A Divided Mind Read online

  For a moment, I thought about telling my brother about the constant noise, the unending anger I felt every day for no reason, and the lack of happiness that made me feel empty and utterly alone. But as I stared into his hazel eyes, I saw his concern, and I couldn’t burden my twin with my problems.

  “I’m just dehydrated.”

  “Okay.” Aaron’s eyes were a reflection of my own before I began to lose my mind. He gripped my shoulder, and for a minute it seemed like he knew what was happening, like our twin thing was working.

  But then he laughed. “Bro, no need to lose your shit. Let’s go home.”

  5

  Tara

  When your child confesses that they’ve been hearing voices and they can no longer keep the “static” quiet, there’s not really anyone with whom to share this revelation. Who would understand this and not judge? Who won't look at my son differently? My sister, Serena, wouldn’t judge, but she lived in Paris, and the time difference alone made it more of a headache than it was worth. Nope. Some things are best left unsaid. Besides, I don’t even know what these voices say. Maybe it’s nothing more than a headful of negative self-talk. I set my leather briefcase beside my glass desk in my home office and placed my double-shot espresso on its appointed leather coaster. French doors with beveled windows and smoke-tinted glass led into this glorious space that I customized after I bought the house. The walls were painted sage, and thin strips of stained pine molding accentuated the perfectly square shaped room. I inched up my Hugo Boss ankle-length slacks and unbuckled my Christian Louboutin platform sandals that wrapped around my legs, carefully positioning my red-soled shoes beside one of the upholstered side chairs. I wiggled my bare feet on the thick vanilla-colored area rug that protected the hardwood floors. The rug served a two-fold purpose, keeping my feet warm in the winter and allowing my high-back, deep-seated ergonomic chair to stay in place and not roll away from me anytime I moved.

  I lit one of the wicks on the aromatic candle that was perched on the ledge of the bay window and looked out into our backyard. The half-acre had been ambushed by leaves in varying shades of autumn. It was beautiful. The aspen trees were shedding, and their leafy colors lit up our backyard like Times Square at midnight. Part of me wanted to grab Branson’s hand and go run through the foliage, but I didn’t. I had dinner to prepare, homework with Jack, college applications to either accept or reject, and at some point I had to sit down with Carson and Jack and explain to them what was going on with their older brother. I hoped I could make sense to a twelve- and six-year-old regarding something their forty-five-year-old mom hadn’t been able to even grasp.

  The list was endless, and it always kept me in a constant state of catch-up. Besides, those days of frolic and fun were gone. My life was a series of calculated actions to ensure the best possible outcome for my family and staying on top in my career was pivotal to that end.

  I turned my attention away from the leaf pile and back to the candle, moving it closer to the ledge and lighting the last of the three wicks. It infused the air with eucalyptus and spearmint. Supposedly the combination cut stress and brought serenity. If only a candle could live up to its packaging.

  I took a quick sip of my espresso and returned it to its leather coaster before pulling a stack of applications out of my briefcase. I carefully set the crisp, unfettered manila folders beside my laptop. In this room, I had the semblance of control. Everything had a place, and there was a place for everything.

  I flipped up the lid to my silver laptop and continued to stand while I typed in my password: Sunshine. Every thirty days my password required to be changed, so I rotated words associated with each of my children. Sunshine was a reference to Branson.

  I couldn’t dive into that well again, not now. I had too much work to do, and the dean of my department was on my ass to finish the first round of early submissions. Glancing at the stack of applicants, I exhaled slowly. Bad moods did not make for good decisions.

  Later.

  I sat down and turned my attention to the screen on my laptop. A long list of “friends” was parked on the right side of the screen, and photos and posted comments took up the rest. A stream of new comments and updates continually fed forward. All these “friends” looked happy, their children sane. Then again, almost no one posted their crappy day on Facebook. And those who did annoyed the shit out of me.

  I didn’t use the word “hate” often, but I hated Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram, and Flickr. But I was contractually obligated, by both my publisher and the university, to have an active presence on social media. So I posted on Facebook, I tweeted on Twitter, I linked in on LinkedIn, and I snapped pictures and chatted on Instagram and Flickr.

  And despite my misgivings about the online society we had become, I was good at connecting in that environment. Next to my profile picture on Facebook were my statistics and a very flattering photo that highlighted the strength of any fair-faced redhead—my green eyes. If my photo didn’t impress a viewer, my stats would: Tara Louise Lafontisee, age 45, Director of Admissions at Wyoming State University at Casper, Master of Arts in Educational Leadership from University of Kentucky, Published Author of Unlocking the Mystery of College Admissions: The Five-Step Plan for Pursuing Higher Education. My work and education were front and center. To the naked eye, they looked great, even impressive, because that’s what I did for a living. I packaged people to look amazing. As the director of college admissions, I knew at a glance whose résumé and transcripts would move forward and whose wouldn’t. I knew what students I could market and promote, and what students wouldn’t rise above their own GPA.

  To someone like me, I knew from glancing at my online profile what was missing: family and relationships. And what was missing on someone’s profile was more telling than what was on it. I purposefully sidestepped the two failed marriages and four kids. Those were future relationship killers. And I certainly wouldn’t post a comment about my son’s recent happenings.

