The Divided Twin

by M. Billiter

  The sun banked off the snow berm and nearly blinded me. Fuck, that’s bright.

  What wasn’t as bright was my faded green Saab that looked about as clean as the dirty slush around my tires. I got into my old ice bucket and realized the car parked behind me was up my ass.

  I hate Casper. People suck.

  I heard Aaron in my head. He’d tell me not to hang with shady people. What he didn’t realize was that they were all shady. They all sucked. The sooner I was through with college, the better. I backed up, and by sheer luck, I didn’t hit the fucktard’s car.

  I headed toward I-25 and Cheyenne. There wasn’t anything for me in Casper. Weekends were the worst. Before I reached Glenrock and its dead zone, I texted my sister, Carson.

  On way to c u guys n mom. Don’t tell her. Wna surprise her.

  Carson relied on selfies to answer. A pic of my teenaged sister with her chin pointed toward her chest in an attempt to have a double chin made me laugh. She was way too skinny to pull it off.

  She was another reason I tried to get home when school and work allowed. I liked treating her and Jack to things that made me feel good when I was bummed out. And nothing made someone forget their troubles—if even for a moment—than a Loaf ’N Jug run. Soda, chips, and candy, lots and lots of candy. Or, as my little brother, Jack, always said, “The start to diabetes.”

  It also didn’t hurt that I liked our new home in Cheyenne. Well, it wasn’t new, but it was to us. My mom was so proud when she found a house that didn’t require a thousand repairs. It was smaller and older than our home in Casper, but it felt homier. Thanks to me, my mom lost her high-paying job. I knew she didn’t blame me, but I did.

  If only I had gotten Trevor under control.

  If only I had realized how much control he had over my thoughts and actions.

  If only. If the road to hell was paved with good intentions, then purgatory was tiled with if-onlys.

  The drive from Casper to Cheyenne was normally two and a half hours that I made in two. The less time in my head, the better. Besides, the sooner I got home, the quicker I got to my mom. She had her second clean mammogram screen recently, and it was time to celebrate the last two and a half years of hell.

  At first when she got cancer, nothing big happened. It wasn’t like she suddenly lost her hair or looked sick. Even after her first surgery, she still appeared and acted like my mom. Then a month passed before I got to head home again, and when I saw her after her second surgery, her energy had shifted. By her third surgery, the mom I knew had all but vanished. It was like she’d given up. She was either in bed or the bathroom, sleeping or throwing up. Jack was constantly beside her patting her bald head. I bought her one of those pink scarves, hoping she’d wear it, but she said it made her hot. Her head was the color of puke, like her whole body swallowed up her sickness. What I didn’t understand was why she wasn’t bouncing back to normal. She still looked sick, which made no sense.

  I shuddered. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, it was the worst time in my life—even worse than Trevor. Aaron moved away, which was what I bet my sister and little brother wanted. But Carson and Jack were home. They were on the frontlines and saw her decline daily.

  I wanted to be home, but my mom insisted I stay in school and finish what I’d started and Trevor tried to prevent. She wanted to know I was living free from Trevor when she wasn’t even living at all. There was a time not too long ago when I was sure her life was slipping away, which just about broke me.

  Tears stung my eyes at the memories. There wasn’t a day that I didn’t think about my mom and wish it had happened to me.

  I rolled down the window and the cold air bit my face. It hurt, but anything was better than reliving those feelings. I couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not when I finally had my shit together.

  I turned on the radio, and one of my mom’s favorite songs was playing. I shook my head. My shrink would remind me that there was no running away from feelings, but listening to Darius Rucker sing a country song crossed the line. I changed the channel, and the funky hard sound of Twenty-One Pilots and their existential, vein-spilling lyrics about turning back time to the good old days made me laugh.

  “Okay, you win,” I said to this higher power thing I’d discovered during my second stint in the crazy hospital.

  I went from severe depression, hallucinations, and feeling like I’d never have a future to having the pain slowly subside with treatment. Under the hospital’s lock and key, I learned coping skills to function with my symptoms and live with schizoaffective disorder.

