by M. Billiter
My soul was empty. There was nothing left of me that mattered. I had failed my son. I didn’t know how Branson was doing because he didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. Instead, I read his journals to try and find out what was going on in his life. But I didn’t know. Hell, I never even knew anything was wrong. I didn’t know he was being bullied or called gay, or hearing voices. Anything.
I stared into Dr. Cordova’s eyes. How is my son doing? I don’t know. I. Don’t. Know.
“Branson’s back on track,” Ed said. “I think he was just having a bit of a rough patch, but he’s solid now.”
Dr. Cordova’s stock of silver hair shook when he nodded. He scratched the back of his head or patted down his mane, it was hard to tell. For certain he was contemplating how to proceed.
“Well I completed my evaluation, and after reviewing Clive’s notes, I think the next course of treatment for Branson is to add an antipsychotic medication.”
“What?” My voice rose and my heart shattered. “An antipsychotic medication? Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“I have to agree with my wife—I mean with Tara. I don’t want my kid to be overmedicated. That seems to be the answer to everything these days. Don’t feel good, take a pill. Getting anxious at work, swallow this. Eating too much, sprinkle this on your food and your problems are solved. No, doctors are way too free with the prescription pad.” Ed held up his hands in mock protest. “No offense to you, Doc, but an antipsychotic medication? Tara’s right, that’s a bit extreme. The kid’s just been a little depressed.”
“You’ve already got him on an antidepressant,” I said defensively. I couldn’t believe I was siding with Ed, but hell, necessity was the mother of strange bedfellows. Then, for whatever reason, I thought of my conversation with Carson. “What about genetics?”
That seemed to get Dr. Cordova’s attention. “I didn’t see anything in the file of a family history of mental illness.” He was about to skim through the larger-than-life folder on Branson when I cut him short.
“There isn’t. Or none that we know of.” I wanted to blurt out that I thought Ed’s sister, Rose, was one brick shy of a full load, but I didn’t think that constituted crazy. She was mean, rude, and a downright bitch, but again those didn't qualify as disabilities. “So no mental illness on either side of the family,” Dr. Cordova stated rather than asked.
I thought of my family. Both my parents died in their right mind, and my sister lived in their home in Paris. I hadn’t seen her in years, but Serena didn’t suffer from anything other than boredom.
“Correct,” I said. “No mental illness on either side. So….” I scratched my head. “Maybe it’s some other genetic anomaly? You know, like a mutated gene or something?”
Dr. Cordova said nothing in response to my failed attempt to earn a doctorate degree in his office and cure my son.
“If you already have him on an antidepressant," I said when no one else spoke, "I don’t see why we have to add anything else.”
Dr. Cordova’s face remained neutral. “The Paxil was prescribed by the emergency intake doctor. I wouldn’t have placed a teenager or young adult on that medication, but since Branson's depression has responded well to it, I don’t want to change that course of action.”
“So if he’s responding well to it, why does he need something else?” The panic in my voice was evident to everyone. I felt like I was drowning, and the one person who could throw me a life vest wasn’t helping.
“Branson has symptoms that are unrelated to his depression that an antidepressant won’t treat,” Dr. Cordova said, pulling away any hope to be saved from this tidal wave that was cresting before me.
“Symptoms? What symptoms?” Ed teetered on the shore, but the tide was rising and his question brought him right into the path of the tsunami.
“Branson has had an increase in auditory and visual hallucinations,” Dr. Cordova explained.
The wave crashed down, and its impact was almost immediate. My mind shut down as I tried to remember how to breathe. Auditory and visual hallucinations. What does that mean?
“I don’t understand.” My throat tightened around what I needed to ask and what answer my soul was willing to hear. I was already adrift with no ground in front of me, and I so desperately needed to come up from this swell that threatened to sink me. “Branson… is he still hearing voices?”
“Yes.”