  I could only imagine the update: Hey, everyone, here’s some news. My son may be crazy. LOL!

  I couldn’t even muster a fake laugh. There wasn’t anything funny about mental illness, or thinking that my Branson suffered from anything other than the occasional teenage cold, cough, heartache, or acne. I could not, would not allow myself to see him as anything other than depressed.

  Instead of posting about Branson or anything real happening in my life, I posted what high school seniors and their parents coveted at this time of the year: tips on how to succeed with their college application.

  Happy September! The last date to submit an application for early admission with Wyoming State University is fast approaching. Wyoming State University is home to the Posse. We ride for the brand! So what does it take to be a part of our Posse? While a near-perfect ACT score and straight A’s certainly make strong candidates, an applicant’s admissions essay is often the deciding factor from moving their submission forward. So who are you? What sets you apart? Are you a nontraditional student? Have you had to overcome obstacles to obtain your education? Or perhaps you’re the first person in your family who's seeking higher education. Whatever sets you apart, whatever makes you stand above the fold, at WSU, we want to know, so tell us your story! The Posse’s in town—look out!

  I added a link to the university’s admission page and hit post. All the university’s social media outlets were linked together, so when I posted on one, it posted on the others. Later I’d add a fun picture of campus life, and Instagram would buzz with Posse chatter.

  I sat back and stared at the screen.

  Who are you? What sets you apart?

  It would give parents and students something to chew on until my next designated feed. It would drive traffic to our site, create interest, and increase admissions. And more admissions dollars meant a bigger year-end bonus for me. Brilliant.

  I stared at my questions, wondering how my son would answer. What would he say? Did he even know who he was anymore? I flicked
away a tear that threatened to spoil the one thing I was good at. Keep it together. You’re no good to anyone if you’re a crying mess.

  My attitude had taken a serious nosedive after my conversation with Ed. I didn't know why I always expected a different outcome when I spoke with him. I married a man who over time showed me and our children who he really was: an angry, bitter, abusive man. While I was brilliant at navigating my career, my compass in my personal life was seriously misdirected.

  When I finally left Ed, I ran right into the open arms of a cowboy, seeking refuge and safety for my children and me—and for a moment, I thought I had. I got pregnant on our honeymoon, and Jack was born in our first year of marriage. Jeff seemed to embrace the idea of a son, but the reality of parenthood was more than he could handle. My cowboy preferred to spend his time on horseback rather than with his family. It didn’t take me as long to leave that time.

  Now I was alone, and that was how it was going to be.

  “Momma?”

  I turned in my chair. Jack stood in the doorway to my office, his hands interlaced and a pensive look on his six-year-old face.

  “Hey, little man.” I walked toward him.

  He looked up at me and his brown eyes filled with tears. Immediately I knelt down. “Oh no. What’s wrong?”

  “Branson said I’m an asshole and that he hates me.”

  I pulled my first grader into me and held him, closing my eyes as I felt his heart beat against my chest. For a moment, it was the only sound that mattered.

  Jack pulled away. “That’s a time-out word. I’m not an asshole.”

  I nodded. “You’re not, and I’m so sorry that happened. Branson’s just….” Dread pulled at my heart. I had put off this conversation long enough. “Can you go get Carson for me?”

  Jack nodded. “She’s in her room.”

  “Okay, can you run lava fast and go get her?”

  A smile surfaced on his chubby face. “Only if you time me.”

  “Of course.” I pulled out my cell phone from my blazer pocket. “Okay.” I held my thumb over the timer screen and looked up at Jack. “Ready… set… go!”

  I pressed start, and my little man’s feet pounded against the hardwood floors as he darted away. I sat back on my legs and watched the timer. How long would it take before I had to detonate my family with the news about their brother? Then Carson stood in the doorway to my in-home office. Sixty seconds.

  How long was my call with Branson when he first told me about the static? It had to be longer than sixty seconds, right? Or can a life truly change in a minute?

  Maybe it was karma. How long did it take a student to open the envelope I sent either accepting or rejecting them? Sixty seconds? Thirty? How long did they think about that envelope afterward? I already knew the answer to the last question. My email inbox was full of letters from angry parents, distraught students, and high school counselors all making their last-ditch effort for the university to reconsider what was ultimately my decision. I never did. The hard truth about the college selection process was that it boiled down to five admission requirements, and applicants either hit all five or they didn’t. It’s why my book was a success and landed me in the position I was in. The college screening process I had created was foolproof. It wasn’t just an inflated ego talking—my five-step process had been adopted by universities across the globe.

  I had shaped Aaron and Branson’s academic careers, starting from the kindergarten they attended to their high school enrollment, with my screening process in mind. Every step of their academic lives was calculated on what I knew worked. But there wasn’t any chapter in my New York Times bestselling book to address the issue of a kid coping with mental illness. Not one. I had chapters devoted to kids in trouble, kids on probation, even kids with drug felony possession charges—every single walk of life was addressed because every single one of those applications had crossed my desk at some point in my twenty-year career. But not once had I been confronted with a Branson-like candidate. Maybe this was some kind of karmic payback for the candidates I rejected.

