by M. Billiter
“Mom.” Aaron’s voice softened, his hazel eyes overshadowed by his eyebrows that arched in concern. “People come out of the war with mental problems. They don’t go into it with them.”
“Mental problems?” I flicked away a tear. “Branson’s just going through a tough time right now.” God, I sound just like Ed. Maybe denial is easier than reality.
“Tough time? You don’t just black out when you’re having a tough time.”
I had talked to Carson, but I had never spoken to Aaron, figuring he already knew. Something about twins, they knew what the other did before they did it. “Did you hear about that at school?”
“Branson told me himself.”
“What did he say?”
“He just remembers being in the bathroom, his fist all bloodied, and he was afraid he had hurt someone.”
“Oh no.” I didn’t think my chest could ache any more, but each time I learned a new piece to this puzzle, my stomach dropped and my heart felt like it sank with it. “What did you say?”
“I was just like ‘What the fuck?’”
“I know it’s….” I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s going on. One doctor thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and another thinks it may be… something else.”
“Like I said, people leave the war with PTSD, not go in with it.”
“I know.” The sarcasm was evident to both of us. “I said something similar to your father, but—”
“Dad didn’t want to hear it,” Aaron cut me off with cold hard facts.
“It’s your dad’s dream for Branson to serve in the Navy.”
“But Branson wants it too. He’s been dreaming about being in the Army or some military branch since, like, the third grade.”
I tilted my head. “I don’t remember that dream the way you do. Branson never spoke about the military until his father planted the seed and then had him apply for their summer seminar program.”
Aaron placed his hands on his hips, ready to take his stance against me.
I held up my hand. “Let me finish. After Branson attended the Navy’s summer program, then his sights were set on applying to the academy. I don’t think it’s been this lifelong dream as you remember it.”
“Mom, the kid's been playing Call of Duty since, like, fifth grade, and he’s always wanted to fight the bad guys.”
My stomach flip-flopped. Maybe you just haven’t known what bad guys Branson was referring to. I didn’t say anything, just reached for the recent letter from the Navy.
“I’m trying to put the brakes on this.” I carefully brushed the embossed insignia with my thumb. It was raised, the linen paper smooth to the touch. “But your dad seems to think we should just let Branson go through the process and wait and see if the Navy rejects him.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess it’s better than us rejecting him. We just won't let him go too far enough into the process.”
“Why is it that if your dad suggests something, you’re more open to it, but you come in here fully loaded and ready to argue with any suggestions I have?”
“Mom, I’m just trying to make the best decision for Branson, not you or Dad. It’s not about you guys.”
Shame crept into my stomach with a heat that spread to my face. “You’re right. I’m being petty. But it’s still not your responsibility nor place to make any decisions for your brother. You’ve got to trust that I’m on this. I’m the parent, not you.” I paused for a beat. “I get that you’re concerned, but this whole thing just….”
“Sucks?”
I chuckled. “Yeah, it sucks, but I’m the mom and I’ve got this.” I folded the letter and handed it to Aaron. “Put this back on the entry hall table.”
Aaron set it on the counter. “Branson’s already seen it.”
“I’m sure he was the one who opened it. It’s addressed to him, after all.” I glanced at the kitchen table. There was only one backpack strewn about. “Where is he?”
“He took the car. He had to work tonight.”
“Oh. Is that his backpack or yours?”
“It’s Branson’s. I left mine in Chelsea’s car. Can I do homework at her house tonight?”
My head pounded with a headache that refused to release its vise grip.
“Mom?”
I pressed my thumb into the side of my head, but the throbbing wouldn’t stop.
Aaron looked over my shoulder. “You making homemade mac and cheese?”
I nodded.
“Branson’s favorite,” he said without a trace of envy or jealousy or whatever emotion identical twins shared when one was shown favoritism over the other. Branson loved mac and cheese and Aaron loathed it. Probably my fault. It'd been a staple in their diet when I first divorced because it was inexpensive. Then after my second divorce, cheesy elbow macaroni became a means of survival—not for cost, but effectiveness. It was quick, easy to make, and better yet, it didn’t require any thought.
I resumed stirring the block of cheese that had melted to a small chunk. The bottom of the pot was coated with a thick, creamy texture. Super cheesy, just the way Branson liked it. Or used to. Who knows anymore?
Aaron towered over me, his large hands cupping my shoulders. He tried to massage away the tension, but there wasn’t anything that would remove the strain. “Mom, it’s really sweet that you're doing that, but I don’t think mac and cheese is going to fix it.” His laughter tickled my ear and made me giggle.
“I know. I get it. Stupid mom move.” I tilted my head back on my son’s chest. It was solid, firm and defined. Aaron always felt different to me than Branson, even as a child. When I picked Aaron up, it was like hefting a bag of potatoes, but Branson was always so much lighter, thinner, like air.
“You can save it for him when he gets off work,” Aaron said.
“At this point, I’d do anything if it meant Branson would be okay.”
He kissed the top of my head and I smiled.
