by M. Billiter
My eyes stung—from lack of sleep, from crying, from reading my son’s journal, from the reality that I'd been AWOL in his life.
I looked at the wall clock in the kitchen. It was after one.
Come home, Branson. I’m fighting for you. You’re not in this alone. I’m in the game now, and I’m in it to win it. To win you back and give you the life you deserve. Just come home. Give me the chance to be a better mom. I promise I will. I won’t let you down, and I won’t let anyone hurt you.
I carefully tucked his journal back into his backpack and zipped it inside.
11
Branson
My cell phone battery died about a half hour ago, maybe longer. I stared at the cat’s dead eyes that refused to shut. Dark pools of black reflected in my car’s high beams, making them shimmer.
I knelt in front of the animal and lowered my head.
“I haven’t prayed in a really long time, but if there’s some patron saint for animals, then please forgive me for hitting it.” I cleared my throat. “I didn’t mean to.” I know I sounded pathetic, like some whining kid who did something wrong and then refused to take responsibility for it. “I really didn’t mean to do it.” I didn't know who I was trying to convince. Maybe God, maybe myself. Maybe I needed to know that the shadow people hadn’t done it. That the static hadn’t taken over my thinking, the woman I heard tonight wasn’t controlling me. That I wasn’t insane.
I made a dramatic sweep of my arm over the dead carcass. “This was just an accident.” The void in the cat’s eyes was all too familiar. “Please, whoever’s up there, whoever’s listening, just make sure Metro gets here before another animal or bird gets to this cat and devours it. It didn’t deserve what happened to it.”
I leaned over the cat and thought about closing its eyes, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I shuddered. Way too creepy.
“I’m sorry.” I cupped my knees with my hands and stood, turning away from the lifeless animal and toward my car.
The clock on the radio was an hour behind. Or maybe it was an hour ahead. Neither Aaron nor I knew how to change it when Daylight Saving Time happened, so depending on the time of year, we were either rock stars and super early or no-shows. Right now it was after two or maybe after one in the morning; I was too tired to remember where we were at in the lapsed time of things.
I turned off the radio, aimed my car toward home and prayed nothing got between me and my bedroom.
The porch light was on, and even though the blinds in the front room were drawn, I could see the faint flicker of another light shining inside.
Mom.
My throat tightened. I held my keys tightly and stood outside my house.
I can’t do this. I can’t tell her about the woman or the cat or how it’s getting worse. She doesn’t deserve this.
I swallowed hard and placed my key into the lock, barely opening the door before she was in front of me.
“Branson.”
Her voice was the sound of home. It was enough to buckle me, but I couldn’t. Instead, I cocked my head. “What?”
She shook her head. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“For Christ’s sake, I hit a cat. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Okay.”
Now she sounded wounded. “Listen,” I said with an edge to my voice, “I’m tired and I just want to go to bed. I can’t do this right now.”
Her eyes softened, the green reminding me of String Lake in Jackson, a fishing spot where we used to go with my dad. The water was warm and a greenish blue that was impossible not to stare into, let alone want to touch.
I wanted to reach out to her, to be held, for her to tell me everything was going to be okay. That I wasn’t alone. That I’d never be alone. That she’d make this all go away.
I just shook my head. “I’m going to bed.”
“Okay,” she said with a weak attempt at a smile. “Good night.”
I brushed past her as she called out my name. I turned and exhaled. “What?”
“Love you.”
I nodded and headed toward the basement, not bothering to undress before plunking down on my bed, but my mind was wide awake. The shadow people weren’t there, and neither was the static. I was just too wound up to sleep.
I slid off my bed, grabbed the game remote and went into the den that separated my room from Aaron’s. Even if I could sleep, Aaron’s snoring would eventually wake me up. I half-smiled. At least I’m not a heavy breather. Aaron needed to have his adenoids removed, but he was a pussy about surgery.
Fuck, if there was a surgery that could cut out the diseased part of my mind, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
I clicked on the TV and didn’t bother to mute the sound. Aaron could sleep through the ear-piercing sound of an assault rifle. Lucky bastard. The disk loaded with a quick summary and inside look of what the game held for the player. I already knew what to expect, ready to embark on a quest to save America from nuclear anarchy.
The hero of the story was missing one arm, but he had a bionic limb covering his handicap. Dressed in green camo fatigues with a full-grown beard and scruffy blond hair, his best feature was the Scar-L assault rifle he held in both arms. With a tap of a button, I made him aim at the enemies approaching.
I was one headshot away from taking down an angry warlord when I heard something come down the stairs. Fuck.
“Mom, I’m okay.” I pressed down on the right trigger and bullets flew in a fury of motion.
The footsteps grew heavier, and something pounded against the basement wall.
What the fuck?
I glanced at the stairs and this little dark thing on all fours started down them. “What?” It began to pick up speed. “Oh shit!” The dark creature charged toward my chair. As it grew closer, the huge disfigured animal rushed at me, mouth open, fangs bared.
“Fuck!” I dropped the controller and jumped. My heart raced, adrenaline spiking through my veins, and I quickly closed my eyes.
