by M. Billiter
The truth of how I felt, nestled beneath all my anger, finally came out in a whisper. “I want his dreams to still be alive. I don’t want to be the one who takes them away.”
“You didn’t take them away. Branson still has dreams, they’re just different now. They’re more realistic to his situation. He’s highly functional, and there are sitting court judges and hospital presidents who have diagnosed schizoaffective disorder. They’ve been able to live very productive, full lives.”
“They just can’t navigate a submarine, fly a plane, or see combat duty.” My voice cut with cynicism.
A soft smile crossed his face. “That’s right.”
“Well it’s bullshit, and it’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not. That’s why there’s a period of mourning.”
“Why Branson? Why him?” My body shook, and I lost any ground I had in my fight against the doctor. “Why Branson? He’s always been my sweet, soft, kindhearted, shy little boy. Since the moment he was born, he’s been my quiet warrior.”
Dr. Cordova leaned forward. “Tara, he’s still fighting. He’s still your warrior. I haven’t seen a young man work this hard to treat his illness.”
“No! There shouldn’t be any illness to fight. He’s been fine his whole life. He’s been fine.”
Dr. Cordova shook his head. “He hasn’t. He’s just been good at masking his symptoms.”
“So he’s been hurting this whole time and I didn’t know?”
“No one knew. Not even Branson. He wasn’t sure what it was. His symptoms presented early in his adolescence and progressively worsened. To your son’s credit, he learned to live with it.”
“I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”
Dr. Cordova nodded. “None of this is easy.”
I finally picked up the letter beside me. “Yup, and getting these results.” I slowly shook my head. “Not what I was hoping for.”
“The EEG report?”
I nodded.
“It shows the sleep-deprived EEG performed on Branson was normal. There weren't any potentially epileptogenic discharges or seizures present,” he said.
Again, I nodded.
“You were hoping for a different outcome?”
“I was hoping for a brain tumor.”
He tried not to smile, but failed. “That’s understandable. There’s always an adjustment period with mental illness.”
“Adjustment period. Mourning period. My God.”
Please just rewind the clock and let me stop this before it starts. Before medication, before counseling, before EEGs, before blackouts, hallucinations, static, and everything that made my son look like he was haunted when he should be happy. I'll take us away to a place where mental illness would never touch him.
“It’s never going to be over, is it?” I asked.
“Your son’s mental illness is a condition he'll have most of his life.”
I lowered my head and cried until I didn’t think I could cry anymore. I kept it together at work, at home, and in what existed of my personal life. But in this office, alone with the good doctor, there was no one to save face for.
I looked up at him. “Please make it stop hurting.”
“I wish I could.”
27
Branson
An envelope was stuck in my track locker.
“Branson” was written in red pen.
Hmmm.
I looked around the locker room. No one else was in there, but that wasn’t much of a surprise since it was third block. I was supposed to be aiding in the office, but I left. Told old lady Tuttle I had a bad stomach. I might have farted before I spoke to her. Nothing got a kid excused faster than a good case of the gas.
I opened the envelope and unfolded the typewritten form letter.
First, I want to congratulate you for being among the few athletes who have qualified for the Wyoming State Indoor Track Meet. Well done! The competition was fierce. Secondly, I want to convey that the State Indoor Track Meet is three grueling days of intense competition. It’s not intended for the weak of mind or body. It is befitting of only the most mentally fit minds and the most physically tough. You must push yourself to the limit for each and every day of the competition.
If you want to be a state champion, only you can make that happen. You must choose to be a state champion through your performance during the next three days. As a team, we can win overall, but individually, only you can run the distance to make that happen. If you choose to be a state champion, then this choice will be shown in your actions on and off the track. Good luck!
Beneath the form letter that Coach sent out every year at the start of the State Indoor Track Meet was a personalized note in purple ink.
Branson,
You've worked hard this season. Go get the thing you want, a medal in the 300s.
Coach
I nodded. All right, all right, all right.
I was feeling good. Dr. Cordova was right, and the meds had been working, but Coach nailed it. State track was a choice. And I chose to stop taking my meds. The weight had obviously been catching up, and I had seen a decrease in my time on the track.
Besides, what’s the harm of a few missed days, maybe a couple weeks, anyway?
The static hadn’t nearly been as loud, and the shadow people had remained on the edge. I knew they were still there, but they hadn’t attacked anyone for no good reason. In fact, I hadn’t seen one of them randomly slice someone in a really long time. I only had state track and the congressional interviews left to complete. Then I’d get back on my meds.
Things are pretty good.
I grabbed my track bag and headed for the bus.
“Hey, wait up!”
I turned around and saw Trevor exiting the bathroom.
“Dude! Good to see you.” I walked toward him, grabbed his arm and pulled him in for a bro hug. “It’s been like a month or so.”
“Tick tock goes the clock,” he said.
I shook my head. “Whatever. Where you been?”
“Oh yeah, I was just visiting my hometown and my family. But I’m back now.”
We unloaded the bus in Sheridan. It was a beautiful day, and I’d be stuck inside.