  Carson breezed past me with a feigned air of conceit. “Hello, Mummy. How are you?” She plunked down on the couch beneath the bay window, her long legs splayed out and draped over the arm of the couch. “Good day, was it?”

  Her makeshift British accent was a knockoff from watching Sherlock or maybe Dr. Who—it was hard to keep up with Carson. She was a force all of her own, and she instantly lowered my resolve.

  “Hello, darling,” I played along. “Marvelous day. And you?”

  She shrugged, and her long, strawberry-blonde wavy locks bounced. In the genetic gene pool of life, Carson hit a home run. She had her father’s Croatian coloring, which made her skin look suntanned and vibrant year-round, and she had inherited a softer shade of my red hair and emerald green eyes that made for a striking combination. But more than just her physical beauty, Carson possessed joie de vivre, the joy of living spirit of her French great-grandmother, Louise, whom I was partially named after. When my French-born father, Jacques Lafontisee, married my Irish-born mother, Molly O’Brien, they had to integrate both countries into their firstborn child’s name. Tara Louise represented Ireland and France at its best.

  I wasn’t as diplomatic with the naming of my children. With the exception of my youngest, who was named after my father, they were named after locations my ex and I had traveled. Ed’s father was an engineer for the railroad, so his family moved frequently. Ed had been named after Edinburg, Texas, and his sister, Brooklyn Rose, was named after the city of her birth and New York’s state flower. A beautiful name for an ugly person. She preferred to be called Rose, which fit her thorny personality.

  It was my ex’s brilliant idea to carry on his family’s naming tradition. In retrospect, it was lame, though the names of my children thankfully weren’t. Aaron, Kentucky, Branson, Missouri, and Carson, Nevada—each held a special place in my heart because they gave birth to each of my children. Ed’s career as a golf pro led us to scout many golf locations and assist in the development of new ones. So when it came time to pick names for not one but two babies, we each chose a location where we had traveled. Ed chose Aaron because I vetoed Lexington or even Lex for a boy. And I chose Branson.

  Now any time I said one of my children’s names, I remembered a point in time when life was actually good between their father and me. I only wished my parents were alive to see their only granddaughter, who seemed to blossom before me.

  “School’s quite a bore lately,” she lamented. “But little Jack beckoned me to your study to discuss something. Might I be in trouble?”

  I laughed. “No, you’re not in trouble. But where’s Jack?” I looked through the open french doors, but my little man wasn't in sight.

  “Oh yes, Branson came up and mumbled something to Jack, and then they disappeared into the basement.”

  I exhaled. “Swell. Well, hopefully Branson apologized to Jack and is making things better. What were they doing?”

  “Branson got a new Pokémon game, and he wanted to show Jack how to play it.”

  I faintly smiled. “I don’t know if I should be mad at Branson or pleased.”

  “What’s troubling you?”

  I rose off the rug, walked over to the couch and sat beside her. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Branson.”

  “His trouble at school?”

  I shook my head. “What do you know about it?” I asked, then quickly added, “And he’s not in trouble.”

  “Okay.” Her voice shifted, and in that subtle change, I knew my daughter was aware of more than I realized.

  “He’s not in trouble with school,” I clarified, even though it was unnecessary. “He’s… did your father say something to you about this?” The heaviness in my chest thickened.

  “Dad said something about depression, but you know Dad.” Carson leaned toward me. “It’s okay. Branson’s going to be fine.”

  I tilted my head against her. “Baby girl,
I don’t know that. None of us knows that.”

  “Everyone gets depressed.”

  I slowly nodded. “That’s true. But Branson….” The unfinished sentence dangled like a noose ready to hang me. “He’s hearing voices.”

  “Oh, Mommy.” Her voice dropped and she wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”’

  I leaned my head against hers, my eyes brimming with tears.

  Emotion bubbled in her voice. “Is Branson going to be all right?”

  My mind instantly wanted to respond with the right answer, the safe answer, the one I had subconsciously conditioned myself to say should anybody ask about my son. But this was my daughter, not someone who expected me to be perfect or polished. What she did expect, what she deserved, was for my heart and not my head to answer.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if Branson’s going to be okay. I’m going to do everything I can, but I don’t know if it’ll be enough.” For all the corporate spinning I did, that was the most honest statement I'd made in years.

  And beneath that honesty was the question I most feared.

  Am I enough? Am I enough to fix my son?

  6

  Tara

  The faint sound of CNN filtered through my open bedroom window. Five in the morning, just like clockwork. I wasn’t sure why I even set an alarm; with neighbors like Lance and Jan, I knew I’d never be late.

  I turned on my side toward the bay window in my bedroom and listened to their morning routine. I knew it by heart. The white noise of CNN played while Jan made some concoction in the blender. She usually talked to her toddler, Camden, who wasn’t as much of a morning person as his mother.

  As soon as Camden started to fuss, Lance entered the scene. I couldn’t always make out what he said, only that it always made Camden giggle.