by M. Billiter
For a moment, I felt a sense of peace, as if the “why” this happened to Branson would be solved. It’s probably something genetic that just malfunctioned. But in today’s world, we can fix anything.
“Some people dismiss science because they think it’s just a theory, and because it’s theory, it’s not real. But a theory is something that's an educated guess made over and over and tested over and over. The only reason it remains a theory is because scientists can't go back to the Jurassic age and prove it.”
I turned into the school parking lot and slowed down, not wanting our morning drive to end.
“You can’t go back in time,” she said when I pulled in front of the junior high. “All you can do is accept what is now and work with it.”
We’ll find a way to fix this mutated gene or whatever it is, and then Branson will be perfect again.
“I like how we're uncovering so many mysteries we didn't know before,” she said.
I gently smiled. “There’s a lot we didn’t know, that’s for sure.”
She leaned her head toward me and I smiled. Carson rarely kissed me. Even as a toddler, she would lean her forehead toward mine when she wanted a kiss. What gene makes up that adorable trait?
I kissed the top of her head. “Thank you,” I said into her hair.
She looked up at me and warmth flooded my body. “Love you,” she said, then bounded out of the car with more enthusiasm than she had entered it with.
I slowly drove away, keeping Carson in my rearview as she made her way into the junior high. The drive home was always quiet and more subdued.
I turned back onto Wyoming Boulevard and scouted the hillside for the trough. The horses were no longer watering. I glanced out the passenger-side window. Three of the horses were huddled together as if they were bracing against the strong Wyoming wind that had kicked up. I searched for the fourth horse. Where is he?
The road dipped and then rose again. When the hillside came back into view, I spotted the fourth horse. He was darker than the other three, perhaps the alpha. All I knew for sure was that he stood on the crest of the hill alone, away from the fold.
A sudden ache pierced my chest. I wanted to pull my car over, run to this horse and bring him back where he belonged.
13
Branson
I felt like I had a hangover, or at least what I imagined a hangover felt like. I wasn’t much of a drinker. Now pot, that was the money. Nothing freaky happened when I was stoned. Or at least nothing I could remember. Pot relaxed me, and for once I wasn’t stressed out. Sadly, my dad’s golfing buddy sold me the best weed, and that was only during the summer when he was in town. But if there was ever a day to get stoned and let go, it was today. I barely slept last night. The fucking deranged cat from hell scared the shit out of me, so I had played video games until Aaron’s morning alarm buzzed.
By the time I felt like I was finally waking up, I was thankfully in my third block, during which I was a student aid for the front office. I could doze off and no one would care.
I had the vice principal to thank for this new assignment. He had reassigned my classes after I flipped out on that girl in poli sci. If I knew a meltdown could get me out of core classes, I could've been tripping sooner. My knuckles had already healed from punching the bathroom wall, and better yet, that girl who caused all the shit no longer looked at me, let alone spoke to me or bothered the foreign exchange student. Some battles were worth waging—even if I didn’t remember them.
I was almost asleep when Mrs. Tuttle gently tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a hall pass. “Looks like you have an appointment.”
I looked up at her and smiled. She was a nice old lady. “Thanks,” I said.
She grinned. “Guess we’ll see you tomorrow, Branson.”
The hall pass notified me that I was to report to Mr. Turina’s office. Clive wants to see me. Great.
“Yeah, thanks, Mrs. Tuttle. See you tomorrow.”
I grabbed my backpack and walked toward Clive’s office. It had two doors, one that led to the main hallway and another that opened to the back section of the school library. Weird location for a therapist, but hey, with school shootings, probably not a bad thing.
After our last session, I decided to enter his office from the library. I obeyed the sign on the outside of the door and knocked.
I heard him hustle toward the door. Why am I here again so soon?
“Oh, hey, one minute.” His face appeared in a slit in the doorway. He looked like a pug. “I’m just finishing up with a client.”
I nodded and turned toward the row of fiction books that beckoned, grabbing a copy of Tuesdays with Morrie and giving it a quick skim. I had read it and liked it. Not what someone would think for a high school student, but I’m not an ordinary kid. I flipped through the pages until I got to the best line. I knew its location by heart.
“I like myself better when I'm with you.” I thought about Dakota and smiled. Mitch Albom sure knew his shit.
The door behind me swung open and a Goth-looking kid exited Clive’s office. He was wearing a punk hoodie and had piercings on his face. If he was in there, God only knew what I looked like going in.
“Okay, you’re up,” Clive said.
I followed him into his office and sat in the swivel chair that was really uncomfortable.
“All right, what’s going on?” Clive asked.
I shrugged. “Everything’s going okay, I guess.” If you don’t count the trippy, deranged cat in my basement last night. Or the talking woman who wasn’t there. Or let’s see, there’s always the cat I killed.
“How’s the depression?”
“Still there.”
He flipped through his notepad. “You’ve been on the Paxil for a few weeks now, so it should be kicking in soon.”
Great. What’s the point of taking a fucking pill if it won’t work right away?
