by M. Billiter
* * *
Sincerely,
* * *
Richard Cordova, M.D.
Child/Adolescent Psychiatrist
* * *
Awesome. Branson’s EEG was next up on the playlist of hits that kept coming our way.
I closed my eyes and grabbed another piece of mail, fingering the envelope. It was thick, small, and quality parchment, like linen. Let me guess, military?
I opened my eyes. Close.
United States Senate
The return address appeared in an Old English font that looked like one of our forefathers penned it himself. What would Branson think of this? Seriously, why is my Holocaust-loving, 9/11-misguided, anti-government kid even considering a career in the military?
The letter from the Senate was addressed to him, but I opened it anyway. When it came to my son’s privacy, I broke every rule.
* * *
William Scott Bailey, Jr.
Senator of the United States
Wyoming
* * *
The father of Branson’s bully had his title blocked, cursive, front and center. Isn’t that just swell? The letter was dated, aligned and just freaking perfect. It made my stomach literally turn—or it could have been the remnants from Big A’s dinner. It was hard to tell.
* * *
October 3, 2015
* * *
Dear Branson,
Thank you for completing the necessary paperwork for a congressional nomination to the United States Naval Academy. My selection committee is looking forward to an interview with you. Following is the requisite information:
Date: Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Place: Dick Cheney Federal Building, Room 5555, 100 East B Street, Casper, WY
Interview Time: 3:35 p.m. – 3:50 p.m.
* * *
If you need any additional information, please contact Arnie Gray in my Cheyenne office at 307-555-1212.
Sincerely,
* * *
William Scott Bailey, Jr.
United States Senator
* * *
There is no way in hell Branson can continue this charade. It was one thing when we thought it was depression. It was worse when we thought it may be PTSD. But now?
I lowered my head on the table and rocked it back and forth to the rhythm of Greg Allman echoing the refrain. I wanted to get up and dance in the dark, but I didn’t. Instead, I bounced my leg on the chair and looked at the kitchen floor as I sang very loudly and very off-key.
“Why are you up so early?”
I jumped and whipped my head in Carson’s direction, quickly turning off my iPhone.
“You trying to get your hands on my blueberry muffins? They be mine.” She struck a gangster pose, but it was more like squatting while she held up peace signs. She looked so innocent, so free, so unencumbered by life.
I used to be like that.
Suddenly the tears I had been trying to keep at bay unleashed. I lowered my head and let it pour.
“Oh, Mummy. Why are you crying?” She came up and wrapped her long, slender arms around me.
I leaned into my daughter and pushed the letter out in front of me.
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “Just more appointments for Branson. More doctors. More uncertainty. Less hope.”
“That’s just life,” she said without any pity or sadness in her voice. She moved my messy hair off my face. “Mummy, you know there’s never any certainty. No clear path that leads to your final destination.”
Her logic was so rational I couldn’t help but laugh and look up at her. “Who are you?”
“I’m a poet and didn’t even know it.” She pulled away from me and started to move her shoulders up and down. “Just doing my shoulder dance, trying to make you laugh.”
“Well you did, and you’re a sweet daughter.” I glanced at the kitchen window. The faint light of the moon, or perhaps an early sun, shone through the pane. “Why are you up?”
“It’s five. I always get up at five to start getting ready for school.” She leaned her head toward me. “I need a ride, by the way.”
I laughed. “Yeah, got that. I’m your ride. I haven’t forgotten.” I smiled at her. “Granted, I’ve had a lot on my mind, but getting you to school isn’t something I’d forget.”
“All these rough patches you’re going through right now are all the years you’re going to learn the most about yourself. During the happy times, you don’t learn anything.”
I shook my head. “Seriously, where do you get this stuff? Is this from your science class on genetics and how to parent your emotionally wrecked mother?” I tried to muster a laugh, but it wasn’t there.
“I just read a lot of books,” she said, resuming her shoulder dance. “And I’m good at advice, really. That’s my thing.”
“So what advice would you give me now?” I held up a halting hand before she answered. “First, you should probably know that Aaron thinks Branson has an imaginary friend. Second, this imaginary friend, Trevor, who Branson has possibly created, has become his alibi for staying overnight at Dakota’s. Oh,” I said with eyes widened and hand still held up, “he’s moved from hearing voices to seeing things.” I grabbed the letter off the kitchen table. “So the good doctor,” I continued, shaking it like a pom-pom, “wants to rule out if Branson has a brain tumor or something that’s causing these visual and auditory hallucinations. But”—I placed the letter back on the table in defeat—“in the meantime, they want to start him on an antipsychotic medication to stop the hallucinations. And somehow”—I picked up Senator Bailey’s letter—“Branson is still moving through the ranks in his quest to join the Navy when really he shouldn’t be anywhere near an aircraft carrier, destroyer, or submarine. Not with the way he feels about our government." I rolled my eyes and tossed it on the table. "In a nutshell, that’s life at our house.”
“That is a lot to figure out at five in the morning.”
“Yeah, not helping there, peanut,” I said.