  It was like that with my mom’s cancer. Just as soon as it entered our lives, it seemed to leave. Or she decided to fight it. I honestly didn’t know. All I knew was that her medical team said she was in remission, and if cancer taught me anything, it was to take the small victories when they came.

  She didn’t know it yet, but I regularly donated plasma for money. In the last two months, I had a Visa card loaded with enough to take us all out to dinner to celebrate.

  But there was one stop I had to make first.

  * * *

  The table wasn’t in the center of campus like I expected. Instead, the signs for the event led to the college pub. I’d barely set foot into the bar when a host of sorority girls cheered.

  “Welcome!” they said in unison, and I felt like I had won the lottery.

  I tried to hide my smile and embarrassment, but it was impossible. I wasn’t the kind of guy who had women cheer when I walked into a room.

  I headed toward the only table draped in pink. Mason jars painted in varying shades with matching pink carnations were scattered across the table. A pink cowboy boot with a white ribbon that read “Give Cancer The Boot” was positioned in the center of the table.

  A row of pink T-shirts and stress-reliever balls immediately caught my eye.

  “Hey,” I said when I approached.

  Four of the five women smiled brightly and returned my greeting. The fifth woman, who sat with two sorority sisters on either side of her, didn’t smile or speak. The only part of her name tag that was visible read “Chair” in bright pink letters.

  I’d bet my plasma money she’s the philanthropy chair—a thankless position in Greek life. And by the looks of it, no fraternity on campus wanted to partner with her. Shocking.

  She pointed her nails that matched her name tag toward me. “Branson Kovak.”

  I took a step back.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” The quasi leader of the all-blonde tribe kept her green eyes locked on mine with laser focus.

  I slightly shrugged and gave her my best don’t-kill-me look.

  She burst out laughing, and I began to relax. Then she turned to her sisters. “This is Branson. He’s schizophrenic.” She shot me a look. “That’s it, isn’t it, Branson? Schizophrenia?”

  It wasn’t the first time someone from the past mentioned my mental illness in public, but it was the way she did it, like an accusation, that made it feel like all my blood drained from my body.

  Who the fuck is she?

  I slowly nodded, not sure what to say next.

  “Yeah, he used to date one of my friends.” She glared at me and tossed her shoulder-length blonde hair with a smugness that let me know she wasn’t the queen bee for nothing. “Dakota? You totally fucked her over when you went all psycho on her.”

  Oh, right. I remember her now.

  “That’s fair,” I said to her disbelief. “I made things right with Dakota, but you’re right. When I was in my illness, I was a real jerk.”

  “Jerk? Try asshole. You called Dakota ‘rez trash’ at a party in front of everyone. It was the first and only time I met you, or whoever you were, and I’d hoped it’d be the last.” She crossed her arms over her barely there boobs, her green eyes flashing with anger. “Dakota’s family tie to the reservation was a low blow, but”—she shrugged—“what can you expect from a psycho.”

  “Actually, I have schizoaffective disorder. The
re’s a depressive component. I’m doubly blessed,” I said as a way of hopefully diffusing the situation.

  “Whatever. You’re still whack,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

  I took a slow, steady breath. “I used to be. But I take a handful of meds daily, see a shrink monthly, and show up for life at Wyo State, which is why I’m still stuck in Casper.” I slowly smiled. “Now that’s whack.”

  Four of the five women laughed. “That’s so great,” one of them said. “My dad is bipolar. He did the same thing as you—you know, taking meds and stuff—and he’s so much better.”

  Another of the sorority sisters chimed in then. “My brother was a cutter. Weird, right?” She shook her blonde hair. “But after he went to this inpatient treatment center, he’s a totally different guy.”

  But the chair of the feel-good event remained unimpressed. “Whatever. If you go to Wyo State, why are you here?”

  I had to play this right to get what I needed. Albany County Community College was what my mom referred to as a “junior college for average students,” which was a total slam to my high school friends who didn’t have the grades to get into Wyoming’s only four-year university. I doubted I had the grades either, but my mom used whatever pull she’d still had four years ago to ensure I had a spot. Still, the rivalry was real.