“How are the intrusive thoughts?”
“They're still there.” I paused.
Clive stopped writing on his notepad and looked up.
If I’m not honest here, then where? “They’re happening more frequently.”
“That’s common.” His voice was reassuring. “How often are they happening?”
“Two or three times a day, every day.” At the mere mention of the intrusive thoughts, the shadow people appeared and suddenly hurt my therapist. In great detail, I saw one of them grab a pencil and strike Clive in the throat three times, each thrust deeper and harder into his carotid artery. His jugular vein collapsed, and blood rushed down the folds of his neck.
I shook my head and closed my eyes to make it go away. It’s not real. It’s not there.
“Are you all right?” Clive’s voice was filled with concern.
If he only knew. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“What just happened?”
“Just more intrusive thoughts.”
“Are they thoughts, or are they images?”
“What do you mean?”
“Visual hallucinations, like little movements where you’re actually seeing things.”
“Yeah, they’re more like that.”
“How do you know they’re hallucinations and not real?”
“Because no one else sees them.” Isn’t that obvious?
“How do you shut them off?”
“I usually get into video games or I read. Anything to focus my mind on something else.”
“Do the hallucinations say anything?”
“No, they just do things.”
“Do you see movement or images? Like shadows?”
What the fuck? My face must have revealed my shock because Clive continued.
“Do you see dark figures? Or shadows? Movements that eventually turn into full-on visual hallucinations?”
I nervously laughed out of fear I’d throw up. My stomach was a mess of tight nerves. Tell him.
I looked directly at Clive. “I call them shadow people.”
He smiled. “That’s
a good term. What do these shadow people look like?”
“I never see them fully. They’re just quick little movements out of the corner of my eye, not any real shapes. They’re just like taunting me, running around. Trying to take me over when I’m not looking.”
Clive nodded.
“I’ve never told anyone about them, not even my mom.”
“It must be scary for you.”
I shrugged. “It’s just what it is. I’ve kind of gotten used to it.” I’ve gotten used to being terrified.
“How long do these shadow people stay around?”
“Just enough so it’s there but not enough to make out a shape.”
“What do they do, these shadow people?”
“Violent acts.” I paused. Just say it. “I actually view myself doing it, but it’s not me doing it.”
“How do you know it’s not you?”
“Because I wouldn’t harm someone else. It’s not necessary.”
“Why is it not necessary?” He leaned forward in his chair.
“Because the shadow people do it for me.”
He leaned back. “Shadow people is a good term because that’s how they start off.”
Start off? “Do they get worse?” If sadness had a feeling, it was the hollowness that dropped in my stomach and made me feel all alone. Am I ever going to be okay?
“It depends on the person and on each case.”
Clive was never the half-empty glass kind of guy. He always seemed to spin things so this dismantling of my life from the inside out didn’t seem as grave as we both knew it was.
Still, I had to know. “What about me? What kind of case am I? What should I expect?”
“Well, with prescribed medication, you should be all right.”
“Do they go away? Will the shadow people leave?” Will I stop seeing these faceless, dark figures that do bad things to the people I love?
“Once again, it all depends on the case.”
So I’ll be hearing imaginary women for the rest of my life, and disfigured cats will come chasing me every night? Great. Awesome.
“I still don’t agree with Dr. Valenti's diagnosis of PTSD, but I’ll send my notes over to Dr. Cordova. When do you see him again?”
“I think sometime next week?”
“You mentioned that when these shadow people appear, they commit violent acts. Can you be more specific?”
“Sure.” Why not? Welcome to crazy town. “When I get angry or upset or stressed, I’ll start seeing stuff.”
Clive nodded. “Can you give me an example?”
“When my mom interviews me when I’m trying to relax.”
Clive’s eyebrows raised. “Interviews?”
“Yeah, she’s this director at the college, and she tries out her interview questions on me or Aaron because we’re the same age as most of the incoming freshmen she has to interview.”
“Oh, of course. And this bothers you?”
“It doesn’t bother me. It frustrates the shit out of me, and then….”
“And then the shadow people appear.”
I nodded. “Yup.”
“And what do they do?”
“Violent acts.”
“You see this?”
“I see something carry out a violent act.”
Clive rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Against your mother?”
“Yup.”
“Like what?”
“It depends on the location or what’s in front of me. It could be a pencil, scissors, kitchen knife….” You name it and I can think of how to use it against someone.
“And depending on what’s in front of you, these shadow people do what?”
“Hurt others.”
“Do they hurt others, Branson? Or do they kill others?”
“Kill.”
There wasn’t any shock or horror on Clive’s face.
“Listen,” I said, with my hands held in defense in the event he changed his mind about treating me, “it’s just a part of my life I’ve come to live with.” There was no bitterness or edge to my voice. It was simply a statement of fact.
“It’s a real credit to you.” Clive spoke in a way that didn’t make me feel judged or ridiculed.
“I don’t understand. I just told you I’m basically crazy.”