Tears streamed down my face faster than I could contain them. “No.” I shook my head. “He’s just… it’s this girl at school who picks on him, that’s all. He’s just too sweet to do anything about it. So that’s it. He’s probably hearing her voice.”
“A girl?” Ed’s tone cut through my grief, startling me. “A girl’s been picking on Branson? Are you kidding me?”
“No.” My reaction was sharp, like a gust of air had been forced into my lungs. “She’s the daughter of… well, it doesn’t matter who she is. I’m handling it.”
“Really?” Sarcasm dripped from his fat mouth. “First you have him in that high school that only the affluent attend, as if my boys belong there. And now some rich little daddy’s girl has been messing with my son, and the fact that he hasn’t done something to shut her up is pathetic.”
“No, it’s not pathetic that our son isn’t abusive toward women or violent.” I swam as fast as I could against the current that wanted to pull me down. “Branson’s a gentleman. That’s actually a really great quality.” I came up for air.
“Oh, here it comes again, the claims of abuse. How many times are you going to play that card?”
“I don’t know, Ed, how many times did you hit me?” It was as if someone else was speaking. I had never crossed that line with my ex because the cost to speak up was too great. In his defense, Ed hit me twice, maybe three times. The beatings I could take—it was the psychological mind games and constant verbal battering that struck me down faster than his fists.
“Okay, I think we’re getting a bit off topic,” Dr. Cordova said.
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied, finding my feet again. “The abuse Branson and Aaron and, hell, even Carson watched, endured, and was part of our daily life is the topic. If, and I’m not saying it’s true, but if Branson is hearing voices or having these visual hallucinations as you claim, then it’s probably everything he witnessed. It’s probably just pieces of our past that he’s trying to resolve. Isn’t it obvious how toxic we are?” I waved between my couch and Ed’s. “He’s an abusive man, and I was the doormat he wiped his feet on every day for twelve years. And”—I held up my hand to stop Ed from speaking—“I was as much a part of the problem as Ed. I didn’t walk away. I stayed for years after I knew things were bad, allowing my children to live in an abusive environment. So if Branson is hearing anything, it’s not voices—it’s his past. It’s our voices. It’s our mess.”
Ed crossed his arms over his chest.
“Okay, it’s mine. I’ll take the hit. I don’t care,” I said. “I just want what’s best for Branson, and I don’t think that’s more medication.” I wasn't going to let my son drift further away from me. “I think what Branson needs is intensive counseling to deal with the loss of his childhood, his family—hell, his dreams. We stole that from him. And I think Dr. Valenti was right that what he's suffering from is PTSD.” I glanced at Ed. “PTSD is a far better, more manageable diagnosis than….” I wouldn’t say it. I couldn’t. It would capsize everything I held dear in my life. It was one thing for me to drown; it was an entirely different matter to allow that to happen to my baby.
The room was quiet. My heart pounded and my hands were sweaty. I brushed them against the couch and tried to regulate my breathing that seemed completely out of control.
“I understand this must be difficult,” Dr. Cordova said.
“Difficult?” I opened my hands like I was releasing a time bomb. That wasn’t too far off the mark. “This isn’t difficult, it’s devastating.”
Dr. Cordova nodded, and when he spoke again, h
is voice was unnervingly even and calm. “When Dr. Valenti treated Branson, she focused on the presenting problem at the time,” he said. “Branson blacked out at school and came to in the men’s restroom with bloodied knuckles. At the time, the only known cause of this event was….” Dr. Cordova quickly lifted the notepad and scanned through the sheets of paper in the file folder. “Oh, here it is. Branson was defending a foreign exchange student from a young woman who was verbally harassing him.” He closed the file folder. “Post-traumatic stress disorder can be triggered by an event or witnessing an event that causes a flashback or severe anxiety from a traumatic event that previously happened. And from the medical notes and police records”—he placed his hand on top of the file as if he were swearing an oath—“there is substantive history that Branson witnessed some form of abuse in his childhood.”