  “You’d think Wyo State would have the best of the best, right?” I said.

  Four of the sisters nodded.

  “Well, they don’t, because with all the sororities on campus, there isn’t one that celebrates breast cancer awareness month. Crazy, right?” I instantly regretted the use of crazy. Fuck.

  “Are you for real?” she who had no name but Chair spoke again.

  “Legit. Even the sorority we partner with,” I said in Greek speak to let them all know I wasn’t a goddamn independent. “Their philanthropic work is heart health.” I held my hand against my chest. “Hey, I’m all about women’s heart health, but I’m pretty sure breast cancer claims more women’s lives.” I gripped the table and leaned in for total effect. “That’s why I’m here. My mom’s been battling breast cancer….” Suddenly, I felt myself lose my hold on the table. I let go and took a quick step back.

  For all my efforts to have maximum impact, my inability to maintain my composure along with my voice breaking had more of an effect than even I’d intended. I cleared my throat, but fuck if I didn’t sound like I was about to cry. Get it together, Bran.

  “Uh, anyway, I drove to Cheyenne from Casper because my mom lives here now. And it’s where she has her cancer care. I wanted to walk into the house tonight wearing one of your shirts to show her my support.”

  Before I could reach into my back pocket for my wallet, the woman on the end of the table, the one whose brother was a cutter, pushed her chair out, walked over to me, and wrapped her arms around me.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, and her tenderness almost gutted me.

  “Whatever.” The philanthropy chair scoffed, jarring me back to reality. Some people would always see me as damaged.

  Then she threw a T-shirt toward me. “We don’t carry extra-large, so hopefully this’ll fit.”

  I clenched my teeth. It was one thing to call me psycho, but to attack my weight? That shit hit closer to home. If I wasn’t on all these meds, I wouldn’t have to worry about my fucking weight, you stupid cow. But I squelched the urge to verbally vomit all over her. Why give her more reason to hate me?

  I slowly exhaled, reached into my wallet, and placed a hard-earned twenty into the boot. The boot was what I’d like to give her if she ever parked on a real college campus. Shaking my head at the thought to cover my slight smile, I refocused on the task at hand.

  “Would it be possible to get a T-shirt for my mom?” I hated sounding so pathetic, but if it meant a shirt for my mom, I’d grovel and look like a complete loser if I had to.

  I wanted to get a couple for Carson and Jack too, but asking for two more ran the risk of the chair completely losing her shit.

  “Of course.” The one who had hugged me grabbed a shirt and a handful of the pink stress-reliever balls and gently handed them to me.

  “Thank you.” There wasn’t anything more to say. I took my armful of pink mementos and headed toward the door.

  9

  Branson

  When my shrink, Dr. Cordova, relocated to Iowa, he referred me to Dr. Blaze. Blaze had offices in Casper and Cheyenne, though I usually met him in Cheyenne. The less time in Casper the better.

  I signed the clipboard that sat in the tray in the glass partition and stole a glance at Hope. She was a ginger, but her hair wasn’t flaming red. It was this blend of red and blonde. Still, I wondered if the saying were true: “red on the head, fire in bed.” I choked down a chuckle. Her skin was pale with freckles across the bridge of her nose that I couldn’t stop staring at. The little strip was like a constellation that pointed me directly to her striking blue eyes. She looked away from her computer screen and slid across the glass panel that separated us, and when she smiled, I thought my knees would give out.

  “Branson. How ya doing?”

  “Not bad. Going to see my mom after this.”

  “Oh, how is she?” She leaned forward, and so did her cleavage. Milky skin poured out of her lacy bra.

  I cleared my throat. “Good. She’s good.” I stared at her like an idiot, not knowing what to say next.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Say hi to her for me.”

  I nodded. My mom used to come to my appointments with me. It was our agreement when I went off my meds for a second time. I got it. I’d be worried too. But once she got cancer, the hour-long appointments were just too much on her.