“It’s not there.” The snapshot of the beast reappeared in my mind and I saw what it was—a mutilated cat. My heartbeat quickened, and I tightened my eyes until all I could see was black. “It’s not there.” I listened to my voice to steady my breathing. “There’s nothing there.”
But my mind still saw the beast. My body still felt the fear. Make it not real. Please make it not real. I closed my eyes even tighter until blackness surrounded me and nothing could get through. “It’s not real. It’s just your mind tripping.”
I took long, deep breaths until my breathing slowed and my chest no longer felt like it was going to explode. I waited a really long time to open my eyes until I knew it was gone. Until I knew it couldn’t get me.
When I did, nothing was there.
I reached down, grabbed the remote off the carpet and demolished the next enemy that approached my camp.
12
Tara
“Carson, sweetie, let’s go.” My voice was soft as I poked my head into my daughter’s bedroom.
Her long, lean torso was buried beneath blankets.
“Carson?”
Strawberry-blonde curls barely moved, but enough for me to know my soon-to-be teenager heard me and would soon be joining me in the car.
I grabbed my keys and wallet and headed toward the garage through the door which was at the end of the kitchen. That door was the bane of my existence. It was heavy, yet it seemed to easily slam shut. Or at least any time one of the kids went to get something from the outside refrigerator. It annoyed the shit out of me, but until I could find a handyman or whoever fixed things like that, I just had to deal with it.
Each morning I held the door open for Carson, ensuring Carson wouldn’t let it slam shut, which meant Aaron, Branson, and Jack remained asleep while I drove their sister to school. And after Branson’s late night, I wanted him to sleep as much as possible.
Carson and I left early each morning. While my daughter wasn’t much of a morning person, she li
ked to get to school before the crowd settled into the junior high. I understood, preferring to arrive at work before my team and my dean myself. My motto was “First person to work is never late.” It hadn’t failed me yet, and best of all, it allowed me to always stay one step ahead of the curve.
I stood with my back against the door and looked down at my pajamas. The cotton was worn and the black had faded, but they were still my favorite PJs. The button-down front accentuated my cleavage, my best feature, and the slack-like bottoms flattered my less-than-tone legs. Why can’t they make suits out of pajama material?
“You’re rocking those jammies,” Carson said as she stepped past me and into the garage.
I smiled. “It’s like you read my mind.”
She shrugged. “I tell you, it’s our thing.”
I nodded and carefully closed the door behind us, then clicked the button to activate the garage door and watched the morning rise before me.
The front yard came into view. Frost had settled on the tips of the grass.
I exhaled loudly. “I’m not ready for winter.”
When winter arrived, I had to drive the ugly mom-mobile, a four-wheel drive, all-terrain, all types of weather car that had about as much sex appeal as its dull white exterior and bulky wheels. That car remained parked outside our house where it collected leaves, a film of dust covering the windshield until snow dictated that I surrender my freedom and drive the beast.
Until that dismal day beckoned, I got to drive my dream car. I walked around the back of my sleek silver Jaguar F-Coupe and softly slid my hand along the smooth satin finish. In cost, maintenance, and gas, it was a completely unrealistic car for a mom of four, but if I had one vice it was speed, and this bad boy fulfilled my addiction. Besides, I always reasoned, if life really got shitty, I could sell the car and live on its net worth for a year. It was paid for, so that alone made it an asset versus a liability. I could rationalize what I wanted to believe to offset what I already knew—the car was a luxury I didn’t need.
Still, every time I slid into the leather, heated, massaging driver seat, it felt like I'd found nirvana. I pressed the ignition, and a thousand horses revved beneath me. No matter how often it happened, it had the same effect, my body waking up and my energy swinging from nighttime mode into daytime charge.
“Let’s get you to school.” I shifted into Reverse and eased down my driveway. Gently dipping over the curve that led from the driveway into the street, I cautiously made my way to the stop sign at the end of my subdivision, waited for a truck to pass and then hit the gas. I accelerated onto the main road smoothly, effortlessly, and with the finesse of a seasoned driver.
I shifted from first to second and into third within seconds, the engine responding with a burst of power. God, I love this car.
“Is stick shift hard to drive?” Carson’s voice found its way into my fantasy-filled mind that I was Danica Patrick.
“Uh, yeah.” I shifted into fourth and pressed the pedal. The needle on my speedometer spiked.
“Then why do you drive it? If it’s hard?”
I shook my head. “I meant no. It’s not hard to drive a stick shift.” I glanced at her. Her cheeks had a hint of pink blush, and her lips had a cherry sheen that made them look fuller. Her hair fell around her shoulders, and black eyeliner made her green eyes turn up like Cleopatra. She had my eyes and knew how to make them the focal point of her face.
I smiled at her. “A manual transmission isn’t hard to drive, but you know the rule. No child of mine will pass their driving test until they can do it on a stick shift.”
“That was grandpa’s rule for you. It doesn’t have to be our rule.”
I raised my eyebrows playfully. “Oh don’t be a hater.”