Clive shook his head. “You’ve lived with this static and the shadow people for a while now, and yet you’ve functioned well despite these symptoms.” He leaned forward in his chair, compassion shining in his blackish brown eyes. “It’s a lot to deal with, and you’ve dealt with it well. You've functioned when most people with these symptoms aren’t able to. But now it’ll come down to you choosing to either be on medication or live with the voices and hallucinations.”
“Those are shitty options.”
Clive sat back in his chair with a chuckle. “Yeah, the situation isn’t ideal, but medication will allow you to function without the interruptions.”
“I could have a life without the shadow people and the static?” I held my breath.
“Well, with the right medication, the visual and auditory hallucinations will subside.”
“But they won’t go away?” That sad, hollow feeling returned.
“With your illness, your symptoms will always be there. Medication relieves you of them, but they won’t just go away. What that means is if you stop taking your medication, the visual and auditory hallucinations—the shadow people and the static—will return.”
And for them to return, I die. “Medication it is.” I cupped my knees with my hands and stood up. “And I guess I get that from Dr. Cordova?”
Clive nodded and stood. “Yes. I’ll send my notes over to his office today.”
“Thanks.” I headed toward the door. A world of books and escapism was just beyond its reach, and I couldn’t get there soon enough.
14
Tara
I don’t even know why he has to be here.
The mere sight of my first ex-husband, Ed, in the waiting room of Dr. Cordova’s office made me shudder. His wavy, white-blond hair was cut short, the only way he could control his hair that grew like a Chia Pet.
As I approached the room that was decorated for the younger patients, complete with kid-size tables and chairs, I stared at the primary colors painted on the wall. They were happy, fun, vibrant colors that formed a rainbow that stretched from one bin of happy toy distractions to another.
I glanced around for a place to sit, but the only chair suited for an adult was beside Ed. I quickly looked at him and then did a double take.
Ed’s legs were crossed, but it looked like his gut was hanging over his belt loop. No way. He hefted himself out of the chair and I almost gasped. Holy crap, he’s gained a lot of weight. With his white-blond hair, which sat like a cap on his head, he looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
He stood, and I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest, hugging myself so tightly I was practically in a self-imposed straitjacket. Anything was better than having to shake his hand or exchange pleasantries as if we were an ordinary divorced couple who decided to call it quits after a decade-long marriage when things didn’t quite work out. There wasn’t anything ordinary about our marriage, or the shelter for battered women I'd ended up in when Carson was six months old and Aaron and Branson were barely five. Nope, in the waiting rooms of life, this had to be the worst one I could be stuck in.
“Tara. Ed.” Dr. Cordova signaled for us to follow him.
“We’re not married,” Ed said to the doctor’s back.
I shook my head. As if the twenty pages of paperwork I had to fill out detailing every aspect of Branson’s life from my pregnancy to his birth up to his seventeenth year hadn’t quite given the good doctor that impression. What an idiot.
I walked down the hallway toward Dr. Cordova’s office. Ed was blathering on about some new golf club he had been sent and was trying out at the pro shop. As if every doctor was a golfer. Dr. Cordova nodded with what seemed like feigned
interest, or maybe I just wanted to believe that he found my ex as irritating and arrogant as I did. The backside of Ed’s black slacks stretched across his ass so tight the seam looked like it was about to burst.
Good hell, what have you been eating? Or should I ask what haven’t you been eating?
The doorway to Dr. Cordova’s office was at the end of the corridor. With each step toward it, dread stabbed at me. I don’t want to go inside. I don’t want to hear what’s wrong with my son. The last time, the only time I was in that office, I cried—sobbed, actually—as I told Dr. Cordova about my son, my sweet, sweet boy and all his firsts: the first time he walked, the first time he drove.
The first time he told me he was hearing voices.
Dr. Cordova held the door open for me. I paused and looked up into his gray-blue eyes, and he gently grinned. “I don’t bite,” he said.
I weakly smiled and crossed the threshold. Ed had already parked his oversized ass on the couch. Ed’s weight was a good distraction, and yet oddly it made me sad. He'd always prided himself on keeping fit and healthy, but now he looked like a diabetic waiting to happen.
Why should I care? What's wrong with me?
I sat on the couch opposite Ed and practically hugged the armrest. I couldn’t put enough distance between us.
“I’ve received the clinical notes from Clive Turina,” Dr. Cordova said with a file folder on his lap and a legal-sized notepad on top of that. A pen was at the ready.
“Clive? Oh yeah, he’s the counselor at the high school, right?” Ed asked.
“That’s correct. His notes were very thorough and helpful.” He paused.
I waited.
“How do you think Branson is doing?” Dr. Cordova asked.
“I think he’s doing great,” I said and felt Ed staring at me. I quickly regrouped. “I mean, he is doing great. He’s much happier, and….” I shrugged. Who am I kidding? “Branson seems more like himself. He’s fine.”
Dr. Cordova steadied me with his gray-blue eyes. If no one else heard the hesitancy and uncertainty I tried to mask in my voice, he did. He looked at me and seemed to understand the silences, the unspoken truths I dared not say.