“Don’t worry about Branson. He’ll be okay,” he said.
I wanted to believe it, but I knew from the empty tone in his voice that it was wishful thinking.
9
Branson
Refereeing games had to be the best and worst part of my job at the parks and recreation center. It was the best because I got paid to watch league sporting events, but the worst because when these assholes and idiots started to fight, I had to be the one to break it up. And if that wasn’t bad enough, this fucking woman kept spouting off behind me.
“I think that’s a foul.”
I nodded and kept my focus on the basketball court.
“Didn’t you see that? That player just charged him.”
I bent over and cupped my knees, trying to look like an official. As if I were actually watching the game for traveling and personal fouls. As if.
“Okay, that right there is blocking. He just blocked the other player. Aren’t you going to do something about it?”
I hit my absolute breaking point and spun on the soles of my new Nikes. “Listen,” I started through gritted teeth, but no one was there.
What the fuck? Where’d she go?
I glanced around the gym, but the only people sitting in the bleachers were the next team waiting their turn up in the nosebleed section. My focus darted to the double doors leading in to the gym, seeing no one. I looked at the emergency exit, but the door remained locked.
There wasn’t one woman in the entire motherfucking gym. My body drained of anger and fear settled into the pit of my stomach as a chill crept up my spine and tingled my scalp like someone had just run their fingers through my hair.
I signaled to the other referee and thumbed toward the men’s locker room as if I had to take a leak, then quickly left the gym and walked past the locker rooms to the maintenance room. I opened the door and shut it behind me, sealing myself in where no one could find me.
I started pacing. “Okay, Branson, get a grip.” Mops, buckets, and cleaning fluid surrounded me. I grab
bed a mop and cracked the wood handle over my knee. Splinters flew through the air, and the release gave my mind something else to focus on.
I grabbed another one, snapped it over my right knee. Then another. Soon the mops were scattered on the ground like matchsticks. The stringy, yarn-like ends looked like decapitated women’s heads.
Not helping.
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
I peeked into the hallway. I didn’t have the money to replace the mops I damaged. Nor did I want to. Seeing no one there, I returned to the gym where the shift supervisor, Dan, had covered for me.
“Hey,” I said when I approached him. “I’m not feeling so great.” I touched my stomach for good measure.
“Yeah, when you didn’t come back right away, Pete came and got me.”
“Oh man, Dan, I’m sorry. I think it’s the shitty cafeteria food at school.”
He smiled. “It’s either that or all the vending machine food you eat.”
I grinned. “True that. But something’s tearing up my gut.”
“Go on and head home. This game’s almost over, and the next one got canceled.”
“Why was it canceled?” Was there some woman who complained about my refereeing? Please tell me some woman complained about me.
“The other team was a no-show.”
Disappointment settled in my skin. So no woman? I’m just fucking crazy. Great.
“Okay then, I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Is that your next shift?”
I nodded. If I don’t lose my mind before then.
“Feel better.”
Not likely.
I raised my chin with a “Thanks” and headed straight toward my car. The moon was hidden, if it was even out, and the night air had the bite of fall with winter closing in.
Ski season. I just need the slopes and solitude of the mountain.
The parking lot lights weren’t working, making it nearly impossible to see, but I wasn’t afraid of the dark. Most people were afraid of what they couldn’t see—I was afraid of what I could.
The old Saab started right up, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Under the Bridge" blared from my stereo. The dark and melodic melody, the strumming of guitar strings, and the opening line began to settle my mind.
The city was my only friend.
It was a song about drug abuse. Loneliness. Despondency. I didn’t do drugs, but the feelings fit. I cranked up the volume, but the dial was already turned as far as it would allow. Rolling down the window, I drove toward my exit. It was nearing eleven, so there wasn’t much traffic, but any ambient sound was better than the static.
I flipped on the turn signal, the old car sounding like a lawn mower dying as I rounded the corner. My house was less than three blocks away, but it was dark and the roads weren’t well-lit. I was in a school zone, and even though school wasn’t in session, I didn’t speed; I knew a cop was always parked on a corner street, waiting to write a ticket.
Still, as steady as I was driving, I didn’t see it until something thudded against the side of my car. Adrenaline rushed through me and I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. What the…? The car felt like it was dragging something along with it.
Oh my God, was that a child?
I quickly pulled over and jumped out. In the stream of the headlights, I saw a black cat lying in the road, its face caved in and blood running out of its mouth. Oh no. I glanced back at my car and saw blood on my driver-side tire. What the fuck? How did I not see it?
The music from my open car door hung in the air and reminded me just how alone I was. I grabbed my cell phone out of my left jean pocket and called 911.
“This is 911. What’s your emergency?”
“I just hit a cat. Can I get someone to help?” My voice was racing along with my heart.
“What’s your location?”
I looked over my shoulder at the streetlight in the distance. “I’m on Beverly between Second and Twelfth.”
“Animal control is closed for the night. We’ll send Metro down right away.”