“I’d say… hmmm.” She put her hands in her pajama pockets and started walking the length of the kitchen. “Imaginary friend.” She paced back and forth. “Hearing voices. Seeing things. Lying to Mom.” She turned on her bare foot. “Instead of observing things behind closed doors, why don’t you go talk to him? As much as he’s not going to want to talk to you or anyone at this point, it’s better if you reach out to him. Because I think he’s trying to reach out to you, but he’s too afraid to go the extra mile.”
“What makes you think that? How do you know he’s trying to reach out?” I sat on the edge of the kitchen chair while my daughter paced.
“Everyone who’s going through something tries to reach out, even if they don’t do it consciously. Like they’ll tell you their favorite movie and it could be about mental illness.”
“Like The Perks of Being a Wallflower?” I asked.
She paused and looked at me, “Yes, which is rare that there's a movie about mental illness, but still, that’s just an example and Perks is a good one. It’d just be one way of reaching out.”
I leaned toward my daughter and thought about joining her pacing. She seemed to be coming up with gems by wearing a path on my old linoleum. “So how else do you think Branson has reached out?” I asked.
“Um, by maybe acting out? Maybe lying? Because eventually everyone knows they’ll get caught, especially with you as their mother.”
I half-laughed. “What does that mean?”
“Well, in your job, you see kids who don’t have any influence or structure on them or in their lives. So you automatically assume we could end up like that if you don’t keep an eye on us. I don’t mean to be offensive, but you told me about meth addicts when I was five and saw a needle on the street when we were walking.” She stopped pacing. “We’ve known since forever what to watch out for, what to be scared of, and what not to do. And sometimes kids just want to just say no and lash out because it's suffocating when you have
all these rules and barriers you have to follow.”
I sat back. “That makes total sense, but….” I could hear the rationalization forming on my lips. “Branson isn’t lashing out because he’s mad at me. He’s got a mental illness.”
“I don’t think he’s necessarily mad at you. I think he’s mad at the world, he’s lashing out at the world and society. Don’t take it personally if he lashes out at you, or the government.” She shook her head at me. “You said government, right?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I don’t think he means any of what he’s saying. He’s lashing out at everyone.”
“Has he lashed out to you?”
“Uh, yeah.”
I almost sprang out of my seat. “How? When?”
“It’s no big deal.” Carson shrugged her bony shoulders. “I’m an easy target because I’m his little sister and I probably annoy him. And I speak my mind a lot, even when it’s not very nice.”
“What did he do?”
“It was after school. I don’t remember what I said, something about anger management and that he needed it.”
“O-kay. And then what happened?”
“He got in my face, and when I showed him I wasn’t scared, he looked for the next thing to scare me with, so he squeezed my water bottle that was on the table beside me. He squeezed it until it exploded.” She rolled her eyes. “It shocked me more than it scared me, and that gave him the reaction he was looking for. Then he just went to the backyard and sulked. I knew then that something was wrong, but I also knew if I engaged him, that would just make things worse.” She sat down beside me. “Sometimes it’s better to leave things unanswered.”
“So I don’t hold him accountable about lying and where he spent the night?” I couldn’t believe I was asking my daughter for parenting instructions.
“I think it’s better to just listen than to ask. If he finds out you knew, he’ll think you’re invading his personal space and he’ll get mad. Then he’ll shut down because he’ll be embarrassed.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I could see that happening.” I twirled the doctor’s and Senator Bailey’s letters on the table like a pinwheel. “How is it that you know so much about this and how to handle it? Because I’m at a complete loss.”
“It’s got to be harder for a mom, because that’s your son and you feel like it’s your fault.”
I stared at the spinning letters. The words blurred until they no longer looked like words.
As a mom to four children, I wasn't supposed to have a favorite. I was supposed to love all my children equally. But when Branson was born, he was the smaller twin, the one struggling to suck, swallow, and breathe. He was underweight, jaundiced, and apneic. Every minute of his premature life was a struggle. The priest arrived with holy water and a rosary, ready to perform last rites, but I pointed to the door of the neonatal intensive care unit and told him where he could go. I wouldn’t allow death near my son.
Instead, I placed my hand in Branson’s incubator to save him, to protect him, to do whatever a mother of a few hours did for her child. The NICU nurse told me I was nothing more than a blurry image to my son and not to expect much of a reaction, if any. That Branson probably wouldn’t make it through the night.
Her voice, like the priest, was white noise. I pushed them away and placed my hand gently on my son’s wispy blond hair. Faint hazel eyes looked up at me, and my breath caught. Staring directly into my soul, he knew. He knew I was his mother. That I would never leave him, or give up on him. He knew I loved him more than I had ever loved another being. So little, he was my gentle giant, my warrior. I was his, and he was mine.
Of all my children, Branson got me. I miss him. I want my son back. The one I knew. And the one who knew me better than any of my other children. My body ached for him. There were no words, no salve that would make the pain go away. It was an ever-present shadow that followed me.