Hopefully my dad would forget that state track was happening in his hometown. The last thing I needed was for him to show up. My nerves were already jumpy.
State track meet. The big show.
But indoor track meets had to be the worst, because the indoor facility smelled of rubber and sweat. Warm air filled the arena, making it stuffy and hard to breathe.
The dank smell wasn’t helping my mood, which went further south when Coach told me some college recruiter was there to watch me. Fucking Coach thinks I’m actually going to give up the Navy for this shit? Joke.
Besides, I'd only qualified for one event: the 300-meter hurdles. So I only had one chance to show my all. Fuck, I hate stress.
I decided to chill by our camp, which was a makeshift cluster of track bags, nutrition drinks, and water bottles. The overhead announcer blared that one of our teammates was about to run.
“You gonna go cheer him on?” Trevor asked.
I shrugged. “Why not.”
Most of the team was already up at the gates to watch Nick run. He was a good guy, and I wanted to support him, so I headed down to the gates, pushing my way through the crowd of people. Nick was going to the start line in the first lane. I elbowed my way through and stood next to two figures I hadn’t recognized. When the starting gun went off, so did my lungs.
“Let’s go, Nick! Don’t let them catch you!”
I was so immersed in the cheering that I didn’t realize I was yelling right in front of him. Not that it would have mattered.
“Hey, that’s my fucking ear, you retard!” Jesse turned on the heel of his spiked shoes and shoved me.
Shocked, I stepped back. Jesse was taller than me, stronger than me, and uglier than me. He was also two times my size and wore Wilson colors id
entical to mine, but that didn’t seem to matter, because he shoved me a second time, even harder. I took another step back, but he didn’t stop.
The guy was after me, and hard. Jesse wrapped his hand around my throat and pushed me against the wall in the gym-like building I was stuck in for the next three days.
My body flooded with emotion. I was pissed off, confused, and slowly losing my breath. For a minute I thought maybe it was a joke, but when his hand tightened around my neck, I realized this motherfucker was for real.
Instinct kicked in and I brought my elbow down on his bicep, trying to break free. When that didn’t work, I swiped my spiked foot down on his thigh all the way to his calf. He screamed, releasing his grip on me as blood streamed down his leg and he stumbled away. Before he had a chance to recover, I grabbed him by the bicep, pulling him toward me and using the momentum to get behind him. I wrapped my arm around his throat and brought him down hard onto his butt, squeezing tighter around his throat, flexing my bicep to cut off his airway. In shock and pure panic, he stumbled back, forcing me to take three steps back, tripping over a track bag. But it didn’t matter—I still had him, and I wasn’t about to let go.
I knelt over him with his life in my hands and whispered in his ear, just faintly enough for him to hear me, “Tick tock goes the clock.”
He looked up at me as I smiled and laughed. “Tick tock goes your clock. Tick tock goes your clock.”
His face drained of color, and I knew with one swift twist I could easily take what was left of him. I started to hear voices telling me to do it.
“Fucking do it. He just tried to kill you.”
The static grew stronger.
“He deserves it. An eye for an eye.”
Each voice grew louder, dominating my thoughts, propelling my actions. I had no choice but to obey.
“Branson! Stop it! He’s not breathing anymore!” Aaron’s voice came from somewhere behind me.
Then everything went black.
28
Tara
I leaned my head away from my computer terminal and called from my office to Rachel and Ben, “Is the university web advisor down?”
“Mine’s working,” Rachel said.
“Me too,” Ben added.
“Mine’s not loading.” I clicked the Refresh button, but that did nothing to get the university software to load. I hate missing time in the office to attend stupid seminars.
“Try the internet,” Ben suggested.
I clicked onto another tab and Internet Explorer launched immediately. “That’s odd,” I said. “Yeah, the internet’s working.”
“Maybe there’s a glitch in the administrative network software,” Rachel offered.
I nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”
I checked my university email, but I couldn’t access it either. My stomach took a sudden drop. Oh no. I tried to log into the staff portal using Rachel’s password and my computer was denied access.
My adrenaline kicked into high gear. This isn’t good.
I casually glanced past my computer screen to the foyer where Rachel's and Ben’s desks were positioned. Nothing was out of the ordinary. I didn't know if I expected a security guard to suddenly appear, march in and escort me off property, but I had definitely been denied access to the administrative and staff portal along with university email.
Why now?
I glanced at my desk calendar and flipped through the gilded edges. I had been at the three-day professional development seminar Dean Bryant made me attend. The awareness sank into my skin. He wanted me out of the office. Bastard.
I leaned away from my computer. “So I meant to ask how things went while I was at that professional development seminar,” I called out to Rachel and Ben.
I glanced in their direction.
Rachel looked up from her computer and rolled her eyes. “Dean Bryant had more questions about the early admissions list.”
I feigned an exasperated eye roll in return while thinking I was going to puke. “He’s like a dog with a bone,” I said, hoping it would be just enough to prod her further.