It was the first time someone, anyone, had ever acknowledged the abuse that I suffered, that my children watched, at the hands of their father. Whenever I imagined this moment when Ed would be held accountable, I always thought I’d feel relief, validation—hell, maybe even happiness. Instead, shame crept over me like an old familiar blanket that had long lost its warmth. There wasn’t any pride in knowing I had been abused, or worse, that I hadn’t protected my children from its devastating effects.
“So given Branson’s past,” Dr. Cordova continued, “it was reasonable that Dr. Valenti diagnosed Branson with PTSD.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then why isn’t it that?”
“People who suffer with PTSD may have symptoms that involve intrusive memories of the traumatic event, or they may relive the event in a flashback, which in either account seems real, as if it were happening again. So this would fit with some of the symptoms Branson presented with,” Dr. Cordova explained.
“Okay, so it’s PTSD,” Ed cut in.
Dr. Cordova swayed his head from side to side. “I don’t believe it’s that because symptoms of PTSD are usually grouped into four categories.” He held up his index finger. “First, the individual may have intrusive memories.” He popped up another finger. “Two, they have a noticeable change in their thinking and mood.” He added a third finger. “Three, they may start avoiding situations.” He held up a fourth finger. “And finally they may have a change in their emotional reaction to everyday situations.”
I nodded. “That sounds like what Branson has. He was defending someone, and it probably triggered something from his past and it affected his mood. He blacked out, and the whole school probably knows about it, so of course he got depressed. But instead of hurting someone else, he hurt himself. How isn’t that PTSD?”
“PTSD seems on target to me,” Ed said. “His mother and I did argue a lot.”
“The symptoms Branson has shared with Clive indicate he’s not suffering from PTSD,” Dr. Cordova replied.
“Why? Because of the voices?” Fear came out as anger. I leaned forward, as if my stance would change his mind. “You said people with PTSD have intrusive thoughts.”
“No.” Dr. Cordova shook his head. “Someone suffering with PTSD may have intrusive memories.”
I shrugged. “What’s the difference?”
Dr. Cordova slightly tilted his head. “Intrusive memories don’t involve voices that tell someone to harm another person or themselves.”
I collapsed against the couch as the air left my lungs. The undertow was too strong. I wanted to save my son, but I didn’t know how; I couldn’t even save myself from each wave of emotion that built upon the other until I no longer knew which way was up.
“My son would never harm anyone.” Ed’s voice buoyed me in the room.
I barely nodded. The collar of my shirt was wet from crying and clung to my chest like a leaded apron.
“At this point, there's no evidence of suicidal or homicidal risks,” Dr. Cordova told us without any shock or horror in his voice.
As if homicidal risks were an everyday conversation. I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My entire body was numb, and my mind had long ago shut the door on this conversation.
Dr. Cordova lifted his notepad and grabbed something from the file folder, placing a sheet of paper in front of him. “My concern is that Branson has a long history of auditory hallucinations.”
“A long history?” My pulse quickened. Maybe I wasn’t completely checked out.
“He reports that he’s heard voices—or static, as he calls it—since at least the eighth grade.”
“Eighth grade?” I covered my mouth with my hand. The shock was leveling.
“He’s functioned reasonably well in school considering his symptons.”
“He’s a senior in high school.” I lowered my head and continued to cry. “I didn’t know.” My chest shook. “Why didn’t he tell me?” I looked up at Dr. Cordova. “Why didn’t I know? I should've known.”
“He masks things well,” Dr. Cordova said.
Oh, Branson. That only made the sorrow greater, the shame deeper, the loss irrevocable.
“From my initial evaluation, it’s hard to tell whether he’s happy or just very creative in how he hides his symptoms. He looks for things to look forward to.”
The pain cut through me until it physically hurt to breathe.
“When Branson came to you and told you about the voices, that was a very big step for him. To your son’s credit, he's managed life extremely well considering his symptoms.”