The call disconnected as quickly as it had commenced, my cell phone screen glowing in the dark night. I stuffed it back into my jeans and walked toward the cat, staying by its side.
You’re not alone. Emotions caught in my throat. I am, but you’re not. The cat made this little noise like it was running out of air. For a moment I wished I were the cat. I shook my head to dislodge the thought, but death was always on my mind.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers echoed in the darkness. I pulled out my cell phone and called my mom.
10
Tara
My cell phone rang and I jumped. A textbook was on my lap, and a rerun of Full House was blaring on the television. Jack was curled up beside me on my bed, a blanket sprawled across him, and Bandit lay on the corner of the bed. She looked up at me as I quickly grabbed my phone. The screen flashed eleven thirty.
“Branson? Are you all right?”
“Mom?”
“Yes? Branson, what’s wrong?”
“I may be late coming home tonight.”
“Okay, what’s going on? What happened?” I sat up, Jack’s head rolling off my lap and landing softly onto the bed.
“I hit a cat.”
“Oh.” I exhaled. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I pressed the cell phone into my ear. Nothing. I reached for the remote and turned off the television. “Branson? Are you okay?”
“I’m good.”
His words didn’t match his tone. “Bran?”
“Yeah. I’m okay, Mom.”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think you are. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
“No! I don’t need you to come get me.”
I slowly nodded. “Okay, so what do you need?”
“Leave me alone.”
All the air left my lungs, a tightness filling my throat that didn’t allow me to respond, even when there were so many things I wanted to say. Please, Branson, don’t shut me out. Let me help. What do you need?
Instead, I just sat on my bed, overtaken by the all-too-familiar sting of tears and the hollowness in my gut where certainty once resided. I used to know how to make everything okay for him. How to speak his language. Better than any of my other children, I used to understand Branson. Now I just seemed to annoy him.
“I called 911, so they should be here soon.”
I nodded. “That was smart.” I cleared my throat. “I can still come get you, so if you change your mind or if you need me, just call.”
“I will.”
And then my phone went dark.
I held it and wanted to throw it across the room, smash it against the wall. I wanted to hear something, anything other than my soul, shatter. Instead, I carefully slid off the bed and tucked the blanket around Jack, sweeping the hair off his face and kissing his rosy cheek. Please don’t grow up. Just stay little. I can do little.
I walked barefoot against the hardwood floors to the kitchen. A nightlight shone softly against the cocoa-colored walls and bounced my reflection against the kitchen floor. The cream linoleum was old, but it added to the country charm of the kitchen. Or at least that was what I told myself when the estimate to replace the floor was more than my budget allowed. Ironically, the disadvantage to having more degrees than both my ex-husbands was that either of the two bastards could have asked me for alimony. Thankfully their male egos kept that money grab at bay. But since both were lower income earners than me, it meant they paid less in child support, so I supported a family of five on just my salary alone.
I grabbed a mug out of the cupboard and poured day-old coffee into it, placed it in the microwave and watched the timer count down the seconds.
My son was somewhere out in the dark, on the side of the road with an injured, possibly dead cat. Branson, I’ll wait. I’ll wait until you’re ready to let me in. The emotions lodged in my throat. The sadness that was ever-present in my life. This sorrow that was now second skin.
I opened the microwave before the timer woke the rest of the family and reached for the cup. Wrapping my hands around its warmth, I imagined a man’s hands wrapped around me—protecting me, insulating me, holding me.
I sat alone at the kitchen table in the dark. There was no one I could talk to, and I so desperately wanted to talk to someone about this.
How do I help him? How do I make sense of this? Is my son going to be okay? Will he ever be the Branson I knew, or will I only see what he wants me to?
His black backpack was still on the kitchen table, because since this started, I hadn’t held Branson accountable for anything. Instead, I gave him absolution for everything: calling his little brother an asshole, texting me to get out of class early, and now shutting me out. It didn’t matter what it was, I didn’t hold my son responsible. I granted his every whim.
I did it because of one emotion that overrode all others: fear. It held me as its captor with a litany of what-if scenarios that haunted my every thought and subsequently dictated my actions. What if I’m too hard on Branson and he snaps? What if he loses his mind completely? Will he ever return to me, or will he be lost to me forever?
I placed my hand on my chest to slow my breathing. To comfort me. To be there when no one else was.
I sat alone in the kitchen, backpack in front of me and a myriad of questions that remained unanswered. By not keeping Branson in check, was I giving in to the disease? Was it a disease, or an illness? I had no idea because I hadn’t asked those questions. I hadn't wanted to know the answers. I didn’t want a diagnosis, because then it would make this nightmare real, and that was not what I wanted for my child. It was not who Branson was or the future I'd planned for him.
I pulled his backpack toward me, and a blue composition notebook fell forward. Since they were born, I dressed Aaron in red and Branson in blue. Now I was pretty sure their favorite colors were based on my need to color-coordinate my identical twins.
I reached behind me and flipped the light switch to the chandelier that hung above the kitchen table—another relic that was so old it was now, thankfully, retro again.