  The familiar pain settled in my throat once more. When my mom got cancer, it was like my throat stopped working. I couldn’t swallow without it hurting, and whenever I spoke about it, my voice cracked or didn’t work at all, just like what happened in the bar with those sorority girls. Hope was probably the only person I could talk to about my mom without that happening, though I barely knew her.

  “Yeah, I’m taking her out to dinner tonight. She passed her last two mammogram scans.”

  Hope’s face practically sparkled, and the grip around my throat lessened. “Branson, that’s so great.”

  “Thanks.” I was about to ask her if she wanted to join us when I heard Ester call my name. Ester was a nice but extremely hefty nurse. I’d tackled linesmen who were smaller, which was why I never messed with her. I nodded toward Hope with the invitation lingering on my lips, which was exactly where it stayed. I followed Ester as she waddled toward the doctor’s office.

  Dr. Blaze didn’t look like his name suggested. There was no glow, flash, or fire to his clothes or voice. Nor was he a ginger like Hope. He had this super-mellow hippie vibe going on.

  “Everything’s good, man” was his go-to line.

  It didn’t matter if I told him that the shadow people were crafting a battalion of crazies in my head ready to take over the world. As far as Dr. Blaze was concerned, everything was good.

  His office was an extension of the man. His décor and furniture had to date back to the seventies. I didn’t even think Goodwill would accept his shit as a donation. There was also this gurgling waterfall thing on a side table that was irritating as fuck. But the Sunday school–type quote that hung on the wall was the real kicker. I was sure it was meant to be inspirational, but it wasn’t.

  The journey is more important than the destination.

  The frame looked like it’d been through a rough journey. The wooden edges were nicked, and the glass was dull and yellowed. A desk with some diplomas on the wall was pushed toward the back of the room like an afterthought. The brown, fake suede couch was like every other therapy couch I’d sat on—saggy in the middle, but not in a comfortable, reassuring way. More like an “I’m stuck and how the hell am I going to get my big ass out of this” thing.

  Dr. Blaze parked his skinny hippie ass in the matching brown side chair be
side his desk. In brown cords and a tan shirt, he blended in with the room and the large stain on the ceiling above him. It seemed to grow every month. It always made me wonder if the roof was going to fall in on us both. Or perhaps it already had.

  Dr. Blaze was smart. For all his laid-back approach, the guy didn’t miss a beat.

  “Your blood work looks good,” he said, skimming through my file, the size of which rivaled one of my mom’s textbooks.

  Monthly blood draws ensured that I was, indeed, taking my antipsychotic medication. After I’d kept the return of Trevor and my auditory hallucinations of him hidden from everyone following my first hospitalization, they’d started monitoring my blood monthly.

  It wasn’t like I couldn’t rig the test if I wanted to. I knew guys on campus who worked part-time in the lab and were as cash poor as me, selling their plasma to afford the shitload of medical textbooks they had to buy while studying to be phlebotomists. It wouldn’t take much money to convince them to alter the lab results.

  It basically boiled down to trust in the end. Was I actually being honest? So I did the monthly draws to allay my mom’s fears and rebuild her trust. I got it. Schizophrenia influenced how I thought, felt, and behaved. Add in the depressive component and my mind was like a loaded weapon.

  “You look good.” Blaze closed the folder with my name labeled on the side.

  “Yeah, I lost the last ten pounds I gained four years ago.” I laughed.

  “Well, you’re staying active and you look good. How’s your social life?”

  “I think it’s going to be like the last ten pounds. It’s going to take a while,” I said, which made my shrink chuckle.

  I liked Blaze. He reminded me of my high school counselor, Clive. Both were easy to talk to, and they really seemed to care about me. I wasn’t just another name on their schedule. Plus, both Clive and Blaze seemed to understand what I was going through and realized that not all schizophrenics were the same.

  Blaze reached behind him and placed my folder on the stack already on his desk. One good sneeze and that shit was coming down. I wasn’t the most organized person, but compared to Blaze, I had OCD.