screen. What does he want? I held the phone out to Aaron.
“You can’t ignore him forever. You know he’s calling about what happened at school. He’s persistent.”
I slid my finger across the screen. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“Hey, fella. I was calling to see how you were doing.”
I nodded. “Been better. How are you?” I looked at Aaron and rolled my eyes, putting two fingers to my head like a gun and pretending to shoot myself. Aaron stifled a chuckle.
“Yeah, well I heard about the incident.”
The incident? It’s like Voldemort, the thing that shall not be named.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine, Dad. I just want to get home.”
“Oh. Okay, Branson.” He sounded wounded, like I'd let him down, which wasn’t uncommon.
I glanced at Aaron and cocked my head toward the exit. My brother grabbed his backpack and we headed toward the parking lot, the setting sun bleeding into the sky like a rotten tomato.
“So how're you doing, Dad?” I tried to mask my tone and sound interested when really I just wanted to get home so I could relax in my room and text Dakota.
“I’m good. Just worried about you.”
“Well there’s no need to be. Everything’s been taken care of.”
“Yeah, I spoke to your mom.”
“I’m guessing that wasn’t fun for you guys.” I walked beside Aaron. We passed construction workers packing up their tools, finishing their day. Great, they’ll probably be home before I will.
“We’re just worried about you,” my dad said in my ear. “Your mom said some
intake counselor put you on some medication.”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “They did it for my own safety.” My sarcasm seemed to please my dad, because he laughed.
“Fella, there’s no reason for you to be on that. You know how I feel about medication.”
“I know, but it’s just temporary.” Because every teenager has blackouts, Dad. No big deal at all. I saw my car in the distance. “Well, I’m about to drive. Can I call you later?”
“Sounds good. Talk to you soon.”
I pocketed my phone and unlocked my fading dark green ’96 Saab. It was supposed to be both Aaron’s and mine, but in reality, I paid for everything. And by everything, I meant gas, oil, and the constant maintenance of this death trap we used for transportation.
“Get in.” I looked across the peeling hood at Aaron, who was flirting with Heidi, a fellow pole vaulter.
He held up a finger.
I swear to God, if he doesn’t get in the car in the next two minutes. I slid into the driver seat and the strawberry-scented air freshener that hung from the rearview was not working. The inside of the car actually smelled worse than the locker room, if that were even possible. I looked over my shoulder to the back seat, Aaron’s extra pair of track shoes and socks lying on the floor. Yep, that'd do it.
As I observed his mess, I began to hear a scramble of noises. The sound grew inherently louder, like it was coming from the back of my head, but it was unclear, jumbled like the static on a radio.
I turned my head, trying to find the source, but it just grew louder. I looked at the ignition, but my keys weren’t in it. I glanced at the radio, but the dial wasn’t turned. I pulled out my cell phone, but the screen was dark. The static came in waves crashing against my skull. I pressed my hands against my ears, but it only magnified the volume.
“Aaron!” I yelled, and even with the windows rolled up, my brother looked at me.
I dropped my hands from my ears.
“Bro, you all right?”
I shook my head, then reached over and unlocked his door. He tossed his backpack behind the seat and sat down beside me. “What’s going on?”