Rachel nodded. “It wouldn’t have been so bad, but he had Senator Bailey and his wife with him.”
“Ex-wife,” Ben quickly interjected.
What the hell?
I rolled my chair away from my desk just enough to seem interested but not enough to seem like I cared. “Senator Bailey was with Dean Bryant?” I scoffed. “Huh. VIP in our office.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “Did you know his ex-wife is Ecuadorian?”
I could practically taste bile in my throat. Oh shit. I rolled my neck like I was bored, when in reality I was trying to break the tension that had seized me. But my neck wouldn’t crack; it was wound too tight.
“I do remember his ex-wife is Ecuadorian.” I just forgot that it made their daughter half-Ecuadorian. So not only did I reject a legacy, but also a woman and an Ecuadorian. In stomping on the university’s affirmative action plan, I hit the trifecta and rejected a double-minority. Brilliant! I may not have wanted Ashley Bailey on campus, but by changing her admission status and rejecting her application, I had practically set back equal rights and civil rights faster than a right-wing racist in a time machine.
I covered my mouth with my hand. Oh my God.
“Tara, you okay?” Rachel asked.
I nodded, trying to keep my breakfast at bay. I removed my hand and waved away the bitter taste that lingered on my breath. “Just thinking of all the work I have to do to play catch-up. Being away from the office for three days.” I rolled my eyes again. “It’s…” Enough time for Dean Bryant to have IT do their homework. I scooted my chair over to my desk. “I guess it’s back to work!” I said in the most unusual, high-pitched singsong voice.
Rachel and Ben both looked at me and laughed. “Okay, boss.”
By now the IT department had identified that my access code had changed Ashley Bailey’s admission status. And I was fairly certain they had traced my home IP address to the changes I made to other legacy candidates when I used Rachel’s password from my home computer. It was only a matter of time before I was called into Dean Bryant’s office. Crap. I needed to check the fall list of admissions to see how badly I'd screwed up, but I couldn’t even retrieve it to review.
I tapped my Manolos on the plastic floor protector beneath me when I accidentally kicked my Burberry briefcase.
I snapped. That’s it.
I pulled my briefcase to my lap and pulled out the file folder with the email to Fred Stanley. Fucking Fred. If he had protected Branson, I wouldn’t have had to go after the bully myself.
I skimmed the list, but it didn’t get me any closer to how many candidates I'd tampered with. It only listed who I'd randomly selected when I chose candidates based off my “go fish” process of picking file folders versus my actual five-step process. I had been mad, angry, and ready to settle a score, so I didn't know who'd ended up in the reject pile alongside Ashley Bailey. I didn't know who deserved to be admitted and hadn’t.
Deserved. There’s a contradiction. If people truly got what they deserved…. My mind started playing a wicked game of revenge fantasy when my desk phone chimed. It was the direct line to Dean Bryant.
And here it comes.
“This is Tara,” I picked up before the third ring, university standard.
“Tara, I was hoping you’d have a moment to come to my office. There’s a pressing issue that needs to be addressed.”
“Absolutely. Is now a good time?”
I had obviously taken him off guard, as he paused and then said, “Yes, that would work. Give me twenty minutes?”
Twenty minutes to get human resources to your office to witness my termination? Sure. “How about thirty?” I said with a playful tone, clearly taking him for a loop.
“Perfect.”
I hung up the phone, grabbed a thumb drive from the inside pocket of my briefcase and downloaded every file I had on my hard drive that I could still access. I did
n't know if I’d ever need what I was copying, but at that point, I was operating on sheer instinct. Then I checked to make sure no one was looking before discreetly placing the thumb drive in my bra.
I knew security would check my briefcase and all university files would be confiscated, so I emptied my briefcase of every work file and neatly placed them on the corner of my desk. I highly doubted they’d check my physical body. If they did, I’d feign stupidity of some sort. Or perhaps, I shrugged, insanity. Why the hell not? My son's been diagnosed with schizophrenia. Perhaps he inherited it from me.
I glanced at the silver-framed pictures on my desk, looking for Branson, but first I had to admire a baby picture of chubby Jack. A toddler picture of Carson in pigtails. And then my boys. The final frame on my desk held a picture of Aaron, Branson, and me on their first day of kindergarten. Ed encouraged me to join the picture because after seven years with the university, I had been promoted to the director of admissions. The three of us stood next to the school bus dressed in new clothes, and each of us held new backpacks and a briefcase. Bright eyes and fresh faces, we were all excited about the upcoming year. It was the start of something new.
I picked up the picture and leaned back in my chair. It was the most current picture I had of the three of us. My God, where have I been?
I glanced around the office. My gym bag on the floor beside the door contained everything I needed to shower and dress before work. I didn’t need to close the door to my office to know an extra Lord and Taylor suit hung on the back. On top of the walnut file cabinet, an espresso maker was plugged in and ready to brew a perfect cup of my favorite roast. Inside the file cabinet, an extra set of makeup, a straightener, and hair dryer were neatly tucked inside. My office was my home away from home.