“But all I heard was that he was depressed. I mean, I heard him tell me about the voices, but I just figured….” Tears stung my eyes. “I just focused on the depression.”
“Depressive symptoms are easier to report and identify,” Dr. Cordova said. “And Branson’s depression seems to have improved on Paxil. So as I said, we’ll continue with the Paxil. What I will discuss with Branson are his options for treating the hallucinations.”
“What are those options?” Ed chimed in.
“There are many medications out there, from Abilify to Geodon, and each one affects people differently.”
“Like how?” I asked.
“The chief complaint is weight gain,” Dr. Cordova explained.
I shook my head. “Branson’s a runner and he’s in great shape. That won’t be an issue.”
Dr. Cordova nodded. “I’d still like to discuss these options with Branson and give him the choice.”
Neither Ed nor I countered our son having a voice in his healthcare, nodding from our respective couches.
“Given Branson’s history of the psychosis and some of the other symptoms, we’ll work to find an antipsychotic medication that will treat the hallucinations,” Dr. Cordova said.
“What can I do?” It was the only question that seemed to surface when what I really wanted to know was how can I fix him?
“I’d like to schedule an EEG. Given the visual hallucinations, I’d like to be sure there’s nothing organic going on,” Dr. Cordova responded.
“What the hell does that mean?” Ed asked.
Despite myself, I laughed. He’s such an idiot. He probably thinks it’s some organic food thing.
“An EEG is a test that detects the electrical activity in your brain. I’d like Branson to have a sleep-deprived EEG to rule out that there isn’t something organic or preexisting in his brain,” Dr. Cordova said.
“Like a tumor?” I asked.
The psychiatrist nodded.
And for a moment, I saw the life vest.
Dear God, please let it be a tumor.
15
Branson
Hey, Trevor’s going to hang out w/me after school, I texted my mom.
Okay. Who’s Trevor? Her reply wasn’t as irritating as normal. Maybe talking to Clive helped.
Smart kid going 2 help w/homework.
Okay. What class?
Pre-calc.
Okay, have fun! Dr. Cordova wants you to have a sleep-deprived test to check out your brain. Setting it up.
I exhaled. First off, she didn’t send short replies. My mom’s texts were fucking n
ovels. Second, why did she have to ruin every good mood with something serious?
Okay, I texted back. Whatever. Starve me of sleep and then study my brain. Sounds like a regular day at camp crazy to me.
“Trev, you ready?”
Trevor was taller, bulkier, and threw shot put. Dressed in a tight gray American Eagle T-shirt with longer, baggy jeans that couldn’t conceal his muscular legs, he was a beast. He nodded with a shit-eating grin on his face.
We climbed into my car, and thankfully it started up without any problems. At least I didn’t embarrass myself in front of him.
We drove silently to my house. I bumped open the front door with my hip and turned to him. “Bandit’s got a bark, but she won’t bite.”
He reached down and scratched Bandit behind the ear, and the dog immediately became his best friend. “I’ve got a pug, Frank, and he snores all the time. I think I’d rather have a dog that barks than snores. I can never get to sleep.”
“Man, I barely slept at all last night. Between my brother’s snoring and…” The cat from hell. I shook my head. “I ended up staying up and finishing my game.”
“Yeah, sometimes that just gets me more wound up.”
I shrugged and led Trevor into the house. “True, but it gives my mind something to do.”
Trevor patted me on the back. “God, you’re such a nerd. I can’t believe you can do calc in your head.”
I grinned. “Yeah, don’t tell my mom that or she’ll have me bumped up to honors math.”
“Is that why you’re in pre-calc, because your mom doesn’t know you’re Rain Man with numbers? You’re the smartest kid in class. You should be in regular calculus.”
I wiggled my eyebrows. “But all the hot girls are dumb, and they’re in pre-calc.”
Trevor laughed. “Yeah, they’re pretty fucking stupid.”
“That’s okay. The only numbers I care about in that class are theirs.”