The road curved and transitioned from two lanes into one. I swiftly, expertly accelerated into the curve and passed the car in front of me like a pro.
Carson chuckled. “Oh geez. Get me to school in one piece.”
“Always,” I said and gently patted her leg. “I may like things fast, but I’m always careful when you’re in the car.”
She shook her head.
I shrugged. “What can I say? If my career in admissions doesn’t pan out, I’ll join the race car circuit.”
The email I sent to Principal Stanley late last night surfaced in my mind. He would be reading the short list of early admissions within a matter of hours. I didn’t care. He didn’t protect my son, so I wasn’t going to protect his high school program. Asshole.
Carson reached into her black floral-covered backpack and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Did you know scientists have discovered that birds descended from dinosaurs?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think I knew that.” I stole another quick glance in her direction. “Is that for a test?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s just my notes from science.”
“So tell me about it.” This was our morning routine. Carson gave me a mini-lecture on what she had read or discovered, and I savored every minute. I usually learned something new in the process.
“Birds have a direct ancestry to dinosaurs. Certain dinosaurs had scales and feathers on them, and they had the same genes as the present-day chickens.”
“How did they figure that out?” I turned onto Wyoming Boulevard, and within a hundred yards, the speed limit changed from forty to sixty. Hells yes. Open road, dinosaurs, and my little girl. Life is good.
“Well, they’ve been able to find a genetic link from reptiles to dinosaurs to birds, so they now know that birds are direct descendants from dinosaurs. Scientists are trying to rewind the evolutionary clock. They want to turn on certain genes to prove birds still have ones that can make them into dinosaurs.”
“Nuh-uh,” I said. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Her voice rose with enthusiasm. “What they’ve already discovered by studying chicken embryos is that a present-day chicken embryo shows traces of dinosaur genetics. It was only around fourteen days into the embryonic process, and the chickens had tiny teeth and these kind of scale-looking things that are what dinosaurs had.”
“And why would teeth be an indication of dinosaurs?” I knew I should know the answer, but I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.
“Because chickens don't have teeth, but dinosaurs did.”
“Right.”
Wyoming Boulevard wrapped around the city of Casper with miles of unobstructed views. Casper Mountain rose to the west, and to the east, open expanses of land where horses pastured and antelope often appeared for a morning snack were just beyond the reach of our windshield. I stared in the distance at four horses that had gathered around a water trough. Noses down, their long necks and brandy-colored manes glistened in the morning light.
I smiled and elbowed Carson. “There're four, just like you and your brothers.”
I didn’t have to look at my daughter to know she was probably rolling her eyes at my lame comparison. “True,” she said. “And at least we’re not fighting over the feed bucket. Have you seen how much Branson’s been eating lately?”
I chuckled. “He’s just a teenager. Okay, so where were we with the dinosaurs and chickens?”
“Well, these chicken embryos were showing teeth and a tail, but then both went away after like a month into the gestation process. It’s like the dinosaur gene gets turned off.”
“A gene could just turn off?” My foot released its weight on the gas pedal. Suddenly we lost speed. Could they do that with Branson? Could they just turn off whatever gene went bad?
“Yeah, the gene for the chicken to have more dinosaur features just goes away or gets turned off.”
“But what causes it?” I pressed down on the gas and the car jerked forward. “Sorry.” I quickly downshifted to correct my error. “Why do the genes do whatever destructive thing they do?” The clipped tone in my voice alerted me that I had definitely veered off chicken and dinosaurs and onto my son. “Why can’t they just stop these genes before the damage happens?”
“Well, actually they can.”
I almost forgot to shift back into sixth. “What?” I quickly glanced at her. “How?”
“You could use the Punnett square to determine what an offspring’s genetics is going to be.”
“A what?” There was a test I could've taken? I could've avoided this for Branson? Then my throat tightened and a great loss swept over me. Then there wouldn’t have been a Branson. I couldn’t have terminated his life just because I knew something was wrong genetically. No way. I couldn’t do it, wouldn’t do it.
I quickly flicked away a tear before my daughter saw it.
“The Punnett square is this diagram. I can show you at home tonight, but scientists use it to predict certain genotypes in an offspring. With certain genes, they can determine if it’s a dominant gene in the family or recessive.”
“I didn’t know that even existed.” I looked at my daughter. “I mean, I knew about eye color and that green is a recessive gene, but with your dad’s blue eyes and my green eyes, it gave us a, like, one-in-four chance of having a green-eyed baby.”
Carson nodded. “Yup, that’s right. It’s so interesting to me that scientists can do that. And now they’re experimenting on chickens and their genetic makeup. This one scientist was able to turn genes off and on in this chicken embryo and manipulate the genes of the tail so it would grow. But if they could do that with chickens, it’s like you could know what genes your offspring will have and just—”
“Turn them off.”
She nodded. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”
“But it hasn’t been used yet? I mean with people?” Could I have saved your brother? Was there something I could've done for my son?
“I think you can do a Punnett square before and after a child is born, but I think it’s only afterward when the child is born that you would know what genes they actually have. Though I guess you may be able to find out the reason why.”