“Oh, Mummy, why are you crying again?”
I shook my head and stopped spinning the papers to look up at her. “You have an old, beautiful soul.”
She gently smiled.
“I’ve wondered if this is my fault. If there was something I could've done or should've done. Or still need to do,” I said.
“Well, I’m his sister, and I’m his friend, and all friends want to do is help so we don’t feel guilty for what’s happening because we didn’t have him inside of us.” She rubbed her stomach. “Growing inside of us. We don’t have that connection, so it’s just easier to look at their point of view because the emotional connection is different.”
I stared into her emerald eyes that were so different than Branson’s. “I just want to fix him and have my son back.”
“You can’t fix everyone. You can only help mend. Or help improve upon the situation.”
“I’m trying.” I sounded as defeated as I felt.
“When Aaron and I found out Branson was hearing things, we didn’t try to fix him. We just tried to make him laugh and improve on the dark situation by making things a little brighter.”
“How’d you do that?”
“We were downstairs, but I don’t remember the specifics. All I remember is that we were pretty crude.”
“About what?”
“We were just all downstairs making fun of Branson.”
“Nuh-uh.” I leaned forward. “What’d you say? How did he respond?”
“Oh you know, we made school shooting jokes, as awful as that sounds. But we were like ‘Don’t wear that black hoodie. I know it was you. Don’t gun me down, bro.’ And Branson would just laugh and be like ‘Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Better watch out. I’ll be on Criminal Minds soon. That’ll be me.’ It was just fun, and Branson laughed with us and enjoyed the company of not making it dark.”
I sat back, stunned. “You actually made jokes about his mental illness? And he was okay with it?”
“Don’t get defensive.” Carson sat down beside me. “What you don’t realize is that it made us all feel better.”
“I’m not defensive. I just don’t think it’s funny to make fun of someone’s disability. And mental illness is a disability. It’s not his fault.”
“Mom, we weren’t sticking him out and putting him in the spotlight. We were all together making fun of it, and he was part of it. If he wasn’t, we wouldn’t have done it. Comedy is just a coping mechanism at this point.” She took a long, steady breath. “I mean, how else are we supposed to react when we find out our brother is gone and he’s not the same?”
It was twice in the same night where one of my children admitted they had lost something too. That Branson was not the brother they remembered and loved. That they were hurting as much as I was.
“So by joking, it helped you connect,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know if I could joke about it.”
“You don’t necessarily have to joke about it, but you’ve got to be open to accepting it. I overheard you and Aaron talk about schizophrenia and that Branson may have it.”
I nodded. “We tried to talk while you were with Jack at the jukebox. I didn’t want to burden you with it. But”—I held up my finger—“Branson hasn’t been diagnosed with schizophrenia.”
“He doesn’t have to be diagnosed. I know he has it.”
“As much as I value your insight and your help, and I do,” I said with my hands extended toward hers, “there’s no way you know for certain if Branson has schizophrenia.”
“You don’t have to be diagnosed to know there’s a problem. I’m not going to attack you right now. All I’m going to say is you’re in denial.” She abruptly stood and started to walk away.
“Are you kidding me?” I stood up and met my daughter face-to-face. “You can’t throw down that accusation and walk away.” Unless you’re more like your father than I know.
“Hearing voices. Seeing things. Blacking out. Imaginary friends,” she listed, going toe-to-toe with me. “What part of this isn’
t schizophrenia? It’s not like minor depression or teenage angst. It’s schizophrenia, and it’s not going to go away. It’s going to get worse until we treat it.”
I hit my breaking point. “First you suggest I don’t take it personally and that I should make a big joke out of it instead like you and Aaron do. And then in the next breath, you say I need to have Branson treated, and that it’ll only get worse before it gets better. So what is it, Carson? Fun or life-threatening?”
My tone was snarky, rude, and completely out of control. What am I doing? But I already knew the answer. When it came to Branson, there was no limit to where I’d go to protect him. No matter how much I wanted to handle this differently, I didn’t know how.
“You’re not getting my points,” Carson said softly. “I’m saying you do need to have Branson treated because it won’t go away. But instead of it being a life sentence for him, lighten up. He doesn’t need you to look at him with disappointment and disapproval. He’s already getting that from his peers and teachers.”
I took a tentative step toward her, and she walked into my outstretched arms. “I’m sorry.” I exhaled the hot breath that was fueled by anger, hurt, and resentment. I challenged everyone, including my other children, because no one knew Branson the way I did. He was my baby. My son. And I couldn’t fix him. I couldn’t seem to get him back. All I wanted was for my son to return.
Branson. The hurt cut deep and wide and overshadowed reason and logic. I was alienating everyone close to me to save the one person who didn’t seem like he wanted to be saved.
Carson leaned her head against me—willingly, kindly, and without any intention of hurting me or her brother.
My voice shook and tears fell on her beautiful wavy hair. “Oh, my little girl. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. I’m the parent. You’re the child. I just haven’t said a word about this to anyone. You and Aaron are the only ones who know about it because….”